Chapter I

THE DUC D’AIGUILLON AND MADAME DUBARRI—TALLEYRAND’S RETURN FROM
AMERICA—CHÉNIER, MADAME DE STAËL, AND MADAME DE LA BOUCHARDIE.

“You have begun, _malgré vous_,” said I to C., the next time we met _tête-à-tête_, “the _vie anecdotique_ of the prince, which I have always felt sure would prove so full of interest. Your strange story of Madame de la Motte is quite sufficient to excite curiosity in those who love to see the _truth_ established where prejudice and falsehood have reigned so long. It would be a curious study to follow in the same manner, step by step, the life of the Prince de Talleyrand, and give to those who seek for _truth alone_ (and they are many) the real impressions made upon a powerful organization, like his own, by the wondrous changes in which he bore so conspicuous a part; the conduct of those with whom he co-operated in the great reform which, from the very outset of his career, it is evident he had at heart; and his own conduct with regard to the confederates with whom the strange circumstances amid which he found himself compelled him to associate sometimes, ‘_malgré lui et à son corps defendant_.’”

“It would be difficult,” replied C., “to destroy prejudices which have taken root. Mankind in general cling to them with tenacity, and adopt ready-formed opinions with the greatest facility in proportion as they are improbable and absurd. The Prince de Talleyrand has been the victim of many such errors. From the great reserve, partly natural to his character, and no doubt strengthened by his clerical education, the motives by which he was guided, unexplained by himself, have been left to the interpretation of the mass; and the mass will ever be loth to yield conviction save to the evidence of facts alone. One of the most extraordinary delusions which exist in the public mind with regard to the prince, founded I should think upon no better authority than a brutal attempt at wit made by Napoleon, has been often adopted as a basis for the judgment of his character. ‘Kick Talleyrand behind,’ said the coarse-minded _sabreur_, ‘and look in his face, you will perceive no indication of any sense of the insult.’ The _dictum_, which was first uttered by the chattering buffoon of a Parisian _salon_, has been gravely quoted by more than one historian, and has in many cases gone forth as the standard whereby to judge one of the proudest characters that the Almighty ever sent among mankind!

“Again—how often has he been accused of participating in the murder of the Duc d’Enghien: though his whole life disproves the accusation. What single action of his long career can justify this supposition? His aversion to bloodshed—his avoidance of all violent measures—his forgiving temper, which was constitutional—all tend to combat the suspicion; and yet it has been greedily received, not only by his enemies, but even by the writers least interested in the affair—those of foreign nations, strangers to party-spirit in French politics, and who may be supposed to be mere spectators of the struggle. I think M. de Talleyrand owes this unjust and offensive accusation entirely to the reserve he has always maintained with regard to this event. Had he been more explicit, had he ‘_spoken out_,’ in short, upon the subject, his vilest detractors would not have dared to affix this stain upon his name, while the panegyrists of his great contemporary would have hesitated before the _proofs_ which M. de Talleyrand can still produce. Although he even yet mentions with caution all the circumstances connected with this affair, which he himself calls ‘_déplorable_,’ yet I have gathered enough to make the recital interesting to you, and in _tems et lieu_ I will put you in possession of the facts; but as you wish me to proceed _par ordre de date_, they will find no place here. Accusation and defiance are contrary to the whole system of conduct of the prince. His forbearance towards his enemies would sometimes excite the indignation of Mirabeau, whose fiery soul gloried in attack, and scorned defeat, from which he rose with fresh venom and fresh vigour.

“‘One thing is needed to complete the character of Talleyrand,’ said the giant, in despair at the mildness of the prince, ‘he needs unjust imprisonment!’ The secret of the whole existence of Mirabeau—of his success—his energy and defiance, may perhaps be found in this simple exclamation. Mirabeau might accuse Talleyrand of coldness and over caution; but it was left for the coarse mind of Napoleon to tax him with baseness and want of self-respect. Now I, who have lived in the intimacy of the prince for many years, and have been in the habit of observing the impression produced upon his temper by outward events, have arrived at the conviction, that it is the very excess of pride, of which Napoleon denied him the slightest portion, that destroys the otherwise perfect equilibrium of his character. I am a believer in the influence of _race_, and can respect the philosophy which tells us that the qualities of the soul are handed down through long generations as well as the features of the body. The proud motto of the sovereign counts of Perigord, adopted in the sixth century, was borne with justice by Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, their descendant: _Ré que Diou!_ In the old Perigord language, ‘NO KING BUT GOD!’

“Would not the simple utterance of this haughty device form an argument against the accusation of ‘versatility of opinion,’ of ‘change of masters’? The parallel might be carried further still, down to the famous Cardinal de Perigord, friend and confidant of Petrarch, he who is called in Italian history the pope-maker, who in the twelfth century was the nominator of four different pontiffs, and then dethroned the Emperor Louis V. to crown in his stead Charles IV. He, too, was the most able diplomatist of his time, and was deputed to London to negotiate the ransom of the French King John. He succeeded in reducing the ransom, and in obtaining a truce, by the influence of his ‘_langue mielleuse et dorée_,’ as says the quaint old chronicler of the time.

“Henri de Chalais might have saved his life had he but spoken the one word of supplication to his master. ‘The king has said that he will pardon you if you will but sue,’ said his good old confessor the night before his execution. ‘What prevents you, then, Monseigneur, from asking?’

“‘The blood of the Talleyrands!’ said the prince, and, turning to the wall, spoke no more that night.

“You see they have ever been a taciturn and haughty race, faithful to the battle-cry of their fierce forefathers. ‘_Ré que Diou_’ must have been graven on their hearts, as well as painted on their banner. Did it never occur to the hard mind of the emperor, that Talleyrand might be insensible to insult from _contempt_ of the aggressor? But come, I am wasting time in theory, and you, I am well aware, prefer facts and example.

