“So much has been said about her ignorance and stupidity, that they have passed into a proverb, while, in reality, she was neither ignorant nor stupid; but there was certainly an inexperience in the social traditions of the world into which she was ushered through the influence of M. de Talleyrand, which gave rise to much amusement among the wits who frequented her society. It would be difficult to account for the strength of the attachment with which, from the very first, she inspired the prince. It certainly was the longest and the strongest that he ever experienced. Various have been the conjectures respecting the causes of his marriage, but the story which was told me by one who was a confidant of the prince at the time, is, I think, the best calculated to unravel the mystery which still hangs over it.
“Madame Grandt was, as I have told you, unrivalled in the tact and convenance with which she received company, dispensing politeness to each and all alike, contenting every one, and displaying so much cleverness in her management of the fiery spirits who frequented her salon, that it was impossible for those who knew her then to deem her either ignorant or foolish. It was this peculiar talent which had induced M. de Talleyrand, who was quick both to perceive any peculiar excellence and also to turn it to account, to hold his receptions at her house instead of at his ministère. He had already done so for some time without having been subjected to remarks; for the system was, alas! too common at the period to excite the slightest degree either of condemnation or surprise. Fouché, ever on the watch to injure Talleyrand, had taken care to apprise the First Consul of this arrangement. The information, which had excited no interest at the moment, was not wholly lost, however; and a short time afterwards, having been foiled in some of his projects by the policy of England, he sent for Talleyrand, and, puzzled to find a subject which he could use as a pretext for venting his spleen upon his minister, remembered the tale borne by the enemy Fouché. ‘It is no wonder that we are abused and vilified by England,’ said he, showing a paper in which appeared a scurrilous article upon the First Consul—‘when we expose ourselves to such attacks as these, and even our public ministers give public example of disorder and ill-conduct.’ The minister looked his inquiry concerning the meaning of this outburst. ‘Yes,’ continued Buonaparte, waxing warm, as was his wont, with his own words, like an ill-disciplined schoolboy—‘yes, it has reached me that you hold your receptions at Madame Grandt’s, and thus the envoys and ambassadors from foreign courts are compelled to wait upon your mistress. This must not continue.’ ‘Neither shall it,’ returned the prince, colouring slightly; ‘they shall henceforth be spared; they shall wait no longer on Madame Grandt, but on Madame de Talleyrand; no longer on my mistress, but my wife.’
“The marriage took place before the following week’s reception, and it is said that Buonaparte was so vexed and irritated at his own littleness, that he even condescended to lie in order to cover it. ‘What can have caused Talleyrand’s abrupt and extraordinary marriage?’ said Barras, one day, soon after the event. ‘My promise to ask from the Pope “absolution” and the cardinal’s hat as a reward for his services,’ returned the First Consul, quickly, and immediately changed the conversation.
“Whatever may have been the conduct of Madame Grandt, however reprehensible her facility of morals before her marriage, it cannot be denied that, from the very hour in which this event took place, it became irreproachable. M. de Talleyrand himself loves to render her every justice on that score. She was too proud of the name she bore ever to disgrace it by any action which she would have deemed unworthy. Like parvenus in general, she grew rather intoxicated when arrived at the summit of honour, for, as Princesse de Benevent, her morgue and insolence at the court of Napoleon became proverbial, and many amusing anecdotes are told of her absurd pretensions to royal privileges, her pages and her maids of honour, her chamberlain and mistress of the robes.
“I myself once witnessed a curious instance of that total forgetfulness of the ‘jadis,’ which seems to be the peculiar failing of persons who have risen from obscurity to rank and fortune. I was one day descending the perron of the hotel in the Rue St. Florentine, when a hackney coach entered the court-yard and drove up to the vestibule. I was greatly surprised to behold alighting from it, fine as court robes and towering plumes could make her, the Princesse de Benevent herself. I of course hastened down the steps to offer her my arm on alighting. ‘My carriage struck against the lamp-post at the entrance of the Tuileries,’ said she, in answer to my inquiring look, ‘and the wheel came off. I was forced to return home in this absurd looking vehicle.’ Then turning to the wondering lacqueys, she added, in a tone of disgust and scorn which no language can describe, as she pointed to the coachman, ‘Qu’on paie ce malheureux!’ The mixture of the sublime and ridiculous in the tone and gesture by which the words were accompanied, was absolutely irresistible.
