Almost the same day, but after a longer illness, amid the dissipations of too worldly a life, died Lady Elizabeth Harcourt. She was of the same age, and also handsome, but I think in no way prepared for the dread passage.
With the death of my brother-in-law, the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, I have heard of three deaths during the last week. Last month Anatole de Talleyrand died; in the month of July Madame de Laval; on May 17 M. de Talleyrand; on April 28 my father-in-law; in March my uncle Medem. In less than seven months eight persons have disappeared who were bound to me by ties of blood, friendship, or intercourse. Death surrounds me on every hand, and I can no longer trust either to the freshness of my daughter or to the cares of others; only the goodness of God can be infallibly trusted, and on His infinite mercy I must rely, and confide my loved ones to His care.
During the last two days of her life Madame de Broglie was delirious, and chanted the Psalms so loudly that one could hear her from one end of her residence to the other. When she was not singing she talked to her brother and her daughter who had died years before.
Valençay, October 3, 1838.—I am again in this beautiful spot, so rich in memories and so deprived of life and movement. I reached here yesterday in the moonlight, which suits the place so well, and which M. de Talleyrand always pointed out to us with such admiration. It was an unpleasant journey: broken carriages, tired horses, bad postillions, torn harness, and abominable roads, as they are being repaired or constructed afresh; in short, a series of petty obstacles, which troubled and vexed us, and made us late. M. de Talleyrand's old dog, Carlos, was strangely excited at our arrival, and pulled Mlle. Henriette by her dress, as if he would say, "Come and help me to look for the missing one."
Paris, October 9, 1838.—I am now again in Paris, though I cannot conceal the fact that a stay in this town makes me sadder than ever. How I long for my workmen, my garden, the soft skies of Touraine, the quiet of the country, the restfulness of the fields, time to think and to reflect, of which I am here deprived by constant business and worry!
Paris, October 12, 1838.—Yesterday I went to the Convent of the Sacré Cœur, where I stayed a long time with the Archbishop of Paris. He gave me an exact translation of the letter of secularisation sent by Pius VII. to M. de Talleyrand. It is a curious document, and shows that even though M. de Talleyrand, with his habitual carelessness, had mistaken the text, the general sense had been known to him, and that he had every reason to say that Rome could not be too exacting without self-contradiction. As, however, the letter had preceded the marriage of M. de Talleyrand, and as that marriage was not authorised by the Church, it was actually necessary for him to retract. This was done in verba generalia, as Rome admitted, and so every one should be satisfied.
When I returned home I gave orders that I should not be disturbed during the evening, and busied myself in putting the papers that I had found at M. de Talleyrand's house into some order. I shall complete this work only by degrees, for it causes me keen emotion. For instance, I came upon a note which M. de Talleyrand sent to me from his room to mine on February 6, 1837,[ [97] in which he told me that at his supreme hour his only anxiety would be my future and my happiness. I cannot say how this scrap of paper has agitated me.
Paris, October 13, 1838.—M. de Montrond came to see me yesterday. He showed himself extremely kind and soothing; but the true nature of things peeps out invariably, and towards the end of his call, which had been spent in expressions of regret for M. de Talleyrand's death, he let fall a phrase to this effect: "Do you propose to become a lady of the Faubourg Saint-Germain?" I was able to reply that I had no need to do anything of the kind, that my position was plain: a lady of rank and independent means, unwilling to sacrifice my opinions here or my position there; too deeply attached to the memory of M. de Talleyrand not to be on good terms with the Tuileries, and too good company not to live happily with my family and my own friends. He replied that I had not forgotten to speak like M. de Talleyrand himself. Then he rose, took my hand, and asked me if I would not be kind to him, saying that he was alone in the world, that he was very anxious for opportunities to talk of M. de Talleyrand with me sometimes, and then he began to weep like a child. I told him that he would always find me ready to listen to him, and to reply, if he spoke of M. de Talleyrand, a subject of inexhaustible interest to myself. Human nature is remarkable in its great diversity and its astonishing contrasts.
Paris, October 17, 1838.—I have only had two satisfactory incidents since my return: the arrival of my son Valençay, who is so good to me, and a long conversation with the Abbé Dupanloup, which went on yesterday for two hours at my house. Our minds are in sympathy, and, what is better, we are marvellously alert to divine one another's feelings, and both noticed it, owing to the strange and rapid coincidence of our expressions. He has a rapidly working mind, and for that reason pleased M. de Talleyrand, while with him one is never embarrassed or hampered, and transitional ideas are never clogged; his clearness of mind is never marked by dryness, because he has a sweet and most affectionate soul. My long intercourse with M. de Talleyrand has made it difficult for ordinary people to get on with me; I meet minds which seem slow, diffuse, and ill-developed; they are always putting on the brake, like people going downhill; I have spent my life with my shoulder to the wheel in uphill work. In M. de Talleyrand's lifetime I took more pleasure in the society of others, because I fully enjoyed my own society with him; perhaps also because I sometimes felt the need of rest at some lower elevation. But to-day I feel that I am being overcome, in a moral sense, by what the English call creeping paralysis; in short, yesterday I was able to spread my wings for a moment, and it did me good. I complained to him of the want of system in my life, of the weariness and oppression which were the result of overstrain. He spoke of my reading, and told me that he thought I should be deeply attracted by patristic literature; he promised to sketch out a little course of reading for me within my range. He is no inquisitive or indiscreet converter of souls; he is a good and intelligent man, a pure and lofty soul, discreet and moderate, whose influence can never be anything but wise, gentle, and restrained.
Paris, October 18, 1838.—The Princess Christian of Denmark, who is at this moment at Carlsruhe, is no longer young; but fifteen years ago, when she came to Paris, she was very pretty; her complexion, hair, and shoulders were especially beautiful. Her features were less striking, and those are the most permanent elements in beauty. I know that she and her husband have retained a very kindly feeling for the present royal family of France. Princess Christian is the granddaughter of the unfortunate Queen Mathilda of Denmark. Prince Christian's first wife was a mad woman with dreadful manners.[ [98] She went to Rome for refuge and to join the Catholic Church, and there she plunged into the most ridiculous mummeries. Her husband adored her, and if the King of Denmark had not insisted upon a separation Prince Christian would have remained under her yoke. He still corresponds with her, and has never ceased to regret her loss. The present Princess Christian, though prettier, is quite sensible, but has never had much influence with her husband, owing, it is said, to the fact that she has no children. The first wife was the mother of Prince Frederick, who is an exile in Jutland.