“The political career of Prince Talleyrand may be said to have begun at his very entrance into life. I have given you a sketch of his childhood—to detail the events of his youth would be to give the history of the close of the eighteenth century. I have heard him say often that few men could boast of having passed through life as he had done—always in a crowd, having to elbow his way through the thickest ranks. During those early years he cannot remember to have enjoyed or experienced a single week’s solitude. Always in a crowd, and that crowd composed of all that was celebrated at the time, for wit, fashion, and beauty, by his own merit he was continually in advance, and, long before the age when other men enter the lists, he had already travelled far on the road to fame and fortune. It is this circumstance which makes his age for ever a subject of dispute. His name has been so long before the public eye, in connexion with those of individuals who had begun their career so many years before him, that it seems as if he himself belonged to another epoch than our own. At the age of twenty-six, when he was named _agent-général_ of the clergy, he had already acquired the conviction that the society amid which he was born was tottering to its basis, and, moreover, that it was unworthy of an effort to save it from destruction. I remember being much amused by his description of the very first visit he paid after being invested by his uncle with the title and power of his new office, which, at the time, was one of great trust and influence, and one which demanded great industry and talent.

“He was one day _en confidence_ with me, and mentioning several events of the last century. ‘How has that poor _siècle_ been calumniated,’ said he, gaily, ‘and yet, after all, I do not see that the _productive_ power of your system equals that of the one you so much condemn. Where is the wit of your _salons_, the independence of your writers, the charm and influence of your women? What have you received in exchange for all these, which have fled for ever? Were I young, I should regret, and wish that I were old, to enjoy, at least in memory, the delicious _existence morale_ of _my_ time. I would not give the remembrance of those times for all the novelty and what you call _improvements_ of the social system of to-day, even with the youth and spirit necessary to enjoyment. ’Tis true there were abuse and exaggeration in many of our institutions, but where is the system in which these do not exist? If our people was devoured with misery and taxes, yours is wasting to the core with _envy_ and with discontent. Our _noblesse_ was corrupt and prodigal, yours is _bourgeoise_ and miserly—greater evils still for the prosperity of the nation. If our king had many mistresses, yours has many masters. Has _he_ gained by the exchange? Thus you see it clearly demonstrated that not one of the three orders has advanced in happiness by these wonderful _improvements_ which you so much admire.’

“He joined good-naturedly in the laugh which I could not repress at his last regret, and I asked him if he had ever seen the _dernière maîtresse en titre du Roi de France_, Madame Dubarri.

“‘Frequently,’ replied he, ‘both before and after her disgrace, and, moreover, the last visit I ever paid her has been impressed upon my memory, by the circumstance of its being the first I made after having obtained the dignity of _agent-général du clergé_, which my mother had been soliciting for me so long. I had been the whole morning closeted with my uncle, listening to his various instructions and counsels relative to my new duties. So anxious was the dear good man to make me perfectly aware of the new dignity with which I had just been invested, that he had kept me for more than two hours standing before him. So strict was the clerical etiquette of the time, that he dared not request me to be seated in the presence of the two acolytes, who, by the law of that same etiquette, never left him, night or day, save when he himself was admitted into the presence of a superior.

“‘As you may imagine, both my strength and patience were exhausted before my dear uncle’s allocution was over, and most heartily did I rejoice when he stretched forth his hand for me to kiss, in token of dismissal. He told me that he had much more to say (I shivered), but that he was anxious I should pay my respects to the minister that very day, as the neglect of such attention might bring disgrace and _défaveur_ at the very outset of my career. I had just time sufficient to gain the minister’s hôtel before the closing of his cabinet, so made all speed to quit my uncle’s presence, glad to escape even with the prospect of another lecture.

“‘I was just descending the steps of the hôtel, when I met the young Duc d’Aiguillon, all excited and _ébouriffé_ as usual, with his vest wide open, and his garments in disorder.

“‘Where are you going so fast?’ exclaimed he, seizing my arm.

“‘To call upon the minister, _mon ministre_,’ said I, laughing at the look of surprise with which he eyed me, and which betrayed plainly the troubled state of his intellect.

“‘_Parbleu!_’ exclaimed he, with the twinkling of the eye peculiar to persons in the same state of blessedness in which he then was, ‘and so am I going to call upon the minister. My coach is waiting at the corner, let us go together.’

“‘To this proposal I could of course offer no objection, being, as I tell you, horribly fatigued with my long _séance_, and having at that time no carriage of my own at command. We walked to the end of the street arm-in-arm together. He leaned upon me heavily, but was laughing heartily the whole way, as if inspired by some merry thought.

“‘You see me thus delighted,’ said he, suddenly stopping short, ‘at the remembrance of the glorious fun we have just been having at the Trois Marroniers. Why were you not there? We were but three, but diverted ourselves _comme quarante_. Liancourt was _en verve_, and told some of his best anecdotes about—(he hiccupped slightly)—about Madame Dubarri! I should like to see that woman. Did you ever see her?’ He nodded assent in answer to his own question, and then, with a tipsy giggle, he pushed me in the side, exclaiming, ‘Well, then, jump into the carriage, and I will tell you all about her as we drive along to the minister’s.’

“‘He spoke some few words to his lackey, and seated himself beside me. The moment he entered, he drew down the blinds of the carriage, and, far from opposing such a measure, I was enchanted at what, in my own mind, I termed his discretion, as I thought that he was beginning to be aware of the state he was in, and was afraid of making himself the public gaze.