“To a mild and conciliating nature like that of the prince, and above all with his keen sense of the ludicrous, such a disposition must have been peculiarly irritating, added to which, Madame’s jealousy of every member of his family to whom he showed affection grew too irksome to be endured, and for their mutual comfort it became advisable to have separate establishments. But even amid the bitterness and soreness of feeling to which such an arrangement cannot fail to give rise in every family where it unhappily takes place, did the prince, with true generosity and liberality of sentiment, endeavour to render justice to her undeviating devotion to his interests, by making a settlement even too magnificent in proportion to his income, more, in fact, than it could comfortably bear. I frequently saw her after her separation from the prince. So far from having retained either rancour or ill-will against him, there was something touching in the eager interest with which she listened to the slightest details concerning him. She spared not questioning, and seemed never weary of listening to my report of his health and well-being. Everything in her apartment bore witness to her constant remembrance of the days of her happiness and grandeur; the rug before the fire, the embroidered cushion upon which her feet were rested, the lawn handkerchief in her hand, the clock upon the mantelpiece, all bore the impress of the arms of the Talleyrands, and ‘Ré que Diou’ shone forth conspicuously on each; while even the little cage wherein reposed a couple of snow-white dormice displayed in its mimic dome and tower a complete model of the château of Valençay.
“She told me, with a frankness I little expected, that she should never cease to regret the life she led here; she could not even speak of the place without tears, and questioned me, with great minuteness, concerning every individual throughout the province; her memory never failing her in the slightest particular with regard to the genealogy of the different families whose estates lie in the neighbourhood of the château. Her heart seemed to yearn towards the prince, and her expressions of admiration concerning his great talents and wonderful powers of mind were affecting in their truthful simplicity. In spite of the want of elevation of soul, which neither nature nor education had imparted, I still think that the prince entertained a real regard for her, and of many a courteous message from him have I myself been the bearer, whenever it became known at the hôtel Talleyrand that she was labouring under the slightest indisposition. Towards the latter years of her life, however, her pre-occupation concerning all that passed in his household became one of the greatest sources of petty annoyance to which the prince was subjected. For some time before her death, it amounted, indeed, to positive mania. She insisted upon regulating her establishment entirely upon the model of that of the Rue St. Florentin, ruling the minutest details of her domestic economy in imitation of that observed in the prince’s household. She even subjected her own diet and hours of taking her repasts to the same system of imitation, and upon one occasion nearly fell a victim to her over-strict observance of the prince’s rule of never taking more than one meal in the day.
“As to the innumerable naïvetés and coqs-à-l’âne which have gone forth to the world as hers, you must not believe one half of them. I think that many of them were invented under the erroneous impression that the surest way of annoying M. de Talleyrand would be to ridicule his wife. It is certain that many of the blunders which are laid to her charge bear the unmistakeable stamp of the firm of Montrond and Co. I once attacked the prince upon the subject, and was much amused at the bonhomie with which he laughed at the bare remembrance of all the bêtises which so many wits had employed themselves in inventing for the poor princess. I asked him if the story, which has gone the round of every newspaper in Europe, about Baron Denon and Robinson Crusoe, were really true. ‘It did not actually happen,’ replied he, smiling; ‘the circumstance did not really occur as it has been represented, for I was there to prevent it. However, it was guessed at, and that was enough; the blunder was ascribed to her without compunction.’
“‘I certainly remember a naïveté which she once uttered in the midst of a circle of savans and literati at Neuilly, which would be considered quite as good and become just as popular were it as generally known. Lemercier had volunteered after dinner to read us one of his unplayed and unplayable pieces. The company had gathered round him in a circle; his cahier lay already unfolded on his knees, and, clearing his voice, he began in a high, shrill tone, which made us all start from our incipient slumber, ‘La Scène est à Lyons.’ ‘There now, M. de Talleyrand,’ exclaimed the princess, jumping from her chair, and advancing towards me with a gesture of triumph, ‘now I knew that you were wrong; you would have it that it was the Saône!’ To describe the embarrassment and consternation of the company would be impossible. I myself was perplexed for an instant, but soon remembered the difference of opinion to which she had alluded. As our carriage was crossing the bridge at Lyons, a little time before, she had asked me the name of the river which flowed beneath. I had told her it was ‘Saône;’ to which she had replied, with a truly philosophical reflection—‘Ah, how strange this difference of pronunciation; we call it the Seine in Paris!’ I had been much amused at the time, but had not thought it worth while to correct the self-confident error, and thus had arisen this extraordinary confusion in the troubled brain of the poor princess. Of course we all laughed heartily at her unexpected sally; but we were grateful, nevertheless, for it saved us the reading of the dreaded drama, as no one that evening could be expected to retrouver son sérieux sufficiently to listen with becoming attention to all the terrible events which Lemercier had to unfold.’
“You see the prince had succeeded in accepting his misfortune en homme d’esprit, and the keenest shafts of ridicule must have fallen pointless against one who joined with such hearty good-will in the mirth which was thus raised, without at all agreeing with those who deemed that it was excited at his own expense.”