It was a light and cheerful apartment, looking out into the fosses surrounding the château, which, at that season of the year, were all gay with verdure and flowering shrubs; then far away the view extended over the park, at the end of which the dark forest encircles the landscape with a belt of sombre hue, and shuts out the distant horizon. The room contained but little furniture, and that all of the antique cast, in use at the time of the Empire, hard and angular, stiff and naked. The large leathern chair for the prince, which stood in the centre of the room beside an old-fashioned dressing-table, upon which were already spread the divers utensils for his approaching toilet, although giving my English prejudices a slight inquietude, yet awoke certain pleasurable reminiscences of the court of Louis Seize and the toilette du matin of the beaux and muscadins of ’89. Near these stood a mahogany bureau, upon which his secretary wrote while the prince dictated the correspondence even amid the elaborate manœuvres of two valets-de-chambre, which kept him for the moment in a state of discomfort and subjection.
The walls were hung round with portraits. C. told me that they were, without exception, those of friends, and I examined the collection with the greatest interest. They were arranged without any attempt at order, neither by age nor date, merely according to the shape of the frame, and the size of the panel, and it was curious to observe the confusion to which such an arrangement had given rise; Alexander the autocrat and Mirabeau the democrat hung side by side, while Fréron and Voltaire gazed at each other with that peculiar smirk which has been so happily denominated the “painter’s smile.” I was struck with the vast number of female portraits, of all ages and denominations, which met the eye; there was a beautiful crayon drawing of Madame de Genlis with her harp, and another of Madame de Staël with her book and pencil, and a full-length painting of Madame Roland hung opposite to one of Madame de Lamballe. I glanced over the collection with most intense interest; it was the romantic chapter of the life of M. de Talleyrand, one with which diplomacy and politics had nought to do. “How I should love you to tell me the history of the individuals whose representations are assembled here,” said I to C., who was watching me as I walked leisurely round; “what admirable illustrations to your ‘Vie Anecdotique’ they would furnish!”
“Indeed,” returned my friend, “the ‘Vie Anecdotique’ would scarcely be complete without them. As I have already told you, M. de Talleyrand, from his earliest youth, has relied upon the support and patronage of women. There is scarcely one of these ladies who has not played some part in the advancement of his fortune. You might follow the epochs of his life by the title and social position of his patronesses. You smile; but it is even so. No English mind can ever be made to comprehend the sort of liaison which sometimes exists between persons of different sex in France. It is of every kind of friendship the most pure and disinterested; love is seldom generated by these attachments; that sentiment would on the one side tend to mar the devotion, and on the other, render the feeling liable to the changes and chances of caprice. I could call to mind numberless examples of this species of allegiance, which, having begun in youth, have continued unto old age with the same confidence, the same self-sacrifice. Come hither; you will find an apt illustration of my meaning.”
He led me to a portrait placed in the shadow of the chimney. “This was the first friend of M. de Talleyrand, when he was a youth just let loose from the séminaire, and she whom this picture represents was a woman already advancing to maturity. Surely we cannot suspect the existence of love there. This lady, whose name was so long associated with every early success of the prince, when he was still Abbé de Perigord, was the celebrated Comtesse de Brionne, the mother of the unfortunate Princess de Lamballe, and grandmother of the present King of Sardinia. She was the first to distinguish the merit of the young abbé, and by her influence to maintain him in his position in spite of the dislike manifested towards him by the court of Marie Antoinette. Even lately I heard him speak of her in terms of intense gratitude and affection; and his voice, usually so deep and grave, faltered as he recounted to me the story of her death. She was among the first emigrants after the breaking out of the revolution, and retired to the Austrian dominions, having, by permission of the emperor, assumed the title of Princess of Lorraine. There she lived in poverty and obscurity for some years, resisting every effort made by M. de Talleyrand to obtain forgiveness for what she deemed his crime in having deserted his caste and renounced his profession, to adopt the principles of the revolution.
