Chapter IV (1)

TALLEYRAND’S BOUDOIR—PORTRAITS—MADAME DE BRIONNE—MADAME DE
FLAHAUT—A GAMBLING SCENE—THE CHEVALIER DE FENELON—MADAME
GRANDT—PRINCESS TALLEYRAND.

On the morning after the conversation on the art of conversing, which I have just transcribed, I happened to find myself for some little time alone with C. in the prince’s dressing-room. I had been summoned to the sanctum by M. de Talleyrand himself, who had received letters from England by that day’s post, in answering which my English might, he thought, be turned to account. I had obeyed the message with the greatest pleasure, as C. had already informed me that admission to his boudoir at the hour of his toilet was an honour sought by many, and accorded but to few. In this exclusion he was most rigid, and he reserved the admission as a _distinction_, refusing to yield it as a right even to his most intimate friends. It was perhaps well that he did so, for, by a singular inconsistency, he who has been so often reproached with prudence and caution, was at this moment unguarded and unsuspicious as a child. As I had, according to the etiquette of the place, forestalled by some little time the precise moment fixed by the prince for our rendezvous, I profited by the vacant time to examine attentively the furniture and ornaments of this favourite retreat of the diplomatist, wherein perhaps the peace or discord of European states had been at various times planned and promoted.

It was a light and cheerful apartment, looking out into the fosses surrounding the château, which, at that season of the year, were all gay with verdure and flowering shrubs; then far away the view extended over the park, at the end of which the dark forest encircles the landscape with a belt of sombre hue, and shuts out the distant horizon. The room contained but little furniture, and that all of the antique cast, in use at the time of the Empire, hard and angular, stiff and naked. The large leathern chair for the prince, which stood in the centre of the room beside an old-fashioned dressing-table, upon which were already spread the divers utensils for his approaching toilet, although giving my _English_ prejudices a slight _inquietude_, yet awoke certain pleasurable reminiscences of the court of Louis Seize and the _toilette du matin_ of the beaux and _muscadins_ of ’89. Near these stood a mahogany bureau, upon which his secretary wrote while the prince dictated the correspondence even amid the elaborate manœuvres of two valets-de-chambre, which kept him for the moment in a state of discomfort and subjection.

The walls were hung round with portraits. C. told me that they were, without exception, those of _friends_, and I examined the collection with the greatest interest. They were arranged without any attempt at order, neither by age nor date, merely according to the shape of the frame, and the size of the panel, and it was curious to observe the confusion to which such an arrangement had given rise; Alexander the autocrat and Mirabeau the democrat hung side by side, while Fréron and Voltaire gazed at each other with that peculiar smirk which has been so happily denominated the “painter’s smile.” I was struck with the vast number of female portraits, of all ages and denominations, which met the eye; there was a beautiful crayon drawing of Madame de Genlis with her harp, and another of Madame de Staël with her book and pencil, and a full-length painting of Madame Roland hung opposite to one of Madame de Lamballe. I glanced over the collection with most intense interest; it was the romantic chapter of the life of M. de Talleyrand, one with which diplomacy and politics had nought to do. “How I should love you to tell me the history of the individuals whose representations are assembled here,” said I to C., who was watching me as I walked leisurely round; “what admirable illustrations to your ‘Vie Anecdotique’ they would furnish!”

“Indeed,” returned my friend, “the ‘Vie Anecdotique’ would scarcely be complete without them. As I have already told you, M. de Talleyrand, from his earliest youth, has relied upon the support and patronage of women. There is scarcely one of these ladies who has not played some part in the advancement of his fortune. You might follow the epochs of his life by the title and social position of his patronesses. You smile; but it is even so. No _English_ mind can ever be made to comprehend the sort of _liaison_ which sometimes exists between persons of different sex in France. It is of every kind of friendship the most pure and disinterested; _love_ is seldom generated by these attachments; that sentiment would on the one side tend to mar the devotion, and on the other, render the feeling liable to the changes and chances of caprice. I could call to mind numberless examples of this species of allegiance, which, having begun in youth, have continued unto old age with the same confidence, the same self-sacrifice. Come hither; you will find an apt illustration of my meaning.”

He led me to a portrait placed in the shadow of the chimney. “This was the first friend of M. de Talleyrand, when he was a youth just let loose from the _séminaire_, and she whom this picture represents was a woman already advancing to maturity. Surely we cannot suspect the existence of love _there_. This lady, whose name was so long associated with every early success of the prince, when he was still Abbé de Perigord, was the celebrated Comtesse de Brionne, the mother of the unfortunate Princess de Lamballe, and grandmother of the present King of Sardinia. She was the first to distinguish the merit of the young abbé, and by her influence to maintain him in his position in spite of the dislike manifested towards him by the court of Marie Antoinette. Even lately I heard him speak of her in terms of intense gratitude and affection; and his voice, usually so deep and grave, faltered as he recounted to me the story of her death. She was among the first emigrants after the breaking out of the revolution, and retired to the Austrian dominions, having, by permission of the emperor, assumed the title of Princess of Lorraine. There she lived in poverty and obscurity for some years, resisting every effort made by M. de Talleyrand to obtain forgiveness for what she deemed his _crime_ in having deserted his caste and renounced his profession, to adopt the principles of the revolution.

