Chapter III

THE SALONS OF PARIS BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

“With Cerutti, Mirabeau, and the _Feuille Villageoise_, began for Talleyrand a new era, a fresh existence, outwardly, at least, for, after all, it was but the realization of the splendid dreams with which he had solaced his young ambition ever since that memorable day on which he had changed the dark blue broad cloth and bright buttons of the _joyeux collegien_ for the black serge soutane of the _séminariste_. I have often heard him declare, in his moments of _épanchement_, that, during the years of hardship and trial which followed the first brief triumph of the new ideas, while toiling for existence in America, or struggling to keep up a precarious position in Hamburg, he never once looked back with regret upon the splendour of his life as Bishop of Autun, surrounded by luxury and grandeur; he never murmured at the loss of wealth, the change of station; but what he should lament to the latest hour of existence is the decay of that _society_ in which he had been bred, which was lost in ’89 never to return, and which he, perhaps, by his peculiar tone of mind, was fitted more than any other man to enjoy. The events of ’89 divided his life into two epochs, so distinct, so far distant from each other, that it often seems to him, when looking back upon the past, that he has realized the old fable, and indeed lived and breathed during two separate periods, and enjoyed two lives, with all their individual hopes and fears, their several joys and sorrows, the triumphs and defeats peculiar to each.

“I have been much struck with some few observations of his upon the charm of the intellectual existence which he had enjoyed before the breaking up of the old system; he scarcely ever reverts to the Revolution without bestowing a regret upon the moral intercourse which it destroyed. He was even then sadly aware that the great changes he desired so much must of necessity bring others which he dreaded even more. Even then he was sometimes led to doubt whether the good which had been gained could ever compensate for that which had been forfeited. So impressed was he with this idea, that he was like the traveller, who, having arrived at the summit of the mountain, up whose flowery path he has been climbing so gaily, turns back to throw one wistful glance upon the country which he has left behind, with a sad presentiment that he shall not behold the like again. When he is in good humour at Valençay, he loves to linger in memory on that time, and I have known him remain whole days, and even weeks, absorbed in the past, disdaining the present, as unworthy of a good man’s interest or a wise man’s concern. It is then that his conversation is most interesting; and, after having spent a few hours in listening to those anecdotes which with him seem to _couler de source_, one might almost be led to fancy that one has been holding communion with the dead.

“I remember, on one occasion, to have felt a chill come over me upon hearing him begin an anecdote in these words. ‘I was one evening at Madame de Boissière’s, when who should enter but Madame Geoffrin’—Why, the very name is sufficient to bring back the whole of the eighteenth century, with its strange mixture of elegant _badinage_ and fierce philosophy, its motley crowd of rude encyclopedists and elegant _marquis à talons rouges_!

“Talleyrand had the good fortune to enter the world of fashion under the very best auspices. It was at the house of the Marquis de Brignolé, one Saturday evening in the year 1772, that he made his _début_ on leaving the _séminaire_. It was a memorable event in his life, of quite as great importance as any of those which have succeeded it, and he felt far more emotion upon this occasion than he did when, some thirty years later, he stepped forward to receive the key of _grand chambellan_, or the _portefeuille_ of the _affaires étrangères_. Can you not fancy him as he entered that old aristocratic saloon in his _petit collet_? (the coquettish distinction, now gone by, of the candidate for clerical honours.) He was a remarkably handsome youth, and his fresh complexion and long golden hair must have appeared to great advantage among the crowd of withered _savans_ in powdered wigs, with which the _salon_ was already filled. To hear him relate the adventures of this his first _soirée_ is like reading a page torn from some old memoir, and can seldom fail to inspire a feeling of interest almost akin to awe in the mind of the listener. He tells a story, too, with peculiar gusto, and seems to grow young again in the memory of the circumstances which marked his first appearance in society.

“Madame de Brignolé was one of the most witty clever women at that time in Paris, and held a peculiar position in society, from having had the address to shake off the trammels of caste and clique, and to avow herself the admirer of all that was admirable, whether it proceeded from this set or from that, from the daring _philosophe_ or shrinking _vrai-croyant_. She had thus succeeded in gathering together in harmony and good-will elements the most discordant in themselves, and which could be made to amalgamate nowhere save beneath her roof—Madame du Deffand and Madame Geoffrin, Voltaire and Jean Jacques.

