Paris, March 4, 1836.— Yesterday, at the house of M. de Talleyrand, M. Mignet related that Marchand, a former valet de chambre under the Emperor, proposed to publish a commentary upon the "Commentaries" of Cæsar, which Napoleon had dictated to him in the last weeks of his life in St. Helena. Marchand often spoke to M. Mignet of Napoleon's last moments, of the loneliness and emptiness of his life; in illustration, he said that one evening when the Emperor, who was then very ill, was in bed, he pointed to the foot of the bed and said to him: "Marchand, sit down there and tell me something." Marchand said to him: "Dear me, sire, what can I tell you who have done and seen so much?" "Tell me about your youth; that will be simple and true, and will interest me," replied the Emperor. There is something very pathetic about this little dialogue. What teaching might not Bossuet have drawn from these few words—Bossuet, who did not disdain to introduce the somewhat trivial anecdote of the fowl into the funeral oration upon the Palatine! Surely the greatest homage to Bossuet is the fact that every great misfortune, every triumph or failure, makes us turn towards the Eagle of Meaux, who alone could extol, lament, and immortalise them worthily.
Paris, March 5, 1836.—Yesterday morning MM. Berryer and Thiers met at my house. I think it would have been impossible to have been present at a conversation more animated, sparkling, witty, surprising, kind, sincere, free, and true, or more devoid of all party spirit, than that which then arose between these two men, so different and so highly gifted. I also thought that it would never finish; they did not go until after six o'clock.
Paris, March 7, 1836.—M. Royer-Collard introduced me yesterday to M. de Tocqueville, the author of "Democracy in America." He seemed to me to be a nice little man, simple and modest, with an intellectual expression. We talked a great deal about England, and our views upon the destiny of the country were quite in harmony.
Paris, March 9, 1836.—I had several times glanced at the "Imitation of Jesus Christ." Whether it was that my knowledge of others and myself was only superficial or that my mind was ill-prepared and too wandering, I had seen no great difference between this famous work and the "Journée du Chrétien" and the "Petit Paroissien." I had often been surprised at the great reputation which this book enjoyed, but had never found any pleasure in reading it. Chance led me to open it the other day with Pauline; the first lines caught my attention, and I have since been reading it with ever increasing admiration. What intellectual power beneath the highest simplicity of form! What profound knowledge of the deepest recesses of the human heart! What beauty and enlightenment! And yet it is the work of an unknown monk. Nothing humiliates me more than a failure of self-knowledge or shows me more clearly in what darkness I was sunk.
Paris, March 10, 1836.—Yesterday I went with the Duchesse de Montmorency to a ball, given by Madame Salomon de Rothschild, the mother. The house is the most magnificent that can be conceived, and is therefore known as the Temple of Solomon. It is infinitely superior to her daughter-in-law's house, because the proportions are higher and greater. The luxury of it is indescribable, but in good taste—pure Renaissance, without any mixture of other styles; the gallery in particular is worthy of Chenonceaux, and one might have thought one's self at an entertainment given by the Valois. In the chief room the armchairs are made of gilt bronze instead of gilt wood, and cost a thousand francs apiece. The dining-hall is like the nave of a cathedral. All was well arranged and admirably lighted; there was no crushing, and every courtesy.
Paris, March 11, 1836.—Yesterday I went to Saint-Thomas d'Aquin, to hear the Abbé de Ravignan, formerly the King's procureur; he is a friend of Berryer, who praises him greatly, and a brother-in-law of General Exelmans; I had known him in the Pyrenees, where I had been struck by the beautiful expression of his face. He is a good preacher, with an excellent delivery, while his style is pure and refined, but rather logical and argumentative than warm or sympathetic. He therefore lays more stress upon evangelical dogma than upon morality, and seemed to me to be a man of talent rather than a great preacher.
Paris, March 18, 1836.—With regard to my reflections upon Bossuet,[ [13] you praise my attitude somewhat unduly. I have, indeed, a love of truth, and the world, with the dreadful misery which it contains, fills me with disgust; I have learned to fear the contagion of the world, under which I have suffered too long; I examine myself seriously, and am horrified to find myself immersed in the sorrow and grief which are the lot of worldly people and are the destruction of peace of mind, charity, and purity. I make some attempt to burst my bonds and rise to a purer region; but none the less my efforts are usually impotent, and my struggles vain and futile. As a rule I cannot tell whether the moral weariness which overwhelms me is due to the sad sight of the deplorable agitations amid which I live, or to the no less deplorable agitation of my inward life. When we have spent years amid the struggles of life and desire to change our path, however remote may be the road which leads us forward, we find ourselves a burden to ourselves; we can neither go forward with our load nor throw it off straightway; we stumble and retrace our steps; we prove ourselves but feeble travellers, and our goal recedes as our desire to reach it increases. Such is my case....
Yesterday, towards the end of the morning, M. de Tocqueville came to pay his call; I like him. The Duc de Noailles also called; he is not so attractive, though by no means disagreeable. Another caller was Berryer, who might be most agreeable if his mind and bearing did not betray traces of low life, which have struck my notice. However, the conversation never flagged, as the first visitor has sound views, the second good judgment, and the third that mental alacrity which enables him to apprehend a point at once. The conversation of these distinguished men was concerned only with facts, and not with people: names were not mentioned; there was no gossip, no bitterness or extravagance. The talk was as it should always be, especially at a lady's house.
Paris, March 20, 1836.—How deep a melancholy may be inspired by the first fine spring day, when it fails to harmonise with one's own frame of mind! For forty-eight hours the weather has been mild and lovely, the atmosphere filled with sweetness and light and breathing joy and happiness; new life, new warmth and pleasure are springing into being, and I feel suffocated in this town. The public promenades cannot take the place of the country, and nothing can bring back the sweet springtime of last year, with its flowers, its wide horizon, and its freshness, in which it was so easy to take breath. I would worship any one who could give me back these things! And instead I drive with Madame de Lieven through the Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage! Such was my occupation yesterday, while M. de Talleyrand was at the Academy of Moral and Political Science, voting for M. de Tocqueville, who failed to secure election.
Paris, March 24, 1836.—The Princess Belgiojoso is rather striking than beautiful: she is extremely pale, her eyes are too far apart, her head too square, her mouth large and her teeth discoloured; but she has a good nose, and her figure would be pretty if it were somewhat fuller; her hair is jet black, and she wears striking dresses; she has intellect, but wants balance, and is full of artistic whims and inconsistencies; her manner is intentionally and skilfully natural, sufficiently to hide her affectation, while her affectation seems to counterbalance a certain innate vulgarity, which her flatterers style an untamed nature. Such is my impression of this personage, with whom I have but the slightest acquaintance.