Among the memories of the Congress which I recall with the utmost gratitude is that of a very familiar—I might almost say a family-fête at M. de Talleyrand’s. It was a luncheon, partaken of solely by his ambassadorial staff, a few of his intimate friends, and a still smaller number of notable Frenchmen, then in Vienna. This matutinal entertainment was given in honour of his birthday; the prince was entering on his sixty-first year. Those who are fond of collecting the smallest particulars about a celebrated man have not forgotten to note the minute details of the Prince de Talleyrand’s toilet, and the ‘coquettishness’ of his rising. In fact, it partook of the peculiarities both of Mazarin’s and of Madame de Pompadour’s. Somewhat anxious to study its details, I followed to the great man’s bedroom MM. Boyne de Faye and Rouen, who were going to present their good wishes to their illustrious patron.
At that moment the model diplomatist pushed his head between the heavy curtains of his bed. A small number of the most privileged were already assembled. Wrapped in a plaited and goffered muslin peignoir, the prince proceeded to attend to his luxuriant hair, which he surrendered, not like the man in La Fontaine’s fable, to two women, but to two hairdressers, who, after a great deal of brandishing of arms and combs, ended by producing the ensemble of wavy hair with which everybody is familiar. Then came the barber’s turn, dispensing at the end a cloud of powder; the head and the hands being finished, they proceeded to the toilet of the feet, a somewhat less recreative detail, considering the by no means pleasant smell of the Barège Water employed to strengthen his lame leg. When all this was accomplished with the greatest care, we, though not valets, were enabled to judge the hero of diplomacy in his dressing-gown. To me personally, he looked better than in his ministerial court-dress. He looked the natural man: the model of that noble and courteous manner is no longer anything but a memory. When all those ablutions of water and perfume were terminated, his head servant, whose only function consisted in superintending the whole, came forward to tie his stock into a very smart knot. Then came the other parts of the adjustment. I am bound to say that all these transformations were carried out with the ease of a grand seigneur, and a nonchalance never over-stepping the good form which only permitted us to see the man, without having to trouble about his metamorphosis. At table, M. de Talleyrand not only showed his customary grace and urbanity, but he was in reality more amiable than in his reception-rooms, where, in spite of his free and easy demeanour, one always felt conscious that he kept a check upon himself. It was no longer that habitual silence which, as has been said, he had transformed into the art of eloquence, just as he had transformed his experience into a kind of divination. Though less profound, his talk was perhaps all the more charming. It came straight from the heart, and flowed without restraint.
Ch. Maurice de Talleyrand
Although Madame de Périgord was present, the duties of the table entirely devolved upon the prince. He served all the dishes, suggested all the wines, addressing each guest in a few sprightly and kindly words. If, perchance, some one attempted to turn the conversation into the channel of politics, which in Vienna is a very habitual weakness, at that very moment he began to talk of this or that thing so utterly foreign to the question just broached as to cause one to think that diplomacy was altogether antipathetic to him. He told us that he was so fond of receiving birthday wishes that, as a rule, he kept up two days, the Saint Charles and the Saint Maurice, without forgetting his real birthday.
‘Those two saints,’ he added, ‘would always prove the best landmarks in my recollections, if ever the fancy took me to write my own life. With their aid I could co-ordinate all my years, happy or sad, and I should be able to say where I was on the days of their appearance in the calendar.’
Madame de Périgord told us that she had received that very morning a Latin manuscript on the history of Courland. It was dedicated by the author to Prince Louis, the husband of her mother.
‘A manuscript!’ interrupted the prince, somewhat excitedly. ‘That reminds me of one of the most curious circumstances of my life. When, after my return from America, I was in Hamburg, I made the acquaintance of a gentleman who, like myself, lodged at the inn of the Römische Kaiser. We had met at the table d’hôte, and he had asked me to read the manuscript of a work of his—I no longer remember the subject. I accepted the ordeal, and went to my room. It so happened that on that same day I had been to MM. de Chapeau-Rouge, my bankers, and taken from the remains of a very small credit about fifteen louis. When I got to my room, I opened the manuscript to read it, and between its leaves I deposited my small treasure, wrapped in a sheet of paper. At six in the morning there was a violent knocking at my door, and my author rushed in to inform me that he was going to take ship at that very moment for London, and that he would be pleased to have his manuscript. Half awake and half asleep, I made him a sign to take his manuscript, which was lying on his table, and half sarcastically called to him, “A pleasant journey.” Then I turned round in my bed and fell asleep again. Alas, the wretch took my money with him, and chance did for him what no publisher would have done for his manuscript. I never saw him again, or my fifteen louis, and was obliged to return to my bankers in a sad frame of mind to withdraw the rest left to me, promising myself that they would not catch me examining manuscripts again.’
We went into a small drawing-room, where on a table were all the presents that had been sent from Paris. There were some from the Duchesse de Luynes, from the Princesse de Vaudémont, from Mme. Jyskewicz, and from many other ladies, who, knowing his fondness for those delicate attentions, never failed to send them at the three periods to which he had referred during luncheon. On a couch were laid out all his orders, and there were enough and to spare. Odd to relate, the most brilliant ones in the way of precious stones had been given by the minor princes.
M. de Talleyrand went on chatting to us for a little while, his most casual sentences being marked by a graceful unaffectedness, so strongly contrasting with his diplomatic reputation. His expressions were, however, always simple; they, as it were, derived their value from the attitude and the courtesy of the grand seigneur, which were not at fault.