“Among the little circle of devoted friends who had gathered round her in her exile, the conduct of M. de Talleyrand was frequently the subject of conversation, and she has been heard to declare that his defalcation had given her more pain than many sorrows which ought to have touched her more nearly. In the year 1805, when M. de Talleyrand, then in the zenith of his favour with Napoleon, accompanied the latter on his famous tour of ‘mediation’ into Austria, he repaired to the little town of Linz, where the princess had chosen her retreat, expressly to obtain an interview, with the hope of soothing her into forgetfulness of his errors. The letter which he despatched from the inn where he alighted, was a model of grace and politeness. He had recalled in its composition all the half-forgotten traditions of courtesy and high breeding which he had learned in her school. He had flattered her by every expression of gratitude for former favours, appealed to the memory of bygone days, and announced his intention of personally waiting upon her for the answer on the morning following, unless he received a summons to appear before her that same evening.

“No answer came that night, and accordingly, about twelve on the day following, the prince set forth from the little inn where he had alighted, to gain the small château, situated a short league from the town, where the princess resided, full of doubt, and already somewhat disappointed at not having received, in reply to his letter, even so much as a cold permission to present himself before her. He had attired himself in a costume which should recall to her mind as much as possible the period of their first acquaintance, having carefully laid aside every token of the rank which he held at the court of the usurper, resolving that nothing in his person or demeanour should shock the taste and feelings of his friend. He has often owned to me that his heart beat with such violence as he drew near the château which the guide pointed out to him as that occupied by the princess, that he felt half inclined to turn back, and to leave his errand unaccomplished until he had received some token of the oblivion of his errors, which he had been at so much pains to seek.

“At length, the carriage stopped before the gate of a ruinous-looking building, which stood on the brow of the hill outside the town. M. de Talleyrand alighted, and walked up to the iron gate which looked into the forecourt, for he thought it might appear more discreet and in better taste to avoid every semblance of state and ceremony. He wished to bring to her mind the Abbé de Perigord alone, and hoped she might forget what he had become since then. The whole place wore a wild and desolate aspect, and the silence alarmed him. Not a soul was stirring about the premises, and what was still more extraordinary, was the circumstance of the shutters being all closed, although it was bright noon-day.

“He pulled the bell with a violent effort, and it sent forth that hollow, melancholy sound which is so peculiar to a deserted building. The summons was answered by an old portress, who hobbled to the gate with lagging pace, and eyes red and swollen with weeping, while, close at her heels, followed the old dog, whom he recognised on the instant as old Vaillant, who used to run so joyously down the steps of the _perron_ to meet him when he entered the courtyard of the hotel of Madame de Brionne in Paris. But the animal knew him no longer, for he barked and growled with savage fury at every token of recognition, and the woman only sobbed the louder in answer to his inquiries.

“‘The princess was _gone_!’ she said. ‘She had departed but a few hours before. She had left the château with all her retinue, and she feared that her highness would never return!’ M. de Talleyrand has described the pang of that moment as being one of the most bitter that he has ever experienced throughout his whole life; and he remained for an instant silent from emotion. The woman drew from her pocket a letter which she said was to be delivered to the gentleman who had written from Linz on the evening before, and who was to call for the answer. The prince took it in silence, not daring even to gaze upon its contents until alone. He re-entered the carriage, and drove towards the town, and it was not until the château was lost to sight, and the barking of old Vaillant was heard no more, that he mustered courage sufficient to break the seal and open the envelope.

“It contained nought but his own letter—not a word, not a syllable in explanation. He turned to the superscription, and then no longer felt astonishment. It was addressed to the ‘_Prince de Benevent, Ministre de Napoleon, Empereur des Français_.’ Every word was underlined; the meaning was clear. Such a person was unknown to the Princesse de Lorraine! In spite of her advanced age and feeble health—in spite of the assurance of protection which Napoleon had vouchsafed to her on his approach, she had fled from the place rather than meet him who had deceived all her hopes, and fallen so low (to use her own expression) as ‘to serve as footstool to enable the usurper to sit more at his ease upon the throne of the Bourbons.’ She returned no more to Linz even after the departure of Napoleon, but fixed her residence at Presburg; and when M. de Talleyrand repaired to Vienna to assist at the famous Congress of 1814, his friendship made him forget his former repulse, and once more did he solicit more humbly, more passionately than before, for pardon and reconciliation. This time the appeal was not in vain; he had returned to the good and righteous cause; he had once more re-entered the _voie sacrée_, and she answered him in her own hand, and by return of courier, bidding him use all despatch, as ‘the moments now were numbered.’

“No sooner did the missive reach him, than he set out from Vienna without a moment’s delay, travelling night and day, until he reached Presburg. It was just at the grey peep of dawn when he traversed the streets of that ancient city, but yet he resolved to drive at once, prompted by one of those singular presentiments to which through life he has always listened, to the old palace which the princess now inhabited.