“‘The duke was one of the most witty men I ever met with. It would be difficult to find a more piquant narrator than himself; and upon this occasion, the little _pointe de vin_ which he had taken had awakened his imagination, and caused him to be even more lively and amusing than usual. His gaiety was contagious; and as he told one after the other the most _échevelé_ anecdotes of the ex-favourite, all of the kind most likely to have been served up by M. de Liancourt for the entertainment of his dissolute companions, the peals of laughter which his recitals caused me to emit, rivalled his own in noise and duration. So absorbed was I in listening to his merry stories, and so diverted by his pleasant manner of telling them, that I did not perceive the tremendous rate at which the horses were going, nor the length of time which seemed to have been occupied in our short journey to the hôtel of the minister.

“‘Once, indeed, d’Aiguillon had stopped in the midst of one of his best narrations to draw aside the blind, exclaiming, ‘What, shall we never reach _ce diable de ministre_?’ and, after looking out, had thrown himself back with another of those comical laughs, in which I could not help joining with all my heart; but I was so much amused, and felt myself so extremely happy, that no suspicion entered my head concerning the direction we had taken, and my only fear began to be, lest we should arrive at our destination before his stock of anecdote was exhausted. In short, any one who had followed in our wake, and heard the peals of laughter which issued from the carriage, would certainly have thought me to have been as drunk as he. This mirth, however, at least as far as I was concerned, was destined to receive a tremendous check by the stopping of the vehicle, and the sudden appearance at the door of the officer of _octroi_, who asked for the toll, which then it was the custom for all private carriages to pay on leaving the capital.

“‘Good God! where are we?’ exclaimed I, in alarm, now for the first time, since I had left my uncle’s presence, remembering the importance of the errand upon which I had been despatched, his earnest injunctions to use no delay in paying my official respects to the minister, and the short space of time I had allowed myself to execute his command, even when I had first set out.

“‘At the Barrière des Bonshommes!’ returned the _employé_, slamming the door, and making the usual sign to the coachman that he might proceed.

“‘Before I had recovered from my astonishment, the carriage was again flying along the road, at the full gallop of the horses; and, while I was bawling myself hoarse, to induce the coachmen to stop, again was d’Aiguillon roaring with laughter! I was by this time in a state of great vexation, which seemed rather to increase than diminish my friend’s merriment. In vain I pulled the check-string with all my might, and in despair leaned my body from the window to make myself heard by the grinning lackeys: my endeavours to arrest the progress of the carriage, seemed but to increase the speed at which we were going.

“‘’Tis useless,’ exclaimed d’Aiguillon, drawing me back into my seat, ‘the varlets have _my_ orders, and _I_ am their master _ne vous déplaise_; besides,’ continued he, pulling out his watch, ‘your minister by this time is as far on the road to Versailles as we are on this; therefore, let us no longer trouble our heads about business, but give ourselves up to pleasure. I promise you as much satisfaction this evening from the remembrance of our trip, as your uncle would have promised you from the security of a good conscience. We are going to spend a delightful hour, so _en avant, et vogue la galère_.’

“‘It was in vain that I protested against the deception which he had played upon me. The hair-brained young scamp was too much excited with wine and merriment to listen to reason, and I, myself, could not long resist the influence of his piquant wit, his bon-mots, and comical descriptions, and gave way, with all the good-will of youth and light-heartedness, to the mirth of the moment. I really imagined that he was taking me to some one of the delightful _petites maisons_, with which the environs of Paris abounded at that time, and that we should meet some of his joyous friends to spend the night, as it was evident he had done the one preceding, in fun and frolic, with one or two of the choice spirits with whom he associated. Meanwhile, the carriage went on with increasing rapidity.

“‘Where does your friend reside?’ inquired I. D’Aiguillon put his finger to his nose, winked and looked cunning, but said nothing. Ruel, Nanterre, Bougival, all were passed, and still we paused not.

“‘We are evidently going to St. Germain,’ thought I. ‘Well, ’tis of no consequence; the mischief is done, and nothing can save me now from the minister’s wrath and my poor uncle’s displeasure.’ But no—I was wrong. When we came to the bottom of the hill upon which is situated St. Germain, the carriage turned suddenly off the road to the left, and entered a fine avenue of chestnut trees, at the end of which I could perceive a pair of lofty iron gates, and, just peering above the trees, the numerous chimneys and shining slates, of what appeared, at the distance, a tolerably-sized château. The adventure now assumed a different aspect; and I began to fear that, so far from the joyous party I had before anticipated, we were destined to swell the number of _convives_ at the table of some rich old dowager _en retraite_, and that the treacherous kidnapping of d’Aiguillon was but a wily invention to diminish his own _ennui_ by making me share in it.

“‘But the reproaches which I addressed to d’Aiguillon were unheard by him; for, having exhausted his stock of scandal, and being himself exhausted by the sleepless night he had passed, he had quietly folded his arms, and sunk back into a sound and heavy slumber; and, proceeding at the same rapid pace with which we had set out, up the avenue within the iron gates, we were soon before the _perron_. As the carriage stopped, I rubbed my eyes, scarcely able to believe my senses. Was I in a dream? Every object which presented itself to my astonished, horror-stricken gaze seemed familiar to my memory. The marble steps—the hedge of geraniums—the open vestibule with the porphyry columns—and now the doubt becomes certainty! The footman who comes with such agility down the steps to assist us in alighting from the carriage, wears the livery of—I was in a perspiration from head to foot—of Madame Dubarri! Yes—the detestable _plaisanterie_ of d’Aiguillon was now evident. He had brought me to Luciennes, and we were standing, four years too late, before the Pavillon. The trees had grown since I was there last, therefore I had not at first recognised the place.

