“I remember being once much delighted with an argument which took place upon this very subject between the prince and one of the best writers of our own day, who has since risen to greatness and power by the assistance of his pen alone. The latter maintained that a greater knowledge of mankind was to be obtained by the study of well-written books, than could be acquired even by personal experience. The prince, in reply, gave utterance to some of the most beautiful and original thoughts which I have ever heard him express.
“‘Tell me not of books,’ said he, good-humouredly, ‘they never can contain the natural impressions of the writer. They can express neither surprise nor fear—the very anger which they convey has been all premeditated. Tell me not of books—they are “composed” by men, and are even greater hypocrites than they. The history of every age would be found with far greater truth in the history of its conversations (causeries) than in the most brilliant of its literary productions. Few men write, all converse; authors have copied each other both in style and sentiment ever since the world began, but the causeur is himself, and speaks as he feels and thinks. The old axiom, verba volant, is a great evil, but the addition to the proverb, scripta manent, is a greater still. You, who are preparing to write the history of one of the greatest struggles which ever took place in the annals of the universe, would do well to study the history of the conversations of the generations preceding; you will find there the preconception of many an event which falsely seems to have occurred spontaneously, and which overwhelms us with wonder at its apparent rashness. Even Louis Quatorze, whose Bastille yawned so greedily for those who dared to write a syllable against the justice of his measures, was known to wince beneath the lash of the witty causeurs of his day; he felt that he was powerless against their attacks, and was compelled to flatter and to pardon, as Richelieu, that greater tyrant still, had been forced to do before him. He was too clever to affect to despise their ridicule, and trembled, lest resenting it might expose him to further stings.’
“‘These witlings are as troublesome as summer-flies,’ said the magnificent monarch one day to Colbert, who had reported to him an epigram which he had heard in the salon of Madame Cornuel.
“‘Yes, sire, and just as unconquerable,’ replied Colbert.
“‘To which remark the greatest sovereign of the world could only answer with a sigh of mortified conviction. Not a privilege was granted during the reign, not a decree was passed, which had not first been debated in the circles of fashion, with as much bitterness and energy as it afterwards created in the royal council chamber. The memoirs of the time, the letters of Madame de Sevigné, bear ample evidence of this. The regent who succeeded, was himself of a spirit too near akin to the intrepid causeurs of his reign to visit them with severity. He laughed with them and at them, while his harshness to those writers who displeased him was even greater than that of his predecessor. Louis Quinze encouraged not the persecution of authors, but loved to listen to the daily report of the “conversations” which took place, not only among the court circles, but even down to those of the lowest bourgeoisie. Madame de Pompadour complains bitterly, in one of her letters, of this extraordinary apathy concerning the libels which were published both against herself and him. “He cares not for what is written, only for what is said,” exclaimed she, “as if any consideration could restrain the tongues of ungrateful courtiers.”
“‘The author of the gross epigram upon Marshal Saxe was suffered to go scot-free, while the poor parrot who recited it at Madame de la Vaillière’s for the amusement of the company, was punished with the Bastille for life. Now compare all these causeries and their results to the conversations of the eighteenth century, and their gigantic issue—the great revolution. The displacing of a minister—the puerile questions of religious form—the end and aim of Télémaque—these were the kind of questions which had formed the subjects of debate during the reign of Louis Quatorze. The acrimony with which they were discussed, and the genius and passion which were displayed in the disputes to which they gave rise, sometimes went far enough to alarm the throne, without creating the slightest interest in the minds of the people.
“‘How different the consequences of that single remark, made in the midst of a gay and laughing coterie, soon after the accession of Louis Seize, when everything promised security and happiness, prosperity within and peace without, when not a single indication of the distant tempest had as yet appeared; and the old nobleman asked, in jeering pleasantry, of his son, who was speaking of the power of the law—“And pray, young man, will you tell me what is the law?” and was answered by the young man with sudden inspiration, “The law is the expression of the general will!” The axiom has since been repeated to satiety, and has formed the text and basis of the grandest arguments of the revolutionary orators, but few know that it was first pronounced in the manner I have described. I found the whole account of this “conversation” in a letter among my uncle’s papers, in which the writer, who was present when it occurred, gives also the description of the high disputes which the remark created, after the first moment of silence with which it was received—the silence of conviction in the young, the silence of disapproval in the old—had passed away. This maxim, which, dropped thus at random, buried like the acorn, not forgotten, and which brought forth such goodly fruit in its due time and season, is another proof of the tremendous power of our soi-disant “gay and frivolous” CONVERSATION.’”
CHAPTER IV.
TALLEYRAND’S BOUDOIR—PORTRAITS—MADAME DE BRIONNE—MADAME DE FLAHAUT—A GAMBLING SCENE—THE CHEVALIER DE FENELON—MADAME GRANDT—PRINCESS TALLEYRAND.
On the morning after the conversation on the art of conversing, which I have just transcribed, I happened to find myself for some little time alone with C. in the prince’s dressing-room. I had been summoned to the sanctum by M. de Talleyrand himself, who had received letters from England by that day’s post, in answering which my English might, he thought, be turned to account. I had obeyed the message with the greatest pleasure, as C. had already informed me that admission to his boudoir at the hour of his toilet was an honour sought by many, and accorded but to few. In this exclusion he was most rigid, and he reserved the admission as a distinction, refusing to yield it as a right even to his most intimate friends. It was perhaps well that he did so, for, by a singular inconsistency, he who has been so often reproached with prudence and caution, was at this moment unguarded and unsuspicious as a child. As I had, according to the etiquette of the place, forestalled by some little time the precise moment fixed by the prince for our rendezvous, I profited by the vacant time to examine attentively the furniture and ornaments of this favourite retreat of the diplomatist, wherein perhaps the peace or discord of European states had been at various times planned and promoted.