“All agreed to consider her _salon_ as neutral ground, and to accept at her hands the flag of truce, which she held out to each with so much grace and affability. It happened that the reception wherein the young Abbé de Perigord made his first appearance was a particularly brilliant one, owing to the return of Baron Holbach, after a long absence from Paris. It was on this occasion that he made the acquaintance of the Chevalier de Boufflers, one of the leaders of fashion of the day, a specimen of the elegant _roué_, the _gredin de bonne compagnie_, who still maintained much of the power they had acquired. Their friendship commenced with a quarrel, and lasted through every change of circumstance until the death of Boufflers, which happened during the Restoration in 1815.

“It would delight you to hear the prince relate this story. He laughs even now at the boyish _espièglerie_, although expressing great contrition for the horrible pun which passion and circumstance wrung from him in the heat of the moment. It was his first, and he says it was his last also, although its great success might certainly have warranted many a repetition of the attempt. The young abbé had ensconced himself in a vacant seat, quite aloof from the rest of the company, being bent on observing all that passed, and caring not for a share in the conversation. He had not long been seated in this place when he was accosted by Philidor, the renowned chess-player, who, like himself, was a man of few words, and of most modest and retiring habits. He was an old _habitué_ of the house, and therefore a valuable neighbour for our young novice, and they soon fell into close and friendly conversation. D’Alembert was there, and Diderot, and many other of the bright particular stars of the day, and Philidor, with good-natured attention, pointed them out to the abbé, much diverted with the great interest the latter seemed to take in each illustrious individual, who swept past him on his way to lay his homage at the feet of the lady of the house. They had been some time conversing thus, when their retirement was invaded by two young officers, the one an hussar, the other belonging to the regiment of Royal Cravatte, poor Marie Antoinette’s favourite regiment, and the most insolent and saucy one in the whole service. They were evidently very deep in the enjoyment of some good story, for they were speaking low and laughing heartily.

“‘Let us get a seat down yonder against the wall,’ said the one to the other, ‘and I will tell you the rest of the joke. I should not like it to be overheard.’

“‘But I see no room,’ replied his companion; ‘there is Philidor down there talking to some unfledged blackbird from the _séminaire_.’

“‘No matter, we must have the place. Philidor will soon yield, and the abbé cannot hold out against us.’

“They advanced straight to where Philidor and his companion were seated, and, with an insolence which can hardly be understood in our day, but which it appears was quite the mark of high birth and fashion at that time, began to annoy, by their loud talking and rude behaviour, the occupants of the two seats which they coveted. Poor Philidor, whose meekness and patience were proverbial, soon became alarmed, and sounded a retreat at once without parley. He rose, with a frightened look at the abbé, and, remarking that the room was so insupportably hot that he was stifled, walked away on tip-toe, not even daring to cast a glance behind. The Chevalier de Boufflers, one of the _garnemens_, immediately seized the vacated chair, and sat upon it soldier-fashion, astride upon the seat, with his chin resting on the back, staring with effrontery at the young abbé, who, nothing daunted, remained quietly in the same position that he had maintained during the whole evening. He had overheard every word of the conversation which had passed between the two friends as they approached, and was determined not to move an inch. The Royal Cravatte stood beside the hussar, and the abbé was thus completely hemmed in, save on the side next the door, through which it was the evident intention of the two friends to make him soon vanish. Finding, however, their intention completely defeated by the cool manner with which it was received, the Royal Cravatte lost patience, and asked the abbé, with a sneer, if the heat of the place did not incommode him, at the same time advising him, with condescending kindness, to seek the refreshing coolness of the second _salon_, as his friend had already done at their approach. But the abbé answered with a bland politeness peculiar to his manner even then, thanking the officer for his attention, but assuring him that, being of a rather chilly nature, he preferred remaining in the warmer apartment. Royal Cravatte thereupon grew angry; he was a Cadet de Montigny, not long arrived from Normandy, and had not yet lost his miserable Norman drawl.

