I was told by a friend, who witnessed the scene, that nothing could exceed the dramatic effect of the departure of the corpse-laden vehicle from Paris. The disinterment of the child from the lonely cemetery of Mont Parnasse—the lading of the ponderous coffin by the light of torches—the peculiar rattle of the hearse through the silent streets at that solemn hour, and beneath that calm moon, which makes “all that is dark seem darker still.” One incident is worth recording. On starting from the iron gates of the chapel, one of the postillions turned and shouted the usual question, “Vers quelle barrière?” and was answered by a voice proceeding from the hearse itself, “Barrière d’Enfer.”

We arrived at Valençay on the third day after our departure from Paris, and it was at about ten o’clock on the same night that the worn and dust-covered hearse was descried wending its way up the long avenue of chestnut trees leading to the château. Every honour which had been paid to the lord of the mansion during his life was now rendered, with scrupulous exactness, to his lifeless corpse. No ceremony, however trifling, was omitted. The wide gates were thrown open to admit the sombre vehicle, which entered the court of honour with the same ceremony that had denoted the approach of the stately carriage which had been wont to drive at a somewhat ruder pace through the regal portal. The whole of the numerous household, with the heir of the domain in advance of the rest, were assembled on the perron. The Prince’s nephew himself took his seat in front of the hearse, to conduct it down into the town; the goodly array of servants and huntsmen and foresters all following on foot, and bearing torches, to the church, wherein the body was deposited for the night, previous to the final ceremony, which was to take place on the morrow.

Early in the morning all was astir in the little burgh. Never before had a sight so fraught with interest been witnessed by its inhabitants. It seemed like a gala day through every street. Not a window but was crowded with spectators, while the footway was choked with peasants from all the neighbouring districts, in their gayest attire. The National Guard of the town was all afoot from the earliest hour in the morning; and altogether so cheerful was the whole aspect of the place, that the traveller who had passed through on that day would have imagined it to have been the anniversary of some great public rejoicing. The corpse of the Duke had arrived in far different plight. No pomp, no pageantry, was here—a solitary post-carriage, with a single pair of horses—no train of mourners. The physician who had attended his last illness alone accompanied the body from St. Germain.

There was food for reflection in the contrast! No needless expense had been wasted upon idle ornament and funeral trappings, for, when the coffin was uncovered, an exclamation of surprise burst from those around. It was of plain elm, such as those used by people of middling degree, and, when placed beside those of his more favoured relatives, formed a melancholy contrast. But now one pall conceals the whole, the rich velvet, and the plain, unvarnished planks. One long stream of melody ascends to Heaven, one prayer for the repose of those who sleep beneath that gorgeous catafalque—for him who died full of wealth and honour, whose vast and powerful intellect had held dominion over men’s minds even to the very last—and for him who closed his eyes in solitude and neglect, and whose intellect had wavered even on the very verge of madness. Both were transported to the chapel of the sisters of St. André, founded by the Prince himself, and wherein he had already placed the family vault. His body was the first to descend, amid the firing of muskets, and the noisy demonstrations of respect of those without: then that of the Duke, amid silence unbroken, save by the harsh creaking of the coffin, as it slid down the iron grating: then, last and least, although the oldest denizen of the tomb, the little Yolande, the fairy coffin seeming, with its silver chasings and embossed velvet, of snowy whiteness, rather a casket destined to ornament the boudoir of a youthful beauty, than to become a receptacle of corruption and decay.

The vault was closed, and all was over. Each one had contributed the last token of Catholic respect, and we all turned from the chapel to take the road to the château, where entertainment for those who attended the funeral had been liberally prepared by its new master. It was then that we began to look around, and to feel some curiosity to know who had shared with us in rendering this last homage to one who was entitled to the gratitude of every individual of his nation. We gazed right and left, but few were there, and these were all those who had served him devotedly and faithfully—the grateful domestic, the obscure and humble friend; but of the great ones of the earth whom he had served—of those whom he had raised to greatness and to honour—there was not ONE!

EXTRACTS
FROM THE
MANUSCRIPTS, SPEECHES,
AND
POLITICAL WRITINGS
OF
PRINCE TALLEYRAND.

PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S
MAXIMS FOR SEASONING CONVERSATION.

Our welcome of a stranger depends upon the name he bears,—upon the coat he wears: our farewell upon the spirit he has displayed in the interview.