“Among the little circle of devoted friends who had gathered round her in her exile, the conduct of M. de Talleyrand was frequently the subject of conversation, and she has been heard to declare that his defalcation had given her more pain than many sorrows which ought to have touched her more nearly. In the year 1805, when M. de Talleyrand, then in the zenith of his favour with Napoleon, accompanied the latter on his famous tour of ‘mediation’ into Austria, he repaired to the little town of Linz, where the princess had chosen her retreat, expressly to obtain an interview, with the hope of soothing her into forgetfulness of his errors. The letter which he despatched from the inn where he alighted, was a model of grace and politeness. He had recalled in its composition all the half-forgotten traditions of courtesy and high breeding which he had learned in her school. He had flattered her by every expression of gratitude for former favours, appealed to the memory of bygone days, and announced his intention of personally waiting upon her for the answer on the morning following, unless he received a summons to appear before her that same evening.
“No answer came that night, and accordingly, about twelve on the day following, the prince set forth from the little inn where he had alighted, to gain the small château, situated a short league from the town, where the princess resided, full of doubt, and already somewhat disappointed at not having received, in reply to his letter, even so much as a cold permission to present himself before her. He had attired himself in a costume which should recall to her mind as much as possible the period of their first acquaintance, having carefully laid aside every token of the rank which he held at the court of the usurper, resolving that nothing in his person or demeanour should shock the taste and feelings of his friend. He has often owned to me that his heart beat with such violence as he drew near the château which the guide pointed out to him as that occupied by the princess, that he felt half inclined to turn back, and to leave his errand unaccomplished until he had received some token of the oblivion of his errors, which he had been at so much pains to seek.
“At length, the carriage stopped before the gate of a ruinous-looking building, which stood on the brow of the hill outside the town. M. de Talleyrand alighted, and walked up to the iron gate which looked into the forecourt, for he thought it might appear more discreet and in better taste to avoid every semblance of state and ceremony. He wished to bring to her mind the Abbé de Perigord alone, and hoped she might forget what he had become since then. The whole place wore a wild and desolate aspect, and the silence alarmed him. Not a soul was stirring about the premises, and what was still more extraordinary, was the circumstance of the shutters being all closed, although it was bright noon-day.
“He pulled the bell with a violent effort, and it sent forth that hollow, melancholy sound which is so peculiar to a deserted building. The summons was answered by an old portress, who hobbled to the gate with lagging pace, and eyes red and swollen with weeping, while, close at her heels, followed the old dog, whom he recognised on the instant as old Vaillant, who used to run so joyously down the steps of the perron to meet him when he entered the courtyard of the hotel of Madame de Brionne in Paris. But the animal knew him no longer, for he barked and growled with savage fury at every token of recognition, and the woman only sobbed the louder in answer to his inquiries.
“‘The princess was gone!’ she said. ‘She had departed but a few hours before. She had left the château with all her retinue, and she feared that her highness would never return!’ M. de Talleyrand has described the pang of that moment as being one of the most bitter that he has ever experienced throughout his whole life; and he remained for an instant silent from emotion. The woman drew from her pocket a letter which she said was to be delivered to the gentleman who had written from Linz on the evening before, and who was to call for the answer. The prince took it in silence, not daring even to gaze upon its contents until alone. He re-entered the carriage, and drove towards the town, and it was not until the château was lost to sight, and the barking of old Vaillant was heard no more, that he mustered courage sufficient to break the seal and open the envelope.
“It contained nought but his own letter—not a word, not a syllable in explanation. He turned to the superscription, and then no longer felt astonishment. It was addressed to the ‘Prince de Benevent, Ministre de Napoleon, Empereur des Français.’ Every word was underlined; the meaning was clear. Such a person was unknown to the Princesse de Lorraine! In spite of her advanced age and feeble health—in spite of the assurance of protection which Napoleon had vouchsafed to her on his approach, she had fled from the place rather than meet him who had deceived all her hopes, and fallen so low (to use her own expression) as ‘to serve as footstool to enable the usurper to sit more at his ease upon the throne of the Bourbons.’ She returned no more to Linz even after the departure of Napoleon, but fixed her residence at Presburg; and when M. de Talleyrand repaired to Vienna to assist at the famous Congress of 1814, his friendship made him forget his former repulse, and once more did he solicit more humbly, more passionately than before, for pardon and reconciliation. This time the appeal was not in vain; he had returned to the good and righteous cause; he had once more re-entered the voie sacrée, and she answered him in her own hand, and by return of courier, bidding him use all despatch, as ‘the moments now were numbered.’