“‘_Dites donc, mon cher abbé_,’ said he. ‘Perhaps, as you are just born, you may not yet have been to school; you have yet to learn many things, Monsieur l’Abbé, among which—’ ‘Pardon me,’ interrupted the abbé, starting up, with heightened colour and with flashing eye, and mimicking the lengthened nasal twang of the officer, ‘I _have_ been to school, and have learnt my letters, and know that an _abbé_ (A B) is not made to _céder_ (C D), and ’tis not your _épée_ (E P) can make me _ôter_ (O T).’

“The loud voice and insolent gesture of the officer had caused a little knot of the assembled guests to gather round, and this sally was received with roars of laughter. Boufflers, who never could resist pleasantry, seemed more diverted than any one present; and, while the discomfited Royal Cravatte slunk among the company, unable to bear the mockery which the witty retort of the abbé had brought upon him, Boufflers shook him heartily by the hand, and applauded the jest with right good will.

“This is the very first _bon-mot_ of the prince upon record, and although he expresses himself heartily ashamed of its perpetration, yet it was the means of establishing his reputation as a person not to be slighted, one with whom it would be necessary to reckon before venturing on pleasantry. The story, of course, went round the _salon_, to the infinite delight of the _savans_, who were enchanted at witnessing the military insolence of the Royal Cravatte receive a check from a quarter whence it would have been so little expected. Rumour of the witticism soon reached the ears of Madame du Deffand, who instantly requested that the young abbé might be presented to her. It was the Chevalier de Boufflers himself who undertook the office, and, with a fluttering heart, young Talleyrand walked across the _salon_, and accosted the venerable lady, whose great fame for making reputations had reached even to the _séminaire_ from which he had just escaped. It was an awful moment of his life, and he describes it as one of the greatest emotion he has ever experienced.

“Madame du Deffand was at that time the oracle of the witty circles of Paris; her verdict was sufficient at once to make or mar the reputation of a man of wit; and it cannot be wondered at, therefore, if our young _séminariste_ approached with reverence the high fauteuil in which the lady sat, as it were enthroned, presiding over the assembly with undisputed sway, nor if the whole scene should have produced an impression upon his memory which time has not even yet been powerful enough to efface. Madame du Deffand was surrounded by a select circle of her chosen friends, the favourite few whom she honoured with especial notice; and in the midst there stood, beside her chair, a low stool, reserved for those with whom she wished to hold more private converse than could possibly be enjoyed with any member of the circle. It was to this seat that the Chevalier de Boufflers led the young Abbé de Perigord, who thus in a moment found himself the object of curiosity and criticism to the whole collection of _beaux-esprits_, who served as a kind of body-guard to their queen elect. The abbé was, however, at the moment, but little occupied with the effect which he might produce upon the company; his attention was entirely absorbed by Madame du Deffand herself; and if he _did_ experience a slight nervous agitation as he took his seat beside her, it was in dread of her all-powerful verdict alone.

“It was almost impossible to imagine a countenance of greater benignity than that of Madame du Deffand; she was a complete specimen, both in person and costume, of venerable beauty; and as the abbé gazed upon her, he _felt_ that there was no longer ridicule in the platonic love of Horace Walpole, or in the enthusiastic passion of her later admirers. She had been, as you are aware, totally blind for many years, and this infirmity, instead of being a disfigurement, as might be imagined, seemed to increase the mild placidity of her features almost to beatitude. At the moment of young Talleyrand’s approach, she was still under the influence of the delight which his boyish retort had inspired, and, as soon as he was seated, she bade him recount the story, which he was fain to do, and, aided by her encouragement and the applause of the circle, he told it with so much _verve_ and good-humour, that his success was complete. He was welcomed among the _coterie_ as a kindred spirit, and from that hour was considered an acquisition to that choice ‘circle.’ He was thus thrown at once into the midst of the society of _gens-de-lettres_ of that epoch, the most brilliant ever registered in the annals of the world. The schoolboy pun of Talleyrand is forgotten now—lost amid the more sterling wit of the many _bon-mots_ and trite aphorisms to which he has given utterance, and which have become popular in every country. Not so the _naïve_ exclamation of Madame du Deffand upon the occasion, when she learned the fright and sudden retreat of Philidor. ‘That man was born a _fool_,’ said she; ‘nothing but his _genius_ saves him!’