“How different was his reception from that he had experienced at Linz! Even at this early hour, servants were standing round the gate; and as soon as his carriage, with the broad rattling wheels and jingling bells, had turned the corner of the street, the gates were thrown open wide, and the carriage entered at once, without impediment. It was evident that he had been expected with impatience, for he was received in silence, as if there had been no time to waste in idle greeting. The old servants whom he remembered did not speak out their welcome, but merely bowed in acknowledgment of his kindly recognition, and hurried him without announcement and without ceremony to the chamber of their mistress.

“It was not until he stood upon the threshold of that silent chamber and viewed the scene within, that the truth flashed upon his mind—then the reason of the expectation and the silent greeting, of the haste in which he had been ushered into her presence, became evident at once, and he tottered forward to the bed, and fell upon his knees by the side of the priest, whose muttered prayer filled the room with a low mysterious murmur. Madame de Brionne was dying; her eyes were already closed, and her fingers were already relaxing their grasp of the rosary which lay outside the bed. It seemed as if the repose of death had already stolen over her, when suddenly, as if a supernatural instinct had warned her of the entrance of M. de Talleyrand, she started up, and gazed at him fixedly; then said, with a sweet, sad smile of affection, as she stretched forth her hand towards him, ‘Ah, Monsieur de Perigord, _you alone_ can tell how dearly I have loved you!’ She sighed deeply, sank back upon the pillow, and before his lips had ceased their pressure upon her outstretched hand, it lay powerless and dead within his own! She had died while the words of tenderness with which she had greeted him were yet upon her lips, and while that smile of recognition yet lingered on her placid countenance. And when M. de Talleyrand rose from that bedside, her form was already straightened beneath the coverlet; the tapers were already lighted round the bed, and the sheet was thrown over her face, concealing it from view, so that he beheld it no more!

“I have always considered this event as one of the most touching episodes in M. de Talleyrand’s life. I have heard him speak of Madame de Brionne in terms of the highest veneration, as a woman of the most exalted virtue, and one of the grandest souls he had ever met with, well fitted by nature to be that which fortune had made her—the sister and mother of kings and princes—and there is, perhaps, a little remorse mingled with the regret with which he laments the loss of her society during so many years. Her advice had guided and sustained his youth; it might, perhaps, have aided him in his maturer age; and, while he was at the height of his power and influence during the empire, he has often surprised, in his own mind, a slight feeling of uneasiness respecting the sentiment with which Madame de Brionne would peruse the journals wherein his name was mentioned in connexion with that of the emperor. I think that the tie which bound him to Madame de Brionne must have been the only one by which he suffered his soul to be held captive. In other cases, he withstood the influence; in this one alone did he submit to it, perhaps, in fact, scarcely conscious of his slavery.

“The next link in these voluntary bonds was that woven by beauty and talent combined. Young as he was, he was already too old to be captivated by wit _alone_. The _liaison_ to which I now refer has made much noise in the world, and were I attempting to represent the prince, not as he really is, but as I should wish to find him, I might gloss over the one spot of this kind which has darkened his career, or endeavour to wipe off the reproach which he has incurred; but I will give you the facts as they really were, leaving you to make your own comments.

“It would appear that, contrary to the usual theory, the fascination entered neither by the eye nor by the ear; it was the result of fanatical admiration of his great powers of mind. This lady was married, at the age of fifteen, to the Count de Flahaut, who was fifty-eight. With the steady, uncompromising morality of your English principles, you will, perhaps, be startled at the coolness with which I mention this; but surely there is some excuse in this unjustifiable union, and the unstability of principle at the time, and it is unfair to separate crime and error from the institutions from which they have arisen. It was not till after the death of her husband, who perished on the scaffold in ’92, that she became acquainted with M. de Talleyrand, having been in active correspondence with him during the whole period of his exile, and having saved him, by her timely information of the state of feelings and parties in Paris, from acting with precipitation, and from yielding to the treacherous invitations of false friends, who advised his return to certain destruction. He had received, for many months, regular intimation of all that was passing in the capital. At first he had paid but small attention to these anonymous epistles, but, by degrees, as he beheld the realization of all the previsions put forth by the unknown writer, he took confidence, and resolved to abide by the counsels expressed in the mysterious letters, and so blindly did he rely upon the correctness of the information contained therein, that, being twice upon the point of re-crossing the channel, he twice deferred the step in obedience to the advice of his anonymous friend, and each time had cause of rejoicing that he had thus acted.

“Madame Champion, at that time, like himself, an exile in London, was his only confidante in this affair, and to her alone did he communicate his embarrassment touching the author of the correspondence. I have spoken to you before about the singular fatality which has sometimes attended upon the steps of M. de Talleyrand, and which must be attributable to his surprising memory and great powers of observation. In this instance did he once more experience its influence, and by its aid alone, I have often heard him declare, did he discover the name and station of his benefactor.