“‘I was now really perplexed and angry, and by a violent shake awoke the Duke, who, torn thus rudely from his well-earned slumber, seemed even more astonished than myself. The door was open, the steps let down, and the gold-lace varlets waiting patiently our determination to alight. The situation was most embarrassing; there was a great deal of hurry and bustle in the interior of the Pavillon, a running to and fro in the vestibule, and a great calling of “Clarisse” and “Marianne.” It was evident that our arrival had been already perceived, and had already caused a certain sensation. I was determined, however, not to lend myself to the folly of my tipsy friend, and bade the coachman, in a peremptory tone, to use no delay in turning his horses, and conveying us back to Paris; although feeling myself compelled, from the courtesy due to the fair sex, much against my inclination, to give some token of my visit; I left my name, with inquiries after the health of Madame la Comtesse, and regrets that business in Paris prevented my alighting to pay her a visit in person. To this d’Aiguillon, who had been sleeping off, in some degree, the fumes of the past night, offered no objection. He had, no doubt, recovered his senses sufficiently to perceive that he was not in a fit state, either _au moral_ or _au physique_, to appear before the lady, and therefore, to my great delight, remained silent. We had once more gained the great gate of the park, and were waiting while the _concierge_ was opening to it to let us pass out, when we were overtaken by one of the countess’s pages, who came running, panting and breathless, to request, on the part of his mistress, as a great favour, that we would return, as she would be quite unhappy at the idea of losing my visit. Of course there was no possibility of refusal, and we were forced to turn back, myself in no very pleasant mood, as you may imagine, and even d’Aiguillon, whose impudence equalled that of Don Juan himself, rather subdued as the moment of trial drew nigh.

“‘We were ushered into a saloon on the ground-floor, looking into the garden, where Madame Dubarri was waiting with evident impatience. I was indeed quite overcome, almost to embarrassment, by the eagerness of welcome with which she received me, and the evident delight with which she accepted the introduction of my young friend. Poor Dubarri! the days were gone when her _salons_ were crowded with the _élite_ of the court, when her boudoir was the rendezvous of all that was elegant and _distingué_ in the capital. The solitude in which she lived at the Pavilion, for which she was so unfit, formed a strange contrast to the crowded gallery at Versailles, where I had seen her last.

“‘No individual has ever been more calumniated than the poor, unhappy Dubarri. In most of the histories of “My own Times,” the “Mémoires pour Servir,” and the Souvenirs of M. This and Madame That, which have been vomited from the press during the last fifty years, she has been accused of every vice, of every crime that perverted human nature is capable of committing. Nothing was ever more unjust than these accusations. She had never forgotten, even amid all her grandeur, her ancient calling, and always felt a weight of _ennui_, of which she complained openly, with the greatest _naïveté_, at the pomp and ceremony which surrounded her at Versailles; and, above all, at the obsequious homage of which she was the object. She had succeeded in debasing her royal lover to her own level; but she was without ambition, and never sought to raise herself, or to use the influence she had acquired over the mind of the king for wanton mischief or malice. In the king’s cabinet, in his council-cabinet, or in the _galerie des glaces_, when assisting the king in his reception of foreign ambassadors, she was always the same “_Jeanne la Folle, de chez la Mère Morry_.” She had remained in everything the very type of the successful members of the unfortunate class from which she had been taken. Violent and vindictive against those who offended her, her wrath was speedily forgotten in the more powerful passion for amusement and pleasure, which seemed, like a very demon, to have possession of her soul. Night and day, from sunrise to sunset, was she ever ready for a noisy game, or a brawling dance.

“‘I think it must have been her very indifference to the political intrigues going on at court, which caused her to maintain her influence so long. Louis Quinze was weary of the propriety of demeanour and great talents of Madame de Pompadour, and was glad, for the sake of variety, to _encanailler_ his royalty with the representation, such as poor “Jeanne la Folle” could give to the life, of the habits and manners of a class of persons of whose existence he ought scarcely to have been aware. One great justice ought to be done to her memory—she was no hypocrite. She never sought to play the fine lady, or to assume the airs and state of the _noblesse_. On the contrary, her great delight was in talking of the _happy_ days of her youth. I have heard from those who were admitted to the private _réunions_ in the _petits appartemens_ at Versailles, that no actress ever possessed greater flexibility of histrionic power than Madame Dubarri. Her talent at mimicry and caricature would have done honour to any stage, and it was one of the king’s greatest enjoyments to listen to her description of the scenes and circumstances with which she had been familiar, before the happy chance which opened to her a life so different from that to which she then aspired. It seems that her comic powers were so great, that the satiated and _ennuyé_ old king was once known to take a brilliant ring from his finger in the enthusiasm of the moment, and place it on her own, and, forgetting the presence of the courtiers, kiss her heartily on both cheeks, after one of these representations, at the same time declaring that she had given him more pleasure than he had ever received from the best actors of the Comédie Française.

“‘She alone furnished the amusement of the royal _petits soupers_ for many years, and, while the people imagined that the king had retired for a while from public affairs, for the benefit of his health, and to recruit his strength, before entering on the great measures of reform which he had so long proposed for the advantage of the nation, roars of laughter and lewd songs were heard by the sentinel on duty at the gate of Trianon, issuing from the royal retreat, and making him imagine that he was pacing before one of the unholy dens which infest the narrow streets of the Quartier de la Cité.

