In a private letter written immediately after this incident Talleyrand spoke of it with great moderation and sadness. His correspondent was the Duchess of Courland, who now appears, almost for the first time, in the story of his life. There is no other woman who has been addressed by him with such passionate and devoted language as this beautiful Russo-German princess. After the death of her husband in 1801 she lived chiefly at Mittau, but paid an occasional visit to Paris. It must have been during one of these visits that Talleyrand first met her. We do not know the year, but it cannot have been long before he sought the hand of her daughter for his nephew in 1808. She would then be in her forty-seventh year, and her daughter, Dorothy, in her fifteenth. The romanticists (strongly reinforced in this instance by the fertile imagination of George Sand) have, of course, given a sensual character to the attachment, and have thrown out ludicrous hints that Dorothy (born years before we have any reason to think he had met the duchess at all), who succeeded the mother in his affections, was his daughter. All this is pure wantonness. We can understand without their aid the ardent friendship that we find in 1814 between the refined statesman of sixty and the graceful and gracious lady of fifty-three. She was a woman of great charm, many accomplishments, high intelligence and character, and no mean political faculty. “No woman in the world was more worthy of adoration,” said Talleyrand long afterwards. The score of short letters he wrote her during 1814 are full of such expressions as “my angel.”
CHAPTER XIV
THE RESTORATION
Napoleon had left Paris for the field towards the close of January, and the strain of expectation became intense. All knew now that the empire trembled in the balance. The English and Spaniards had crossed the Pyrenees since the middle of November, and were welcomed by the peasants of the south as deliverers. The northern allies had crossed the Rhine on December 21st. Already the imagination could see Napoleon and his capital hemmed between the converging forces. The group of whist-players at the Hotel St. Florentin dropped their voices to lower whispers, as the news came stealthily through the screen of spies and censors. “Burn this letter” appears time after time at the foot of the brief notes to the Duchess of Courland. In one letter he tells her that he has sent a totally different and misleading message by post, because he knows it will be opened. Another, probably sent by post instead of the usual friendly bearer, ends with the postcript: “My letters are opened. Those who read them will discover that I love you, which concerns you and me alone. After all, I only send news that is being cried in the streets. This interruption of a confidential exchange of thoughts is sad for those who wish to renounce the affairs of the world.”
The thoughts of the hermit were then as vigorously bent on “the affairs of the world” as ever in his whole career. Was the future to be a Napoleon with clipped wings? Was it to be a regency? Bernadotte? the Bourbons? He had several channels of information, and was not affected by the rigid censorship that ruled Paris. He knew well the march of military events, but was painfully perplexed as to the political view of the Allies. He holds in his memoirs that up to the middle of March they were prepared to treat with Napoleon, and hardly gave a thought to the Bourbons. But the Emperor was obstinate. He saw with rage the vast empire slipping from his grasp. At the beginning of February he sent his Foreign Minister to treat with the Allies at Chatillon, but as usual insisted on terms too arrogant for his situation. “Talleyrand would have got me out of the difficulty,” he said, when he heard of Caulaincourt’s failure. It was not the first time the remark had been wrung from him. But Talleyrand rightfully says he could have done nothing of the kind. If the Emperor had gained a slight success the day after Talleyrand had secured reasonable terms, he would have disowned them.
The “table de whist”—a phrase of the time—listened to the daily messages with great impatience. “The man is a corpse, but he doesn’t stink yet,” said Dalberg of Napoleon. “All he can hope for now,” said de Pradt, Archbishop of Malines, another of the inner group, “is a million francs and a frigate at Brest.” Talleyrand kept quiet, but wrote to the Duchess of Courland that “uncertainty was the worst of all evils.” He was being closely watched. One day in the middle of February he and Baron Louis, Mgr. de Pradt, and Dalberg were discussing the situation, when Savary, the new detective-in-chief, burst into the room. “Ah!” he said, with a forced laugh, “I catch you all red-handed.” Towards the end of February they sent Baron Vitrolles, a royalist, to the representatives of the Allies to glean something of their intention as to the future. Dalberg gave him as credentials his seal and the names of two Viennese ladies who were known to Count Stadion. When Vitrolles asked if he was to have no message from Talleyrand, Dalberg said: “You don’t know that monkey: he won’t risk burning his finger tips, even if all the chestnuts go to himself.” He was, however, given a short, unsigned note in invisible ink for Count Nesselrode.
Talleyrand was already secretly assured of the goodwill of Louis XVIII. Several years earlier, when someone suggested that he ought to have an understanding with the possible king, he replied that his uncle, the Archbishop, was at Hartwell. At the same time he discharged his duties as Councillor of the Empress to the best of his judgment. Napoleon had warned Joseph against his advice, and had even ordered Savary to expel him. Savary refused on the ground that Talleyrand alone kept the Faubourg St. Germain in check.
Towards the close of March news came that the allied forces were marching on Paris—were already between Napoleon and his capital. Country folk began to pour in, flying before the advancing Prussians and Russians. On the evening of the 28th Joseph assembled the Council at the Tuileries for the last time. Talleyrand advised that the Empress should remain in Paris. He spoke on a perfectly loyal and judicious estimate of the circumstances, and nearly every member of the Council agreed with him. Then Joseph read a letter from his brother, directing the retreat of the Empress and her son to Blois. The members of the Council were to follow. As Talleyrand left the room he halted for a moment at the top of the staircase, and said to Savary: “So this is the end of it all! Don’t you think so? The Emperor is to be pitied, but he will get no sympathy, because his obstinacy in retaining such incompetent people about him has no reasonable motive. What a fool! To give his name to an adventure, when he might have given it to his age. We must see what is to be done. It is not everybody who cares to bury himself in these ruins.” The following day he sent two envoys to the head-quarters of the Allies at Dijon. He gave them a letter of introduction to Stein, who was in favour of a restoration of the Bourbons, and who was urged “to prevent the frightful consequences of a wrong choice.”