“He had one day been speaking with Madame Champion upon the subject, and in his perplexity was enumerating the relations whose affection could be likely thus to render them vigilant and clear-sighted; she had called over successively every degree of relationship—aunt, uncle, cousin, brother. But to every new suggestion, M. de Talleyrand discovered some well-founded objection, until, at last, Madame Champion cried, laughingly, ‘Well, it is evident, then, you have, as in the good old fairy tales, some wise and powerful _Marraine_.’ M. de Talleyrand shook his head. ‘Alas, Madame, neither _Marraine_ nor _Filleul_,’ returned he, quoting from Beaumarchais’s ‘Figaro,’ and the subject dropped.

“It was soon after this that the unknown friend advised his return to Paris, and, as he had hitherto found benefit in following the counsels thus conveyed, he hesitated not in this instance. Upon his arrival in the capital, he found everything in the state in which he had been led to expect it, and his greeting was such as to make him rejoice that he had not lingered in the execution of the step suggested by his well-wisher. After this, he was indefatigable in his researches. He kept the adventure no secret, but told it in every circle he frequented; hoping thereby to obtain some clue to the discovery of his benefactor. He felt sure that the letters were written by a female, not from the handwriting, nor from any peculiar refinement of style, but from the singular mixture of boldness and timidity which was evident in every line. The deep interest expressed for his safety, and yet the kind of awkward fear lest this interest should be exaggerated in the mind of the reader; in short, whether it was that the conviction of M. de Talleyrand led him to believe that such disinterested sentiment could emanate from none but a woman, I know not, but it is certain that never did his suspicion light on an individual of the other sex, while, from the very moment of his return to Paris, did he begin to look around among the women of his acquaintance, and to fix suspicion upon each, until further research displayed the futility of his surmises.

“He had already been for some time at Paris without being able to obtain a clue whereby to form any probable conjectures upon the subject, when, one evening, being by chance at a _soirée_ given by Barras, his attention was attracted to a young lady whom he had at first observed with that languid indifference with which one is too apt to survey a stranger, where there is nothing in particular to arrest the attention. M. de Talleyrand had been standing, half hid by a curtain, in a recess of one of the windows, talking to Count Réal, and the lady had left her seat at the further end of the room, to take one close beside him. He had paid but slight attention to this circumstance, and after the departure of Réal, went to join the group of talkers assembled in the doorway.

“He had not been here many moments, before he observed the same pale lady in deep black move stealthily from the place which she had occupied, and where she had been listening with glistening eyes and heaving bosom to the various questions of interest which he had been debating, and again seat herself close to his side. M. de Talleyrand, struck with the pertinacity with which she seemed to follow his movements, was naturally led to examine her with more attention. She was of small stature, and delicate in feature, with eyes of most peculiar lustre, and the sable weeds in which she was attired added to the interest inspired by her youth and pallid countenance. ‘Who is that lady?’ asked M. de Talleyrand, abruptly, of the person with whom he was conversing. The lady blushed deep as scarlet. It was evident that she had heard the question. ‘She is the widow of the Count de Flahaut,’ was the reply; but it conveyed no association to the memory of M. de Talleyrand, and he shook his head, endeavouring to recall to mind the name at the old court, when suddenly his informant continued, ‘You surely must remember her marriage? It is not so very long ago. She was a Demoiselle _Filleul_, a name of no importance—second-rate provincial _hobereaux_.’

“The word acted like magic upon the whole nervous system of M. de Talleyrand. By some unaccountable chain of thought, the laughing observation of Madame Champion recurred to his mind, and he inquired more fully concerning the lady. Everything he heard tended to confirm the idea which had so strangely taken possession of his mind with regard to her identity with his unknown protector. His first step, of course, was to get himself presented to her. And how could he, with his tact and observation, fail to perceive the strong emotion visible in her manner of acknowledging his attentions, and the faltering, unsteady voice in which she answered his seemingly careless, though strictly polite address? He steadfastly avoided, however, in this first interview, any allusion to his journey to London or to his return—he was fearful of creating embarrassment—fearful of exciting alarm or suspicion of his real motive for seeking her acquaintance, and he was aware of the necessity for prudence and discretion. He despatched a note the next morning to inquire at what hour he might be permitted to present himself at the lady’s house. This was done designedly.

“The handwriting of the few lines of cold politeness which he received in answer, confirmed at once the bold hope he had entertained; and he hurried to the appointment, with what feelings of tenderness and gratitude may well be imagined. In all the conversations which I have held with him upon the subject, he has never been led into betraying the particulars of this interview—no one can tell how he first broke to the lady the discovery he had made, nor how she received his warm and trembling thanks; but from that hour her spirit had found its master, and bowed to his own, held captive and enslaved.

“The faith and devotion of the fair young countess, were never belied through the long years of trial and vicissitude which followed, and instances are recorded of her risking hopes of fame and fortune, nay, her very life itself, to aid the prince in the struggle against destiny which he had so bravely undertaken. She twice made the journey to England alone, without protection, going round by way of Holland, to serve him; and when, by the sale of her first novel in England, she had realized a small sum of money, it was shared with him, who, she declared to the latest hour of her life, had more right to it than she herself, for he it was who had caused her to exercise the talent which Heaven had bestowed, and the existence of which she would never have known had it not been for the taste and cultivation which he had imparted.

