“He puts forth, in these addresses to the people, the promulgation of which has been deemed so criminal, nothing which he had not said before—not a single word of which he does not retain the most powerful conviction, ay, even to this very hour. Some of them might be quoted as models of reasoning and eloquence, although failing in the refinement of style and diction, which can only be acquired by that early familiarity with the classics, the want of which he has lamented all his life.
“Cerutti was a man gifted with the most splendid talents. His peculiar position claimed, perhaps, undue attention, from the very moment when he first appeared upon the revolutionary horizon. The reception of this champion of the people was most enthusiastic. Wherever he went, he was followed by an admiring crowd—every public meeting resounded with his praise—streets were called after his name; in short, he tasted every gratification of amour propre arising from popularity. But Cerutti was a misanthrope, and, far from seeking distinction, he shrank with disgust from publicity. The canker-worm was at his heart, and I have heard M. de Talleyrand declare that, during the whole time their intimacy lasted, he never once beheld him smile. His was another of those anomalous existences created by the revolution. A gentleman, bred in indolence, yet adopting the obligations and active vigilance of a Jesuit; then becoming even a priest, the better to defend the cause of his beloved order; chosen as the private counsellor and friend of the dauphin (father of Louis Seize), and then suddenly—without pause, without gradation,—plunging headlong into the delirium of democracy.
“It is singular that the cause of this unnatural course of events should never have been thoroughly investigated by any of the historians of the time, who all seem to agree in passing over without comment the motives which actuated Cerutti, or else in declaring them either altogether inscrutable or the instigations of insanity. The close observer of the human heart can, however, at once discern the existence of some secret spring of action, some powerful incentive to this inconsistency, and will not remain satisfied with the abuse heaped upon poor Cerutti by the Abbé Georgel, the wordy historian of the diamond necklace, defender, coûte que coûte, of Louis de Rohan; nor yet with the light indifference with which he is mentioned by another author, who describes him in these words—‘A man of some capacity both as an orator and writer, but whose career was too short to allow him to display that ability in government which he seemed confident of possessing. He was of a sombre and taciturn character, which, combined with his almost total deafness, rendered him of difficult access. ’Tis said that the hopeless passion he had conceived for one of the ladies of the court brought on paralysis, which occasioned his infirmity, and ultimately ended in his death.’
“I have heard the history of Cerutti from M. de Talleyrand himself, and it forms one of the most extraordinary episodes of this extraordinary time. The prince related to me that, one evening after their work was over, the three collaborateurs of the Feuille Villageoise, led on by the very nature of the composition upon which they had been engaged, began to talk of the events of their past lives, and of the various causes which had led to the desertion of caste, of which all three had been guilty. What a glorious study would it have been for the moralist, to have listened to those dark histories, as told by those three fiery spirits, each the hero of his own bitter tale. One can imagine all the hatred and the scorn of Mirabeau, as he related the circumstances of his youth of strife and misery; of his manhood, crushed and blighted by his father’s unjust tyranny; his burning satire and his bitter scoffing must have been terrific. Then came the calm, deep mockery of Talleyrand; his history of neglect and injustice must have been more frightful still. Three mighty souls were they, rising in condemnation of the country and the times in which they had thus been spurned and persecuted.
“Every one knows the history of Mirabeau’s long imprisonment and harsh treatment, and I have already told you the events which marked the youth of Talleyrand; but the story of Cerutti is known only to the few with whom he was most intimate, and is, perhaps, more illustrative of the spirit of the times than that of either of his friends. The man’s career was short, and very like the flash which precedes the tempest—everything, while he was on the stage moving before the public eye—nothing, so soon as his part was over and the curtain dropped. He died and left nought behind to save him from oblivion—not even the memory of the manner in which he had performed his character, and in which he had been so much applauded.
“His father was a wealthy silk-grower in the environs of Turin, and his childhood was passed amid the shady groves, which stretched for miles around the château where his family resided. His younger brother had taken to books and learning, and had been appointed to accompany the young Count Hercules V—— on his travels; while Joseph Cerutti, the eldest of the family, remained at home to assist his father in the direction of his fortune and the improvement of the estate. His life was that of an Italian gentleman of the middle class at the time—that is to say, his studies were neither very deep nor his occupations very grave, and his days passed pleasantly enough in the exercise of small practices of piety, the cultivation of small adventures of gallantry, very little reading, and great indulgence in the dolce far niente; added to which, he was compelled to superintend the progress of the silkworms, which formed the whole wealth of the father and the patrimony of his sons. But this occupation was far from being sufficiently interesting to rouse him from the dream in which he lived, and in which his days might all have passed, had it not been for the one event which, sooner or later, will turn the tide of all men’s lives, making the hitherto troubled sea of existence at once calm and placid, or changing its smooth surface into a raging hell.
“Count Hercules V—— returned from Rome, whither he had been journeying with young Cesario Cerutti, the brother of our hero. The estate of the noble family of V—— joined that of the Cerutti, and from the friendship which existed between the young nobleman and the companion of his studies, sprung an intimacy between the two families, which was at variance with the Italian habits of the period, wherein distinctions and caste were more respected than in any other country in Europe.
“‘I was struck,’ said the Abbé Cerutti, as he told the story to his fellow-labourers, ‘with the change which a few months had made in the habits and temper of my brother Cesario. He had left us full of the enthusiasm and spirit natural to his age; he had returned taciturn and reserved in speech, gloomy and abstracted in manner. He seemed to have a weight of care and misery upon his mind, which neither the affectionate attentions of his family nor the fondness of his mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, could succeed in shaking off. I observed that he was for ever seeking me, and requesting me to converse in private with him, as though he had something of moment to communicate; and then he would suddenly check himself, and talk of light matters, so much in contrast with the mournful tone of his voice and the gloom upon his brow, that the contemplation was most painful. But I dared not question him concerning the cause of this change in his disposition, fearing to exasperate him, in the irritable mood in which he was. One day, when he seemed more communicative than usual, I sought to enliven our conversation by endeavouring to extort from him some little narrative of his journey to Rome, concerning which he had hitherto observed an unnatural silence.
“‘He said he had been happy, very happy with Count Hercules (and yet he shuddered as he spoke the words,) and the kindness of the good Abbé Giordoni, the young Count’s preceptor, had so mingled pleasure with study, that the time had passed away swiftly and pleasantly as in a charmed dream. Why then did he gaze upon me with that strange expression in his eye? I could not resist the impulse which prompted me to seize the opportunity of seeking to discover the cause of his melancholy, and said, as I pressed his hand with affection, “Dearest Cesario, do not suffer the secret which hangs so heavy on your soul to crush you thus beneath its ponderous weight. Confide in me, my brother. What is it has disturbed your happiness, and thus changed your very nature?”
“‘You are deceived,’ replied Cesario, hastily, and with a kind of convulsive laugh; ‘I never was more happy or in better spirits than at this moment. Come with me this evening to the Villa V——, and see if it be not as I tell you. By-the-bye, I had forgotten to mention, that the whole family at the villa are anxious to welcome you, the old count and his son, and the abbé, and—and—(he hesitated)—in short, the whole of them will be glad to see you. So come to-night—yes, to-night—’tis time!’