“‘Six years had elapsed since I had seen Madame Dubarri. I found her but little altered in appearance, and much subdued in manner—she was humbled to the very soul. It was evident that she was perishing with _ennui_, not with regret for the splendour in which she had lived, nor the power which she might have possessed, had she so willed, but for the gay and gallant company she had enjoyed, the laughter, the practical jokes, the _guerre pampan_—a game which she had introduced, and which was still played at court, although she was no longer allowed to be there to share in the mirth which it excited. Her lamentations at her _délaissement_, as she called the comparative solitude in which she lived, were at first most piteous; but, as of old, her griefs were soon forgotten in the delight of the moment, and she soon gave way, with all the frankness and _bonhomie_ of her character, to the unwonted delight imparted by the visit of two persons who could give her news of the court, and of what was said and what was done among those whom, so short a time before, she had ruled as queen, but whom she could not now either bribe or flatter into the slightest demonstration of courtesy.

“‘You are, no doubt, curious to hear an opinion of Madame Dubarri’s beauty from the lips of one who has seen her both in the days of her prosperity and after her downfall. She was a person of small, almost diminutive stature, extremely frail and delicate in feature, which saved her from being vulgar; but, even from the first, she always wore that peculiarly _fané_ look, which she owed to a youth of dissipation, a maturity of unbounded indulgence. At the period of my visit, she was about six-and-thirty years of age, but, from her childlike form and delicacy of countenance, appeared much younger, and her _gambades_, and unrestrained gestures of supreme delight, on having, as she said, _quelqu’un à qui parler_, did not seem displaced. Although alone, and evidently not in expectation of visitors, her toilet was brilliant and _recherché_, the result of the necessity of killing time. The portrait, which is popular from the engraving, in which she is represented sipping coffee, is the best resemblance of her which has ever been attempted, and the likeness was most striking on this day, from her being attired in the same style as that represented in the picture. I could see that d’Aiguillon was charmed, and in spite of the clouds through which his reason had to make its way, he behaved in a discreet and gentlemanlike manner.

“‘It really was a curious day, that 16th of August, 1780—begun in the drawing-room of the Archbishop of Rheims, listening on bended knee to the exhortations of the good and pious prelate, and finished in the boudoir of “Jeanne la Folle!” It might be taken as the very type of the chaos which, from one end to the other of the social system, existed at the period. I was impatient to return to Paris, and did not wish to prolong my visit, but the poor comtesse sued so earnestly for another and another _petit quart d’heure_, that I had not the heart to hurry away. She showed us, with great complacency, all through the grounds belonging to the Pavillon, which were really beautiful, particularly the _jets-d’eau_ and the artificial fountains which decorated the gardens; and there was something particularly touching in the tone in which she spoke of the kindness of poor “France” (the name by which she still designated the late king), who had caused the water-works of Marly to be brought down to the Pavillon, in order to give her a pleasant surprise on her birthday. Their removal must have cost several millions of the public money, but what was that compared to the pleasure of winning a smile of delight from “Jeanne la Folle!”

“‘On returning to the Pavillon, we found a splendid collation spread in the saloon. Here was the ’vantage ground of the Comtesse Dubarri; no one could better do the honours of a well-served table. In vain we excused ourselves upon the plea of our _negligé_ toilet. She would take no refusal, saying, with a sigh, “I excuse you with all my heart; and fear not, we are sure to be alone; there is no danger of intrusion from visitors.”

“‘It was impossible to resist the melancholy tone in which she uttered the words; and, moreover, d’Aiguillon was not proof against the assurance which she gave him that she would make him judge of the Tokay which King Casimir sent as a present to Louis XIV. So we yielded to the gentle violence of the comtesse, and consented to remain. We were both well rewarded for the good deed, each of us in the way most agreeable to himself—d’Aiguillon with plenteous libations of the most exquisite wine, and myself with stories and adventures of the court of Louis Quinze, which to me served as most precious _renseignemens_, and gave me the clue to much that has taken place in France since that time.

“‘As for Madame Dubarri herself, she soon turned from her lamentations concerning the behaviour of the young court towards her, to give herself up to all the merriment of the hour, and was soon excited by the good fellowship of d’Aiguillon, whose “discretion” had worn off with the first few glasses, and who had retrograded into the same state of hilarity as when he met me in the morning. I could not quote now one half of the _bon mots_, the puns, the _quolibets_, uttered during the course of that repast. It was a complete souvenir of the _régence_, and I could well understand that the influence which Madame Dubarri had possessed over the mind of the king had owed its origin to the nature of the _joyeux propos_ with which her conversation teemed, and which to Louis Quinze must have worn the mask of originality, as it was not probable that he could ever have heard the like before. I know not what hour of the night it could have been when we rose from table, of course much too late to think of returning home.

“‘We adjourned to the boudoir of the comtesse—a delicious retreat which poor “France” had taken a pleasure in adorning with his own hands—and here the gaiety of the pair became even more uproarious. Madame Dubarri told us much of her past life, never sparing details which would have excited astonishment, even had she told them of another, but which, related of herself, became unaccountable. She showed us, among other curiosities which the boudoir contained, a little volume, richly bound in white silk, and which consisted of the manuscript journal of the king, during an absence of a few days that he was once compelled to make at Versailles, while she remained at Fontainebleau. By one of those curious chances, which I believe happen to all who _observe_, my eye fell upon a passage which immediately set at rest, in my mind, the long discussions and disputes which had been excited concerning the dismissal of M. de Choiseul from the ministry. It ran thus, and forget not, that it was in the handwriting of the king himself.