“Their double marriage was a double error, which has never been satisfactorily accounted for, and which must remain a secret. In the case of the lady it brought rank and affluence, but neither ease of mind nor happiness, while in that of the prince, which _followed_ soon after, the consequences were humiliation and disappointment.”

“Oh!” said I, “you must surely have something to tell me concerning the marriage of the prince? That is one of the greatest events of his life, and one which has puzzled his biographers more than his most ambiguous proceedings.”

“The world has been unjust to Madame de Talleyrand,” replied C. “I knew her for many years, and she was far from being the fool which it has pleased the public to consider her. M. de Talleyrand himself, amid all his good-humoured quotations of her _bêtise_, or absence of mind, cannot help pausing to commend the great tact and admirable _esprit de conduite_ which made her, during those years when he was in high office under Napoleon’s government, an invaluable aid and ally by the manner in which she practised that most difficult art, so highly prized by the French, _l’art de tenir son salon_. This, to a man of M. de Talleyrand’s tastes, might be of much more importance than the _bon mots_ of Madame de Staël, or the stately dignity of Madame Recamier. Look at yonder portrait by the side of the window, and you can judge of the beauty which had power to fascinate a man so _difficile_ and _blasé_ as M. de Talleyrand.”

C. drew aside the blue silk curtain which shaded the casement, in order to throw a full light upon the picture of which he spoke, and I was positively startled at the heavenly beauty of the countenance thus disclosed. It was indeed lovely, and I felt at once that no further explanation was necessary to account for the step which had excited so much astonishment and so much condemnation.

“However, many reasons did exist more worthy both of M. de Talleyrand himself and of the object of his choice; and in spite of all that has gone abroad respecting his caprice, I have ever found that those who had known her longest, loved her most. I have myself heard M. de Talleyrand recount the story of their first meeting, which he did with most exquisite relish, smacking strongly of the good old times of Lauzun and Richelieu, and not a whit the less amusing for all that. It was one of the most memorable evenings in the whole private life of Monsieur de Talleyrand. He had been attending the debates of the Manège, and, harassed and wearied with the vast farrago of nonsense which he had heard poured forth for so many hours, was returning home with the intention of going early to bed, when, in the middle of the street, his arm was seized by one of his old associates, the Chevalier de Fénélon, who, according to custom, was hurrying to the faro-table, and who pressed M. de Talleyrand to join him, declaring that he had spent the day in combinations and calculations to ensure winning, and that he was convinced that if he could only put them to the proof that very night, he was _en veine_ to break every faro bank in Paris. It needed but little persuasion perhaps to induce M. de Talleyrand, in the frame of mind in which he then was, to yield to the temptation, and he followed the chevalier with no feeling save that of curiosity, never intending to play himself that night, but to act merely as spectator of the wondrous success of his companion. The house chosen by the latter as theatre of his anticipated exploits was the _tripot_ in the Palais Royal, known even then as the famous ‘_Cent Treize_.’

“Fénélon, whose reliance on his own resources was proverbial, seated himself at the long roulette table with perfect ease and confidence, while M. de Talleyrand, who knew the deplorable state of his friend’s finances at the time, stood behind him, trembling for his fate, and watching with anxiety every roll of the balls, every slide of the shovel. One—two—three passes had been played, however, and the chevalier, according to his own anticipation, won on, consulting at each call from the croupier the slip of paper which he held in his hand, and upon which were scrawled his calculations concerning the chances of the game. This success did not at first attract any extraordinary attention. Examples of luck in the outset were but too common; but when hit after hit was made, and still the chance remained the same, whispers began to float around the table that all was not fair and as it should be. The chevalier heeded not the effect that his extraordinary run of luck had produced, but continued in silence to sweep the gold into a heap before him, regarding perhaps with an undue share of that malicious enjoyment in which it was his wont to indulge, the astonishment and discomfiture of his opponents.

“It was evident that this state of things could not last long; the murmurs of the players, the manifest terror of the bankers, were beginning to disturb the game, when presently one of the croupiers came between the friends, and with pale and trembling lips whispered in the ear of the winner a few words which made him start. A warm conversation, still in the same mysterious whisper, was for a few moments carried on between them; and finally, after various signs of supplication on the part of the croupier, and of doubt and hesitation on the part of the chevalier, it was announced to the assembled players that M. de Fénélon would retire from the contest upon payment of the sum still left in the bank, which could be subscribed among them, and thus diminish the loss to each so as to be scarcely felt by any.

“This singular proposition, unheard of in the annals of the gaming-table, was received with the most profound indignation and astonishment on the part of the losers, but Fénélon himself undertook to prove that they could not lose, but must be the gainers, as his _reine_ would most assuredly break the bank at the next roll of the balls. After some few uncouth exclamations on the part of the gentlemen, and a little pouting on the part of the ladies, the matter was carried. Fénélon was ‘paid off’ by a subscription, and dismissed with many a muttered curse from the honest and reputable assembly.

