Two years later he again protested against the action of the Government. When the Revolution had swept away the throne in Spain, the Royalist interest in France determined to intervene and restore it. Talleyrand had not an opportunity of delivering his speech, but he had it published and made some impression. He recalled Napoleon’s unhappy intervention, and predicted that the present raid, which he described as equally immoral, would end as disastrously. He was wrong in his prophecy, but undoubtedly right in his protest. His manifesto reveals on another side the maturing of his liberal and humanitarian views.
In 1829 an incident occurred that has furnished his critics with the last of their graver charges against him—if we except his “desertion” of Charles X. On January 21st he was present at the mass in Notre Dame in commemoration of the death of Louis XVI. Suddenly a man sprang from the crowd, and felled the aged prince to the ground with a heavy blow on the face. This man was that famous Marquis de Maubreuil, whose adventures have lately been presented by Mr. Vizetelly. He had adopted this brutal means of bringing a grievance before the public. His story was that Talleyrand had engaged him in 1814 to assassinate Napoleon, and had afterwards disowned the contract. For serious and impartial readers it is enough to learn the character of this unprincipled adventurer. It is clear that he did in 1814 obtain some kind of secret mission, money, and a passport from the provisional government. Talleyrand says that a large number of men were needed for missions in the provinces, and in the stress and confusion of the time there was not a strict discrimination. At all events Maubreuil left Paris with an armed company and regular passports. In the forest of Fontainebleau he overtook the Queen of Westphalia, who was flying from France. Maubreuil stopped her equipage, ransacked her luggage, and made off with her jewellery and a considerable sum of money. He was caught and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment in 1818, but escaped to England, where he had a fine market for his stories. He returned to France in 1827, and drew public attention by his attack on Talleyrand, then in his seventy-third year. I will only add that, after serving five years for the assault, he, at the age of eighty-three, married a prostitute (the daughter of his former coachman) for the sake of her money.
CHARLES X.
Serious history would not listen for a second to the unsupported word of such a man. The life of Talleyrand lies on a peculiar plane, and Maubreuil’s accusation, that he engaged him to murder Napoleon, has been treated with the usual hypocritical gravity. The only attempt at confirmation is found by the diligent Sainte-Beuve in a floating rumour that one of Talleyrand’s confidants was heard to ask: “How many millions do you ask?” As Maubreuil did not pretend to have treated with either Louis or De Pradt, and as the likelihood of such a contract being heard by others is inconceivable, the rumour would be worth little even if it were better grounded. The only other attempt at confirmation is made by the amiable Pasquier, who says that Dalberg told him men had been found who would get access to the Emperor in the uniform of chasseurs of the guard and do away with him. As Maubreuil spoke of a design of using this uniform, Pasquier concluded he was the proposed leader of the band, and Talleyrand the instigator. On this kind of evidence Sainte-Beuve is vaguely sure that we may connect Talleyrand with the idea of assassination, just as he has a “terrible doubt” whether we may not connect him with the death of Mirabeau. Thus has the mythical Talleyrand been put together. There are those who, in such a case, would take the word of Maubreuil himself, quite apart from the thin rumour that Sainte-Beuve has captured after it has floated about Paris for half a century, and the strained recollections of Pasquier.
“I am,” said Talleyrand, “an old umbrella on which the rain has beaten for forty years: a drop more or less makes no difference.” He continued to watch from his long chair at the window over the Tuileries, and smile at the blunders that were hurrying the Bourbons off the stage once more. Napoleon had gone in 1821. “It is not an event,” he said; “only a piece of news.” Louis died in 1824. The pious and narrow-minded Charles X was in the hands of the Clerical party. They readmitted the Jesuits in thin disguise. “M. Cuvier,” asked Talleyrand of the great zoologist, “which are the most grateful animals?” Cuvier was puzzled. “The turkeys, of course,” said the Prince, “because the Jesuits introduced the turkeys, and now the turkeys (Anglice, geese) are re-introducing the Jesuits.” Someone told him that Chateaubriand was getting deaf. “He fancies he’s deaf,” said Talleyrand, “because he does not hear people talking about him any longer.” At last the crisis came, and the king-maker stepped into public life once more.