“‘_Friday, 10th._—Sent off the courier with the morning billet to you, _ma chère_, then arose. Looked from the window to see if the weather would be fine for the hunt. Saw on the wall of the _Cours des Veneurs_, an impertinent allusion to somebody, chalked in letters large enough for me to read even at that distance. One of the _valets de meute_ must have been the perpetrator. Left my chamber in great anger. Found M. de Choiseul waiting in my study. Showed him the writing, took occasion to say (as much for himself, as in reference to the offence of which I complained) all the good I know (and it is not a little) of somebody. Wishing to anticipate all the malicious thoughts which I feared my unrestrained praise of somebody might give rise to in his mind, said, in conclusion, “After all, the worst that can be said is, that I succeeded Saint Foix in her affections.” “Exactly so, sire,” muttered Choiseul, “just as your majesty succeeded to King Pharomond, as sovereign of this country.” I did not choose to speak further on this subject, so changed the conversation. Choiseul likes an innocent _plaisanterie_, but there is no harm in Choiseul.”

“‘Upon what a slight thread will sometimes hang the destinies of men and of nations! Is it not evident that this “innocent _plaisanterie_,” as it was called by the good-natured but obtuse Louis Quinze, was of the kind most likely to inflame the hasty, choleric temper of Jeanne la Folle? In my own mind, I feel perfectly convinced that it was this ill-timed joke of the minister which caused his disgrace, as I find upon reference to dates, that it was upon the king’s return to Fontainebleau that the famous scenes of the oranges, “Saute Choiseul—Saute Praslin,” was enacted, and both Choiseul and Praslin were disgraced. It was evident that the page had been often read, for it was worn, and the writing in some places dimmed, as if with tears. Perhaps it was this circumstance which had caused the book to open just at this very passage, and rendered me the involuntary sharer in a secret which is not generally known even to this day.

“‘After we had sufficiently examined all the curiosities and expensive baubles with which the boudoir was decorated, Madame Dubarri, whose dread of seeing us depart seemed to increase as the hours flew by, then insisted on displaying the jewels which “_ce cher France_” had given her on various occasions. It was, indeed, a splendid sight; but, when I complimented her upon the possession of the finest rubies I had ever beheld, she shook her head mournfully, and said with a sigh, that she would give them all for a few days participation in the rejoicings which were going on _there_ (she pointed to Versailles), not as she once had been, planner and promoter, but even as mere spectator. I asked why she did not seek forgetfulness in change of scene; why she did not travel. No, she could not tear herself away from the spot where she had reigned so long; she still had hope that the young queen would consent to receive her at court; she scarcely seemed to care upon what footing she was admitted, so long as she were allowed to join in the gaieties and festivities which were going on, almost beneath her very eye, and from which she felt it such a misfortune to be thus excluded.

“‘Her emotion was but momentary, however; for with the tears which the memory of the change in her situation had called up still in her eyes, she turned to my companion, and defied him to a game at _bilboquet_, declaring that she had, in former times, passed whole hours at this play with the king, who was passionately fond of it, but could never win when she was his adversary. D’Aiguillon readily consented, the _bilboquets_ were brought, and more wine was served. In spite of the noisy rattle of the balls, and the noisier laughter and loud disputing of the players, I fell asleep, nor did I awake until daylight. To my astonishment, I found the comtesse and her host as eager and busy in the childish game as when they first began—not a whit fatigued, and seemingly disposed to continue for some hours longer. D’Aiguillon was by this time totally incapable of understanding my meaning when I warned him that it was time to go; and I withdrew unobserved, resolving to return alone to Paris, leaving him to finish the adventure as best he could.

“‘Just as I reached the gate, I perceived the royal hunt dashing down the side of the hill, and was glad to conceal myself behind the wall until the _cortège_ had passed by, ashamed of being seen issuing from the dwelling of Madame Dubarri, although well aware that there was not one of those dainty courtiers, who now passed by with head averted and with eyes cast down, who had not thought it the greatest honour, but a short time before, to be admitted within the walls of that self-same Pavillon, which they seemed now to shun with such disdain. This circumstance would be too trifling to mention, were it not for the _moral_ it contains; finer, because _true_, than all those which flourish just above the vignette at the close of the “_Contes Moraux_” of Marmontel, or those “_dédiés à la Jeunesse_” by Madame de Genlis.’

“M. de Talleyrand paused, with that peculiar smile on his countenance which those who live in his intimacy, know so well, as being meant to fill the place of some satirical trait which he does not choose to utter at the time, but which is not wholly lost notwithstanding.

“‘Yes, this was the last time I ever beheld the Comtesse Dubarri, _ex-maîtresse en titre_. As for d’Aiguillon, so enchanted did he seem with his new acquaintance, that, from that day forward, he spent a great portion of his time at the Pavillon; and, when I rallied him upon the attraction which seemed so irresistible, and reminded him of Ninon de L’Enclos and Diane de Poitiers, he shrugged his shoulders, and answered me with the greatest coolness—“_Que voulez-vous, mon cher?_ where on earth could I go to get such exquisite Tokay as that which the old fool, King Casimir, sent as a present to Louis XIV.?” By this I judged, when his absences became less frequent, that the Tokay was drawing to a close, and when they ceased altogether, that it had totally disappeared. _Autre moralité!_ as dear old Perrault has it at the end of his fairy tales.’

“The prince paused again more thoughtfully, and added, ‘Alas! it makes one’s heart ache to remember the sad fate which befel both of those gay, light-hearted individuals. The one died upon the scaffold for having sold her jewels (the jewels she had shewn me with such pride as the gifts of poor dear “France”) to send the money which the sale produced to the _émigré noblesse_—that _noblesse_ who had treated her with such scorn—with such contempt! The other met a death more frightful still—the gay, the witty, the high-born d’Aiguillon fled to Holland, and perished there, they say, of misery and _starvation_!’

