He was an especial habitué of the salon of Madame de Flahaut, the friend of Talleyrand and Montesquieu. She was a perfectly characteristic type; a clever, accomplished little woman, fond of writing romances, and a thorough-paced intriguante. She had innumerable enthusiasms, with perhaps a certain amount of sincerity in each, and was a more infatuated political schemer than any of her male friends. She was thoroughly conversant with the politics of both court and assembly; her "precision and justness of thought was very uncommon in either sex," and, as time went on, made her a willing and useful helper in some of Morris's plans. Withal she was a mercenary, self-seeking little personage, bent on increasing her own fortune by the aid of her political friends. Once, when dining with Morris and Talleyrand, she told them in perfect good faith that, if the latter was made minister, "they must be sure to make a million for her."
She was much flattered by the deference that Morris showed for her judgment, and in return let him into not a few state secrets. She and he together drew up a translation of the outline for a constitution for France, which he had prepared, and through her it was forwarded to the king. Together with her two other intimates, Talleyrand and Montesquieu, they made just a party of four, often dining at her house; and when her husband was sent to Spain, the dinners became more numerous than ever, sometimes merely parties carrées, sometimes very large entertainments. Morris records that, small or large, they were invariably "excellent dinners, where the conversation was always extremely gay."
Once they planned out a ministry together, and it must be kept in mind that it was quite on the cards that their plan would be adopted. After disposing suitably of all the notabilities, some in stations at home, others in stations abroad, the scheming little lady turned to Morris: "'Enfin,' she says, 'mon ami, vous et moi nous gouvernerons la France.' It is an odd combination, but the kingdom is actually in much worse hands."
This conversation occurred one morning when he had called to find madame at her toilet, with her dentist in attendance. It was a coarse age, for all the gilding; and the coarseness was ingrained in the fibre even of the most ultra sentimental. At first Morris felt perhaps a little surprised at the easy familiarity with which the various ladies whose friend he was admitted him to the privacy of boudoir and bedroom, and chronicles with some amusement the graceful indifference with which one of them would say to him: "Monsieur Morris me permettra de faire ma toilette?" But he was far from being a strait-laced man,—in fact, he was altogether too much the reverse,—and he soon grew habituated to these as well as to much worse customs. However, he notes that the different operations of the toilet "were carried on with an entire and astounding regard to modesty."
Madame de Flahaut was a very charming member of the class who, neither toiling nor spinning, were supported in luxury by those who did both, and who died from want while so doing. At this very time, while France was rapidly drifting into bankruptcy, the fraudulent pensions given to a horde of courtiers, titled placemen, well-born harlots and their offspring, reached the astounding total of two hundred and seventy odd millions of livres. The assembly passed a decree cutting away these pensions right and left, and thereby worked sad havoc in the gay society that nothing could render serious but immediate and pressing poverty,—not even the loom of the terror ahead, growing darker moment by moment. Calling on his fascinating little friend immediately after the decree was published, Morris finds her "au désespoir, and she intends to cry very loud, she says.... She has been in tears all day. Her pensions from Monsieur and the Comte d'Artois are stopped. On that from the king she receives but three thousand francs,—and must therefore quit Paris. I try to console her, but it is impossible. Indeed, the stroke is severe; for, with youth, beauty, wit, and every loveliness, she must quit all she loves, and pass her life with what she abhors." In the time of adversity Morris stood loyally by the friends who had treated him so kindly when the world was a merry one, and things went well with them. He helped them in every way possible; his time and his purse were always at their service; and he performed the difficult feat of giving pecuniary assistance with a tact and considerate delicacy that prevented the most sensitive from taking offense.