“It is by the multiplicity of anecdotes of this nature that the prince has the power of conveying the listener, at a single bound, back to the eighteenth century. The absence of all passion, or, what is more probable, the great command he has acquired over it, gives a greater interest to his recitals than any I have ever experienced while reading the best written memoirs. I have heard from another quarter of the judgment of the prince’s character pronounced by the blind woman on that very same evening, and which, if true, ought to stamp her fame as a physiognomist beyond compare. After having passed her hand slowly over the features of the young abbé, as was her wont when any stranger was presented to her notice, she exclaimed, ‘_Allez, jeune homme._ Nature has been lavish of her gifts, and your own foresight will render you independent of those of fortune.’

“The immense variety of pictures like the foregoing, which the prince can command at will from the storehouse of his memory, is almost incredible. No one seems to have understood so well as himself that stupendous epoch, the latter half of the eighteenth century, that glorious reign of intellect and reason, when, for the first time in the history of society, genius and talent were admitted to greater consideration than high birth or riches; when every passion—the love of pleasure—the love of power—even the love of the marvellous—had given place to the love of _truth_—sometimes the greatest of all marvels; when the old aristocracy, tottering with decay, seemed to call in weak and puny accents upon its robust successor, the aristocracy of letters, for succour in its hour of need, ‘Help us, or we perish!’ and was answered sturdily, ‘Be of us; or look to yourselves;’ when the high-born and the long-descended sought no more to _honour_ with patronage, but to _flatter_ by imitation, those whom their ancestors would have deemed of scarcely more importance than their lacqueys; when, to be admitted to the circle of Madame Geoffrin, or the _déjeuners_ of the Abbé Morellet, was a distinction more eagerly sought for than the admission into the royal circles had been during the preceding reign.

“This short pause before the revolution, which might be compared to the breathing time allowed to combatants, or rather to the cold shiver which precedes the raging fever, has been described by the prince as the most intoxicating period of his life. In this unprecedented mixture of society, he was viewed with favour by each and all. Whether as the nobleman of aristocratic descent, or the man of wit and talent, he was admitted into every circle, and perhaps was thus singular in his perfect acquaintance with them all. He, who has so little enthusiasm in his character, will sometimes grow quite enthusiastic when speaking of that time; and I have heard him exclaim with melancholy pride, ‘Could I, by forfeiting the memory of that brief space of light and glory, add thrice the number of years so spent to my existence _now_, I would not do it. I hold too dear even the privilege which I possess of exclaiming with Ovid, “_Vidi tantùm_,” and often mourn those days in the very words of old Brantôme: “Nothing is left of all that wit and gallantry, that vast expenditure (_folle dépense_) of bravery and chivalry. What good remains to _me_ of all this pomp? None—save _that I have seen it_!”’

“The greatest of all the regrets expressed by the prince is for the art of conversation, ‘_l’art de causer_,’ which, he declares, never flourished in any country save France, and has been lost even there ever since the revolution. He himself is perhaps the only individual left to tell us in what that ‘art’ consisted. Like every gift of the Muses, it seemed to shun the circles of the great, and to flourish best where reigned equality. The réunions of Madame Necker in Paris, when her husband was minister, were always stiff and embarrassed; her charming _déjeuners_ at St. Ouen, where all state and ceremony were laid aside, will be for ever celebrated in the annals of letters. The proper cultivation of the ‘art of conversation’ was dependent on the union of many circumstances, and success could not be relied on even by those who appeared in every way best qualified for the attempt. None could tell why it was that some succeeded thus while others failed—why the same wit which shone so brightly in one _salon_ was dull and frigid in another. D’Alembert declared that _he_ could find conversation but in one single _salon_ in Paris, that of Madame Suard, the wife of the celebrated translator and commentator of Hume and Robertson, of whom Boufflers said to M. de Talleyrand one day, ‘_She is the only pretty woman of my acquaintance with whom I have never been in love; and yet she is the woman I love best on earth_.’ A more delicate compliment to virtue than this was, perhaps, never paid. Diderot was most animated in the house of Madame Helvetius, and nursed his powers for her reception-days.