“Upon leaving the gaming-house, the chevalier’s joy became uproarious, and he trod the silent streets, reeling with laughter at the whimsical trick which Dame Fortune had condescended to play him. He chinked the gold in his pockets until it rang again, and made his companion dread lest the sound should be overheard by any of those nocturnal marauders with whom the streets of Paris at that time abounded. He even threw a handful of the coin down the grating of a cellar, for the sake of wondering what the occupants of the miserable hole would think of such good luck when they should awake the next morning. M. de Talleyrand, who never could endure any kind of midnight brawling, was right glad when they had reached the residence of his friend, and wished him good night with hearty good-will, content to be rid of his uncouth laughter and joyless gaiety.

“But Fénélon was not at all disposed to acquiesce in his friend’s desire for rest and quiet. The excess of good fortune had wrought the same effect as an excess of wine. He was as much excited as though he had been drinking the whole night; and when it came to the parting at his own door, he would not hear of M. de Talleyrand’s returning without recruiting his strength for the remainder of his walk by a libation in honour of the propitious fates. Had it been daylight, he would have immediately laid out the whole of his winnings in some wild and fanciful gala to his friends. M. de Talleyrand needed some little pressing to enter. He was tired and sleepy; giddy, too, with the noise and rattle of his companion, and longed to be at home and to be at rest. However, there was no resistance possible, and before he could even form an excuse for retiring, he found himself comfortably seated in the _roué’s_ own private sanctum, whither few of his sex, and certainly none of his calling, had ever penetrated before. Champagne was now called for; the rouleaux were displayed in piles upon the table; every taper in the girandoles was lighted; a roaring fire was soon kindled on the hearth; the clock on the mantelpiece, which marked two, was stopped by a jerk from the chevalier’s finger; and the cards were brought from the drawer of a book-case in the corner of the chimney.

“M. de Talleyrand was but little prepared for the excitement of cards; the very sight of them was sickening, after the long hours spent at the _tripot_, and he at once declined the game, expressing his intention of withdrawing without further delay, as he had much business to transact in the morning. But Fénélon laughed, as well he might, for none ever escaped who had once fallen into his clutches, and he filled the glasses with champagne, all the while sorting and dealing the cards for piquet, as if his friend had not uttered a word; then looked at his game, called out “seven for a point,” and tossed off a bumper, while he waited for the answer. This _sang-froid_ was irresistible. M. de Talleyrand, although grumbling at his own fatigue and the lateness of the hour, took up the cards spread out before him, and was soon interested in the chances of the game, which seemed at first to be as much in favour of his adversary, as they had been already at the Rouge et Noir table.

“‘What are our stakes?’ said Fénélon, presently; ‘it is for you to propose, as the luck seems to be all mine to-night.’ ‘They must be small, indeed,’ said M. de Talleyrand, drawing out his purse, which contained but little, and throwing it carelessly on the table. ‘Done!’ cried the chevalier, turning its contents out upon the green-cloth. ‘Come, courage; double or quits until morning!’ This first trial of skill was in a few moments decided in his favour, and he swept the contents of the purse, as he had done the louis-d’ors of the gaming-house, into his own heap, which seemed destined to grow monstrous.

“M. de Talleyrand played on, and grew more resolute as his adversary grew more ironical and insolent. He lost his watch; his chain and seals; the ring which he had saved amid all his embarrassment and poverty, during his uncertain wanderings in foreign climes; he lost the very buckles off his shoes, and the knee-clasps from his inexpressibles, and at last rose from the table, declaring that he must now go home, as he had nothing more to lose. ‘Pardon me,’ laughed the chevalier, ‘you have yet another stake against which I have no objection to venture this heap of gold, without counting.’ M. de Talleyrand still denied the possession of any article of value; but the chevalier pointed to his breast-pin—a long gilt pin surmounted by one of those scarlet berries with a black spot at the extremity, which we call _grains rouges d’Amerique_. M. de Talleyrand objected that the article was not worth a franc; scarcely, indeed, a few sous. It had been the gift of a negress at Philadelphia, and it was by a singular mistake that he had placed it in his bosom, instead of the one of great value which he usually wore. He had changed his dress at twilight, and, in passing his hand over the toilet-cushion, had drawn forth the trumpery ornament which he now displayed, instead of the emerald he had apparently mislaid when he had changed his cravat. The circumstance, which had been considered a freak on his part, had even attracted the attention of a neighbour at the club, who had pointed it out to him, and who had been much amused by the surprise which the discovery had occasioned.

“M. de Talleyrand vainly urged the utter worthlessness of the trinket. The chevalier was in high glee, and, insisting upon its following the rest of the spoils, placed it beside the goodly heap of gold upon the table, chuckling all the while with that irritating irony which would long before have dashed into fury any temper less calm than that of his companion. But M. de Talleyrand laughed with him, and, as he disengaged the pin from the plaits of his neckcloth, merely related how that, having saved the black cook at the house where he lodged, at Philadelphia, from a severe punishment, she had given him this bauble as a precious remembrance of her gratitude. It had been charmed by the Obeah man, she had told him, and was considered a talisman against evil fortune.