“This souvenir of Madame Dubarri,” said C., “forms one of the prince’s favourite _nouvelles de boudoir_, as he gracefully calls these fugitive anecdotes with which his memory is stored. I have observed that, from his youth upwards, his heart has ever softened towards the fair sex. I never heard him speak disparagingly of any woman, not even of those who, he is aware, have done him ill offices; while he is ever ready to allow that he owed much of his success in early life to the kindness and protection of his female friends. They alone had tact and penetration enough to discover the future influence of the Abbé de Perigord; while their ‘lords and masters’ beheld in him nothing more than the blind tool of an insane and furious party. Madame de Staël, who was his first conspicuous protectress, inspired, notwithstanding this, far less gratitude in the mind of her _protegé_ than the humble confederate with whom she leagued to obtain his pardon and recall, Madame de la Bouchardie. You will smile when I tell you, that even to this hour he cannot speak of this charming woman without emotion. I myself have heard his voice falter when he has mentioned her name. He loves to talk of her with those who still remember the matchless graces of her person, the exquisite sensibility and goodness of her heart.

“I shall never forget the reply he made one day to my foolish _banal_ question of ‘What kind of person was she?’

“‘You could no more understand what _kind_ of person she was,’ he replied, with a contemptuous smile, ‘than _I_ can comprehend the admiration you bestow upon the poor, vapid puppets with which your modern drawing-rooms are filled, or the influence you allow to the female _bourgeoise_, the wives and daughters of your bankers, and your _agents de change_, who, if admitted at all to the _salons_ of the aristocracy of my day, would not occupy, as they now do, the high places, but those afar off, nearest the door. Any endeavour to make you understand the peculiar fascination of Madame de la Bouchardie would be useless; for you, in your generation, cannot have seen the like. She belonged to that class of women that followed the downfall of the monarchy, whose manners and habits were far different from those of the charming marquises of the _ancien régime_, and were, perhaps, even more charming still. Born amid strife and contention, daughters of the revolution, their part was to calm excitement, to soothe the angry passions which had been aroused, and well did they fulfil their gentle destiny. History will preserve the names of Madame Beauharnais, of Madame Tallien, of Madame Hamelin, not so much for their talents and courage as for their gentleness and influence in turning aside wrath, and saving the weak from the fury of the strong.’

“It is pleasant to listen to the praises of this fair and gentle creature from the lips of M. de Talleyrand, mingled as they are with the expression of the gratitude which time has not yet diminished towards her. The only _romantic_ incident in the whole life of the prince is connected with Madame de la Bouchardie, and there lies, perhaps, the secret of the tenderness with which he remembers her; while the gratitude which he is _compelled_ to feel towards her proud rival, Madame de Staël, has left him cold and unimpassioned. The latter, who, by her own confession, envied the grace she could not imitate, was bound by the ties of friendship to Madame de la Bouchardie, and disdained not to make use of her influence when occasion required; and often was her _amour propre_ severely wounded to find that those in power, who had been proof against her own blandishments, yielded at once, with scarcely an effort at resistance, to the wondrous fascination of Madame de la Bouchardie. The comtesse occupied at that time a small hotel, not far from the site of the Bastille, and here she sought to live in retirement; but this was soon discovered to be no easy matter for one whose name had already been immortalized in some of the most glowing verses in the language, and her _salon_ soon became the rendezvous of all the wit and talent of the capital.

“The young General Buonaparte was one of her most ardent admirers; ’tis even said that she had precedence of Josephine Beauharnais in his affections. Her answer to his proposal of marriage is well known, and proves that she already felt a presentiment of his future greatness. ‘No, general, you will advance too far for one like myself, who loves to remain stationary.’

“Joseph Chénier, the poet, the dramatist, the ardent republican, had also laid his talents and his triumphs at her feet, and it was upon his influence that Madame de Staël had reckoned to obtain the recall from exile of M. de Talleyrand. It was a work of time and patience, and required all the power of the one, all the more powerful weakness of the other, to obtain even so much as a hearing for their bold demand. At length, the fair Eugénie had recourse to a graceful expedient, which had more effect than all the philosophical reasonings of her learned friend. It was the custom of Chénier to spend his evenings at the little Hôtel d’Esparda, and there, in the society of the comtesse and Corinne, after a day spent in toil and strife, amid the loud uproar of the tribune, or the furious declamation of the club, would he love to _retremper son âme_ and imbibe fresh inspiration for the composition of those splendid odes with which he has enriched our language. He was accompanied in these visits by his little dog, Stella, which had been a present from the comtesse, and knew her well. The little animal was in the habit of running on before her master to the hotel, where she would bark and scratch for the porter to open the gate, so that her master might not be kept waiting. Madame de la Bouchardie was aware of this, and, every evening, at the well-known signal which announced the approach of Chénier, she would seat herself at the harp and begin to sing the beautiful touching ballad of _Le Proscrit_. Her voice was most splendid, and she possessed great talent as a composer, having herself set to music many of those exquisite ballads written by Chénier’s brother, André.

“This was the sure way to reach the poet’s soul. She well knew that he stood without and listened to the end, not daring to enter while the fascination lasted. When at length the ballad was concluded, and Madame de la Bouchardie had risen from the instrument, she was sure to behold Chénier standing on the threshold, leaning against the doorway, with saddened countenance, and tears glistening in his eyes. It was then, while still beneath the spell of that heavenly strain, that he was greeted with the words, which must at such a moment have sunk deep into his heart: ‘Dear Joseph, what has been done to-day for M. de Talleyrand?’ For some time the devoted friends had to sustain discouraging refusals or embarrassed excuses on the part of Chénier, but the stern principles of the republican yielded at last to the generous perseverance of the comtesse, and one evening he was enabled to answer the accustomed question by the information that the Convention had consented to listen to the justification of citizen Maurice, and that he himself was appointed to plead the cause of the exile on the morrow. The whole evening was spent by the three friends in fixing what should be said, what arguments used, to move the pity of his listeners, most of whom were disposed against the measure which he was about to propose. The night passed away in the amicable discussion; so anxious were the trio not to lose a single advantage of argument which could be given in Chénier’s speech.

