Reminiscences of Prince Talleyrand, Volume 1 (of 2)

by active 19th century M. Colmache

“Dinner passed away; the honest functionary, all eyes and ears to what was going forward, listened intently on every side to catch the least significant observation which should fall, either from the lips of his host or of the illustrious guest. But it was in vain he strained his hearing, listening so intently that his neighbour was once or twice compelled to remind him of the dish before him; not a word of politics was breathed during the whole repast; and when once, during a short silence which occurred, he ventured, in a timid voice, to ask the prince if he thought the Belgian monarchy would be of long duration, he was merely answered by a request to take more champagne, and the conversation once more resumed its light and frivolous tone. Wit there was in abundance; sparkling showers, and bold satire, and learning too; but the ‘maire de son endroit’ cared not for all the good things which were flying past him from one end of the table to the other, and convulsing every listener with bursts of hearty laughter; he smiled not, poor man, but rather sat lost in painful wonder, that the great ones of the earth should thus lose the precious hours in idle bantering and unseemly mirth! But he hoped that, once in the salon, the conversation might at length fall into a more serious and profitable vein, and he had already taken his place close to the prince, determined to catch each syllable that fell from his lips when Count Molé approached. This he felt sure would happen; of course it could not chance otherwise. At length, Count Molé approached, and leant over the back of the prince’s chair. He spoke, in the very ear of the prince, a confidential whisper, which the mayor heard, however, distinctly, so close had he drawn to the illustrious friends.

“‘Prince,’ said the count, ‘have you forgotten old times and all our fierce encounters? Come, and renew our skill at billiards in the next room; it will make us both all the younger by twenty years!’

“Billiards! the Prince de Talleyrand play at billiards! it could not be; he should have imagined that his lameness would have saved him from that. Yet so it was; the Prince de Talleyrand did play at billiards; and, in spite of his lameness, was considered one of the most expert players of his day; and so the poor mayor sat the long evening through, discomfited and unhappy, with nothing to tell his wife, and nothing to report to the town council when next it should meet. The disappointment was almost too bitter to be borne.

“Hope, however, did not desert him. He well knew that the prince and his noble guest could not play at billiards the whole night, so he sat awhile waiting with patience, until they should grow tired of the game, and return to the fireside. And they did return as he had foreseen, and they did seat themselves comfortably, one on each side of the chimney. ‘Now will they discuss their latest protocols,’ thought the little mayor, as he rubbed his hands in glee. No; the prince was in high spirits, for he had won at billiards. The count was in high spirits too, for he declared he had let him win; and the whole conversation was engrossed by the discussion—eternal thrust and parry—attack and repartee—which had so worried the mayor at dinner, and of which he could not at all see the wit—not he.

“‘At last he was growing quite beside himself, when the prince arose; which action was the signal that the soirée was concluded, and that the different guests were free to retire. Yet he had not heard one single word of politics! What would he have to say at the conseil? What could he tell his wife? She would greet him with reproaches on his return home, and would say that such introductions to the great were of little use, unless he knew better how to profit by them; for he felt that, were he to talk till doomsday, he never should be able to persuade her that he had heard not one word of politics. She would accuse him of having napped, as he always did, and always would do, despite her admonition.

“Well; the guests all withdrew, our excellent mayor among the number; but, as he passed the screen down yonder at the door, upon turning back to take a wistful glance at the blazing hearth, he perceived the count reseat himself in the great arm-chair which he had quitted but for an instant, and the prince ensconced once more in the one he had occupied all the evening; he saw the latter draw forward a little gueridon which stood near, place upon it a roll of papers which he took from his pocket, and pointing to them, he heard him say to the count—‘You see we have besogne enough before us. I hope you are not sleepy?’

“The curiosity, the ambition, the amour propre of the poor mayor were all roused, and, forgetting the risk he was about to incur—in short, forgetting all but the opportunity of retrieving lost time—he slid himself into a chair which stood most invitingly near the door, in the shadow of the screen, and prepared to listen with due attention. There was a pause, however, during which the prince rose slightly in his chair, to reach down one of the flambeaux from the mantel-piece. The mayor stretched forward eagerly, when his horror may be guessed; for instead of unrolling the mysterious budget, the prince turned to the count, and said, ‘Before we begin upon this business, let us conclude the affair we were speaking of before dinner. I am sorry that you have reason to suspect the disaffection of the municipal council of our town; if so, I think your are quite right to have it remodelled. Whom did you say you would like to replace the mayor?’

“The functionary started, and uttered a deep groan, which no doubt prevented him from hearing the count’s answer; but the prince again spoke, and asked his friend what he thought of the present one. Of course, the answer was most humiliating for the poor victim, telling of apparent inaptitude for the office, of his impertinent familiarity, and of his eager, inconvenient curiosity—until the unfortunate actually writhed with the pain each word inflicted.

“When the unwelcome harangue was concluded, the prince arose to take a caraffe of water from the console. The poor mayor was in an awful fright, for the action brought the prince immediately opposite to where he sat, trembling and perspiring from head to foot. The prince poured the water into a tumbler and drank it off, and was about retiring to his seat, when his eye fell upon the figure of the poor little mayor, who would gladly at that moment have been a hundred feet below the earth.

“‘Ah! Monsieur L.!’ exclaimed he, ‘why, in the name of Heaven, have you been thus neglected? Ring, M. de Molé, here is our worthy friend L. actually freezing behind the screen, while waiting for some one to conduct him to his chamber. Mille pardons, Monsieur L., for this extraordinary neglect on the part of the servants.’