“Madame Geoffrin herself presided over her own _salon_ after the death of Fontenelle, who, for many years, deaf, purblind, and almost centenary, had thrown such lustre on her meetings, that foreigners of rank, and wealth, and talent, had crowded to Paris merely to be presented there; and such was the charm of the society into which they found themselves ushered, that many of them renounced their country to enjoy it without molestation. Buffon, who in ordinary intercourse was vulgar in the extreme (so at least says M. de Talleyrand, who knew him well), became sublime at Moulin-Joli, where Watelet the painter had the good luck to assemble all the wit and talent of the capital. Here it was that Buffon one day grew inspired, and recited whole chapters of his work without missing a single word, much to the astonishment of many of the strangers there, who thought that it was all improvisation. These intellectual _soirées_ of the _roture_ had succeeded in the guidance and government of ‘conversation’ to the _petits soupers_ of the _ancien régime_, but differed from them, inasmuch as the intellect alone was fed. The principle of equality had gone so far, that it was agreed among the _literati_ to avoid the tables of the rich, lest he who gave a good dinner should feel a right to direct the conversation.

“At most of these literary meetings, therefore, no set repast was to be found; the refreshments provided were but scanty and of the simplest kind. One single cup of coffee for each guest at Madame Suard’s, one single glass of punch (sometimes prepared by Franklin, though) at Madame Helvetius’s, formed the whole of the _menu_. Sobriety was considered indispensable to the clearness and steadiness of debate, and the intellect remained unthickened by eating and drinking. The Abbé Morellet alone had chosen to add music and feasting to the attraction of the conversation held at his house, and had done so with success. But the _déjeuners_ were exquisite, although slight. ‘_Eat a little and of little_’ was the abbé’s recommendation to his guests, and the music, that of Glück, was presided over by himself and executed by Mellico. The first representation of ‘Orphée’ took place at one of these _déjeuners_, the _romance_ of which had such an effect on Rousseau, that he almost fainted on hearing it, declaring that ‘It was music never to be heard at all, or listened to for ever.’

“There was but little jealousy at these different réunions; each came prepared to contribute to the general amusement, and to listen to the contributions of others. Every one was openly criticised and honestly applauded according to his merit. The barren fecundity of Parny could find admirers as well as the noble poetry of Delille. There was scarcely, indeed, a distinction of _coterie_, so nicely were the elements of this society blended. The only dissidence which existed was between Madame Geoffrin and the Abbé Morellet, in consequence of the preference of Jean Jacques Rousseau for the house of the latter. Madame Geoffrin had sought by every means in her power to conciliate the good-will and favour of Jean Jacques, but she was too fond of patronage. And to all her advances he had answered, in his surly language, ‘that he hated both benefits and benefactors.’

“The well-known _mot piquant_ of Madame Geoffrin upon the abbé’s guests, which she declared were composed of ‘_trompeurs_, _trompés_, _trompettes_,’ amply revenged her disappointment, but widened the breach between the rival camps.

“‘The chief delight of the abbé’s réunions,’ says M. de Talleyrand, ‘was the perfect equality which reigned there. The terror of any encroachment or assumption of superiority was so great, that Madame Suard, on being accused of allowing D’Alembert to act as _president_ of the society gathered at her house, by placing him on a higher _fauteuil_ than those occupied by the other guests, was obliged to _apologize_ for so doing, and to plead the ill health and weakened digestion of the philosopher, which compelled him to remain continually in an almost upright position.’

“‘Good Heavens! what a quantity of pattens!’ exclaimed, in a sneering tone, M. de Creutz, the Swedish ambassador, as he entered the ante-room at Madame du Deffand’s, where Madame Necker had undertaken to present him.

“‘So much the better,’ answered the lady, ‘they give us promise of good company.’

“It was in the frank reception of talent, no matter whence it emanated, wherein lay the secret charm of these _conversaziones_. No individual was excluded as a matter of course, none admitted as a matter of right.

“I remember being once much delighted with an argument which took place upon this very subject between the prince and one of the best writers of our own day, who has since risen to greatness and power by the assistance of his pen alone. The latter maintained that a greater knowledge of mankind was to be obtained by the study of well-written books, than could be acquired even by personal experience. The prince, in reply, gave utterance to some of the most beautiful and original thoughts which I have ever heard him express.