“The keen wit of Madame de Staël and the fiery energy of Chénier were for ever coming in contact, and causing the whole fabric of the poet’s intended _plaidoyer_ to fall to the ground, after it had been raised with so much care and pains. Sometimes the gentle spirit of Eugénie would suggest some conciliatory word which would flatter the irritable self-love of both her friends and soothe their wounded vanity, and again they would go on smoothly with their task until fresh cause of difference arose, and Eugénie was again appealed to. It was thus that, with these petty causes of delay, morning had arrived and no speech was prepared, and Chénier went forth to the tribune disheartened and discouraged at the unwonted sterility of his imagination, dreading, after all, that his own want of eloquence might cause the appeal in favour of M. de Talleyrand to be rejected by the assembly. He found the indefatigable friends already arrived, and waiting in the ante-room. Madame de Staël submitted to his judgment several new reasonings which had entered her mind since he had left her, but they found poor Chénier still cold and uninspired; and, as he turned to enter the _salle_ where the members of the Convention were fast assembling, he said, in despair, ‘Pray for me, for I need it; I fear that I shall have no success in this cause, though you have made it yours.’

“Madame de la Bouchardie approached and laid her hand upon his arm. She looked up into the face of the poet with a countenance bathed in tears. Chénier tried to tear himself away, but she still detained him, and, in a low, tremulous voice, fearful of being overheard by those beyond the door, she sang the opening couplet of the ballad which had first roused him to exertion for the sake of the exile. She saw by his heightened colour and his quivering lip that he was moved, and, as she proceeded with the song, her own emotion became more painful still. Just as she concluded, the bell, which summoned the assembly to silence and attention, was heard, and Chénier rushed into the hall with that powerful emotion still upon his soul. Before the last strain uttered by those sweet tones had died upon his ear, he had mounted the tribune, and without forethought, without preparation, gave utterance, in impassioned language, to one of the most brilliant appeals which had ever been pronounced before that stern, unpitying senate. Enthusiasm was roused; the motion, supported by Legendre and Boissy, was carried without a murmur, and citizen Maurice was declared free to return to France whenever it might suit his own pleasure. Madame de Staël, by her interest with Barras, certainly forwarded the measure, and she has reaped the fame, while Madame de la Bouchardie has gathered all the gratitude.

“The first visit of M. de Talleyrand on his arrival in Paris, was, of course, to Chénier, and it was agreed between them that they would proceed together that same evening to the little Hôtel d’Esparda, which no longer echoed with the prayers and lamentations of the two fair _solliciteuses_, but had once more resumed its tone of gaiety and _insouciance_ ever since the successful termination of their efforts in favour of their absent friend. Chénier entered the drawing-room alone, requesting M. de Talleyrand to remain for a moment in the shadow of the doorway. By a little artifice he led the conversation to the subject of the exile, and both Madame de Staël and her friend expressed anxiety and surprise that he had not yet arrived from Berlin. They complained of this delay, reproaching him with coldness and ingratitude in thus remaining so long in voluntary banishment.

“‘Were he to hear your ballad of the “Proscrit,” it would hurry his return,’ said Chénier to Madame de la Bouchardie, at the same time taking her by the hand, and leading her to the harp, and Eugénie, although declaring that the song was a _pièce de circonstance_ and out of date, yielded to his entreaty that she would sing it; and, finding inspiration in the remembrances which the music called up, she gave it with all the impassioned energy which had before roused the soul of her lover to pursue with such unwearied perseverance the cause he had himself at first condemned. While she was singing, M. de Talleyrand had drawn near unperceived, and when her hand fell to her side at the conclusion of the _ritournelle_, he seized it in a transport of delight, and imprinted on those fairy fingers a fervent kiss of gratitude. The loud shriek of surprise uttered by Madame de la Bouchardie roused Madame de Staël from the reverie into which the melody of the voice of her friend never failed to plunge her. In an instant, the arms of both ladies, with the true republican _sans gêne_ of the day, were around the neck of the happy ‘Proscrit,’ and while Madame de Staël expressed with fluency all the joy she felt at again beholding him, the Comtesse de la Bouchardie shed tears of happiness, more eloquent in their silence than all the florid declamations of her friend. It would enchant you to hear the prince describe that scene, the mixture of the burlesque and the pathetic which he can paint so well.”

“What became of Madame de la Bouchardie?” said I. “Her name is never mentioned in the annals of that time, and yet it seems difficult to suppose that she could have sunk so completely into obscurity as to have left no trace. The friend of Buonaparte and Talleyrand, the mistress of Chénier, the companion of Corinne, must of necessity have been a personage of note, not a mere _comparse_ to occupy the back of the stage.”

“Alas! you should not have asked me this,” said C., mournfully. “It seems as if a curse hung over all that was fair and virtuous at that stormy time. There is a tale connected with Madame de la Bouchardie, of such frightful injustice, of such base ingratitude, that it would harrow up your soul were I to tell it. At Chénier’s death, she went to live on her estate, but was brought back to Paris, some few years ago, a confirmed, incurable lunatic. When the prince seems overcome by sadness, and calls for his carriage before the hour at which he is accustomed to take his daily drive, I know almost by instinct that Dr. E. has been closeted with him for some time—and I can easily guess who has formed the melancholy subject of their conference.”