“‘It has not answered to-night, at all events,’ exclaimed the chevalier. ‘The devil’s charm which _you_ carry is stronger than the Obeah-man’s!’ replied M. de Talleyrand; and they began their game once more. The cards were this time more favourable; but Fénélon lost the hard-fought battle with good grace, and whistled merrily as he cut the cards to his adversary. How shall I tell you what followed? It seems so strange a tale, that you will hesitate to believe it, and yet I give you my honour that it is true. The first game was won by M. de Talleyrand—the first during the whole evening, and it was with a nervous eagerness that he snatched up his trumpery pin, leaving the gold which the chevalier had staked to be doubled in the next hand, for again was Talleyrand the winner. The tide of fortune had turned. He went on winning, without intermission, until near daylight, when the whole of the gold which had been won at the gaming-house was transferred from the pocket of the chevalier to that of his friend!

“M. de Talleyrand had several times requested leave to depart, but Fénélon had obstinately refused to allow him to withdraw, so long as there remained a single louis on the board or a single trinket in his possession. It was five o’clock when the adversaries at length rose, M. de Talleyrand, embarrassed with his success, the chevalier mortified and crest-fallen, when the latter, with a sudden inspiration, thumping his fist upon the table, exclaimed, ‘One more trial, and I have done! I _must_ have that confounded breast-pin! By all the powers, the Obeah-man was right; it is that which brings the luck!’

“‘But what have you to stake against a trinket of so much value?’ returned M. de Talleyrand, endeavouring to laugh away the impression which, in spite of himself, the occurrences of the evening had made upon his mind. ‘Look round the room,’ was the answer, ‘choose any article you like; I feel sure that this time I shall win it; for it was when you were at your wit’s end that fortune changed!’

“M. de Talleyrand looked round the room, but it was only for form’s sake. He had already in his own mind chosen his booty. It was a small silver urn, of antique form and most delicate workmanship. Its weight and value did not seem very great, neither was it chiselled or adorned in any manner, but its form was so graceful and elegant, its proportions so exquisite, that it could not fail to attract the eye of a connoisseur, and he named it with less compunction from a knowledge of the smallness of its intrinsic value. The moment he mentioned it, however, all the desperate gaiety of the chevalier seemed to have received a sudden check. He started, and set down the glass he was about to raise to his lips, and, looking full and steadily into the face of his companion, while, however, his lips quivered slightly, and his voice was much subdued, he answered, ‘You have fixed upon the only thing from which I cannot—I dare not part. I could not risk the loss of that little vase were all the riches in the universe staked against it.’

“M. de Talleyrand was much astonished to find that there was anything in the world to which Fénélon attached importance, and rallied him upon the discovery; but, surprising to say, this jest was not met by the usual spirited rejoinder. His companion answered not, but calling for more champagne, swallowed a tremendous bumper at a single draught.

“M. de Talleyrand, of course, could offer no objection to this reasoning, and with a heavy purse and lightened heart he bade his friend good night, and left the room. Scarcely, however, had he reached the outer door of the apartment, when the valet-de-chambre, who had been fast asleep in the ante-chamber, came running after him, with a request from his master that he would return. The chevalier was standing over the fire, leaning against the chimney, and clasping the urn, which he had taken from the book-case where it had reposed, close to his heart. In an instant, M. de Talleyrand could perceive that the bottle which he had left upon the table was now emptied; and, as Fénélon turned towards him, he was startled at beholding his discomposed and agitated countenance. ‘I have changed my mind,’ said he; ‘this may be to me what the pin is to you. I have resolved to try its magic influence against that which has protected you. Speak not a word—ask me no question—I shall deem the slightest remark as a summons to meet you in the _Bois de Boulogne_, with witnesses and loaded weapons!’

“M. de Talleyrand did as he was requested; he placed his _enjeu_ before him; but he observed that Fénélon grasped the urn with trembling fingers, until compelled to lose his hold in order to survey his game. A frightful oath—frightful from the compressed energy with which it was uttered, flew from his white lips as he looked at his cards; and, with the instinct of an experienced gamester, beheld his fate. By a really extraordinary chance, it so happened that this time the cards held by M. de Talleyrand were what he calls _fabuleuses_—_pique_, _repique_ and _capot_ were carried in the one hand, and the chevalier sat amazed and stupified, not having been called upon to count a single point. He rose from the table in desperation, and seized the urn, which M. de Talleyrand remarked he had removed from the table with almost religious care when the game began, and handed it to his friend, but at arm’s length and with averted gaze. The prince had not courage to pursue the torture, and he said, as he waved it back, ‘Do not press me to accept the trinket, M. de Fénélon. Take it, I beseech you, as a gift from me; ’twill be but an earnest of the rest of all I have won of you, for you are sure to have it back again. You know well that I always succeed in keeping my winnings just long enough to make the loss of them more severely felt.’