“‘Tell me not of books,’ said he, good-humouredly, ‘they never can contain the _natural_ impressions of the writer. They can express neither surprise nor fear—the very anger which they convey has been all premeditated. Tell me not of books—they are “composed” by men, and are even greater hypocrites than they. The history of every age would be found with far greater truth in the history of its conversations (_causeries_) than in the most brilliant of its literary productions. Few men write, all converse; authors have copied each other both in style and sentiment ever since the world began, but the _causeur_ is himself, and speaks as he feels and thinks. The old axiom, _verba volant_, is a great evil, but the addition to the proverb, _scripta manent_, is a greater still. You, who are preparing to write the history of one of the greatest struggles which ever took place in the annals of the universe, would do well to study the history of the conversations of the generations preceding; you will find there the preconception of many an event which falsely seems to have occurred spontaneously, and which overwhelms us with wonder at its apparent rashness. Even Louis Quatorze, whose Bastille yawned so greedily for those who dared to _write_ a syllable against the justice of his measures, was known to wince beneath the lash of the witty _causeurs_ of his day; he felt that he was powerless against their attacks, and was compelled to flatter and to pardon, as Richelieu, that greater tyrant still, had been forced to do before him. He was too clever to affect to despise their ridicule, and trembled, lest resenting it might expose him to further stings.’

“‘These witlings are as troublesome as summer-flies,’ said the magnificent monarch one day to Colbert, who had reported to him an epigram which he had heard in the _salon_ of Madame Cornuel.

“‘Yes, sire, _and just as unconquerable_,’ replied Colbert.

“‘To which remark the greatest sovereign of the world could only answer with a sigh of mortified conviction. Not a privilege was granted during the reign, not a decree was passed, which had not first been debated in the circles of fashion, with as much bitterness and energy as it afterwards created in the royal council chamber. The memoirs of the time, the letters of Madame de Sevigné, bear ample evidence of this. The regent who succeeded, was himself of a spirit too near akin to the intrepid _causeurs_ of his reign to visit them with severity. He laughed with them and at them, while his harshness to those writers who displeased him was even greater than that of his predecessor. Louis Quinze encouraged not the persecution of authors, but loved to listen to the daily report of the “conversations” which took place, not only among the court circles, but even down to those of the lowest _bourgeoisie_. Madame de Pompadour complains bitterly, in one of her letters, of this extraordinary apathy concerning the libels which were published both against herself and him. “He cares not for what is written, only for what is said,” exclaimed she, “as if any consideration could restrain the tongues of ungrateful courtiers.”

“‘The author of the gross epigram upon Marshal Saxe was suffered to go scot-free, while the poor parrot who recited it at Madame de la Vaillière’s for the amusement of the company, was punished with the Bastille for life. Now compare all these _causeries_ and their results to the _conversations_ of the eighteenth century, and their gigantic issue—the great revolution. The displacing of a minister—the puerile questions of religious form—the end and aim of Télémaque—these were the kind of questions which had formed the subjects of debate during the reign of Louis Quatorze. The acrimony with which they were discussed, and the genius and passion which were displayed in the disputes to which they gave rise, sometimes went far enough to alarm the throne, without creating the slightest interest in the minds of the people.

“‘How different the consequences of that single remark, made in the midst of a gay and laughing _coterie_, soon after the accession of Louis Seize, when everything promised security and happiness, prosperity within and peace without, when not a single indication of the distant tempest had as yet appeared; and the old nobleman asked, in jeering pleasantry, of his son, who was speaking of the power of the law—“And pray, young man, will you tell me what _is_ the law?” and was answered by the young man with sudden inspiration, “The law is the expression of the general will!” The axiom has since been repeated to satiety, and has formed the text and basis of the grandest arguments of the revolutionary orators, but few know that it was first pronounced in the manner I have described. I found the whole account of this “conversation” in a letter among my uncle’s papers, in which the writer, who was present when it occurred, gives also the description of the high disputes which the remark created, after the first moment of silence with which it was received—the silence of conviction in the young, the silence of disapproval in the old—had passed away. This maxim, which, dropped thus at random, buried like the acorn, not forgotten, and which brought forth such goodly fruit in its due time and season, is another proof of the tremendous power of our _soi-disant_ “gay and frivolous” CONVERSATION.’”