He early became acquainted with the Duchess of Orleans, wife of Philippe Egalité, the vicious voluptuary of liberal leanings and clouded character. He met her at the house of an old friend, Madame de Chastellux. At first he did not fancy her, and rather held himself aloof, being uncertain "how he would get on with royalty." The duchess, however, was attracted by him, asked after him repeatedly, made their mutual friends throw them together, and finally so managed that he became one of her constant visitors and attendants. This naturally flattered him, and he remained sincerely loyal to her always afterwards. She was particularly anxious that he should be interested in her son, then a boy, afterwards destined to become the citizen king,—not a bad man, but a mean one, and rather an unkingly king even for the nineteenth century, fertile though it has been in ignoble royalty. Morris's further dealings with this precious youth will have to be considered hereafter.
After his first interview he notes that the duchess was "handsome enough to punish the duke for his irregularities." He also mentioned that she still seemed in love with her husband. However, the lady was not averse to seeking a little sentimental consolation from her new friend, to whom she confided, in their after intimacy, that she was weary at heart and not happy, and—a thoroughly French touch—that she had the "besoin d'être aimée." On the day they first met, while he is talking to her, "the widow of the late Duke of Orleans comes in, and at going away, according to custom, kisses the duchess. I observe that the ladies of Paris are very fond of each other; which gives rise to some observations from her royal highness on the person who has just quitted the room, which show that the kiss does not always betoken great affection. In going away she is pleased to say that she is glad to have met me, and I believe her. The reason is that I dropped some expressions and sentiments a little rough, which were agreeable because they contrasted with the palling polish she meets with everywhere. Hence I conclude that the less I have the honor of such good company the better; for when the novelty ceases all is over, and I shall probably be worse than insipid."
Nevertheless, the "good company" was determined he should make one of their number. He was not very loath himself, when he found he was in no danger of being patronized,—for anything like patronage was always particularly galling to his pride, which was of the kind that resents a tone of condescension more fiercely than an overt insult,—and he became a fast friend of the house of Orleans. The duchess made him her confidant; unfolded to him her woes about the duke; and once, when he was dining with her, complained to him bitterly of the duke's conduct in not paying her allowance regularly. She was in financial straits at the time; for, though she was allowed four hundred and fifty thousand livres a year, yet three hundred and fifty thousand were appropriated for the house-servants, table, etc.,—an item wherein her American friend, albeit not over-frugal, thought a very little economy would result in a great saving.
His description of one of the days he spent at Raincy with the duchess and her friends, gives us not only a glimpse of the life of the great ladies and fine gentlemen of the day, but also a clear insight into the reasons why these same highly polished ladies and gentlemen had utterly lost their hold over the people whose God-given rulers they deemed themselves to be.
Déjeuner à la fourchette was not served till noon,—Morris congratulating himself that he had taken a light breakfast earlier. "After breakfast we go to mass in the chapel. In the tribune above we have a bishop, an abbé, the duchess, her maids and some of their friends. Madame de Chastellux is below on her knees. We are amused above by a number of little tricks played off by Monsieur de Ségur and Monsieur de Cabières with a candle, which is put into the pockets of different gentlemen, the bishop among the rest, and lighted, while they are otherwise engaged, (for there is a fire in the tribune,) to the great merriment of the spectators. Immoderate laughter is the consequence. The duchess preserves as much gravity as she can. This scene must be very edifying to the domestics who are opposite to us, and the villagers who worship below." The afternoon's amusements were not to his taste. They all walked, which he found very hot; then they got into bateaux, and the gentlemen rowed the ladies, which was still hotter; and then there came more walking, so he was glad to get back to the château. The formal dinner was served after five; the conversation thereat varied between the vicious and the frivolous. There was much bantering, well-bred in manner and excessively under-bred in matter, between the different guests of both sexes, about the dubious episodes in their past careers, and the numerous shady spots in their respective characters. Epigrams and "epitaphs" were bandied about freely, some in verse, some not; probably very amusing then, but their lustre sadly tarnished in the eyes of those who read them now. While they were dining, "a number of persons surround the windows, doubtless from a high idea of the company, to whom they are obliged to look up at an awful distance. Oh, did they but know how trivial the conversation, how very trivial the characters, their respect would soon be changed to an emotion entirely different!"