“‘No!’ returned the chevalier, fiercely; ‘what is lost is lost. It is your right to keep the bauble, and I ask favour of no man. Away with it, then! To demur in taking up your lawful gains is to give offence to the loser.’

“‘Well, as you like,’ returned the prince; ‘but remember, I hold the urn at your disposal should you alter your determination.’

“He took the vase, and placed it beneath his coat. The wistful gaze of the chevalier smote him to the very heart; but, after the fierce manner in which his attention had been received, he sought no second rebuke, and was about to depart; when suddenly, to his great surprise and alarm, the chevalier rushed forward and tore it from his grasp, exclaiming, in a tone of the most bitter rage, ‘By the Lord, I am a fool. I played for nought but the urn. ’Twas the urn alone I lost. You cannot deny that’—and he cast a furious glance towards his astonished guest; ‘you said not a word of the _contents_. They are mine by every law; you _dare_ not say ’tis otherwise. I defy you to tell me that I spoke of its _contents_.’

“M. de Talleyrand answered not; he was appalled at sight of this sudden outburst of fury, and Fénélon having, with trembling fingers, succeeded in tearing open the lid which covered the little vase, and dashed it with a violent effort against the side of the chimney, a slender column of dark-coloured ashes, almost impalpable, fell through the small aperture into the fire, where it blazed with a small sparkling blue flame for a single moment, then smouldered into darkness, leaving behind a strong aromatic odour, which seemed to hang heavily on the atmosphere of the room, causing a sensation of sickness and a dimness of the sight. Even this died away before the chevalier had ceased gazing at the spot where the substance had fallen; and M. de Talleyrand, embarrassed and fearful of giving further offence in the strange mood in which his companion was, once more slowly took up the urn and sought the door. He could not avoid turning back to catch one last glance of the Chevalier de Fénélon. He was leaning with his elbows on the mantelpiece and his forehead buried in his hands. The bright light from the tapers in the girandoles fell full upon his countenance and _struck upon the tears_ which were rolling down his cheeks, causing them to sparkle and to glisten as they fell.

“The prince closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs, full of a solemn wonder at what he had beheld. He grasped the urn with a nervous energy beneath his mantle, and with a trembling dread did he pause beneath the first lamp which hung suspended above the causeway, to examine it more closely, inspired by a far different interest from that with which he had hitherto beheld it. He turned it again and again to the light, but could discern no inscription whereby to gain a clue to guess at its former destination; the same sickening odour of scented oils and aromatic spices greeted him from the unclosed aperture, and it was still heated almost to burning by the careless manner in which the chevalier had held it to the fire, when shaking out its mysterious contents.

“He was about to abandon the search, when, by accident having turned it to replace it in his bosom, a few letters, traced beneath the pedestal, met his eye; he lifted it to the light of the lantern, and read them more distinctly. A few particles of the same dark dust which Fénélon had shaken forth, dropped from the vase upon his hand, and he blew them off with hasty impatience, nor heeded where they fell. The letters traced upon the silver were in relief. To a stranger they would have indicated nothing, but to M. de Talleyrand they were pregnant with a deep and frightful meaning.

“_C. H.—March 17th._

“MERCY AND FORGIVENESS!—MISERERE!”

“In an instant, he remembered the story which had been afloat some time before, and which he had treated as an old wife’s tale. The beautiful young Countess H——; her husband’s jealousy—his violent death by the hand of the chevalier—the wife’s despair and retirement to the convent at Louvaine—her subsequent death and legacy to Fénélon, which had caused such condemnation and astonishment. ‘Let my body be opened after death,’ said she, in her will, ‘and let the heart which has beat but for him be reduced to ashes, and let it be thus conveyed to him, so that, when he dies, it may repose within his coffin, for it is his own.’ She it was who had designed the vase—she who had chosen the inscription.

“The memory of this event had passed away, and the salons of Paris had been occupied with other subjects of more stirring import; but the whole story burst at once, with all its attendant circumstances of horror, upon the stricken memory of the prince. The dark stream of ashes and the aromatic odour—the coincidence of the initials and the date—and then the tears which had been wrung even from those eyes burning and bloodshot with riot and debauchery—it was evident that the story which had been told, and which he had doubted when every one else believed, was too true. He replaced the vase within the folds of his mantle with a feeling of disgust and hatred towards the cold-blooded _roué_ whose rage for gaming and excitement had led him to commit this sacrilegious deed. He inwardly resolved that no temptation should induce him ever again to associate with the reckless libertine—a promise, however, which he was not very long called upon to keep; for, soon after this adventure, the chevalier was found one morning dead in his bed, having swallowed a strong dose of corrosive acid: fit termination to his wild, unprincipled career.”

“And what became of the silver urn?” said I.

“M. de Talleyrand, with true delicacy of feeling, sent it the very next day to the Marquise de Cossé, an old convent friend of the unfortunate victim, and she, I believe, took the proper means of restoring it to the family.”

“And the mysterious pin? Have you ever seen it?”

“I have,” replied C., laughing aloud; “at least, when I asked the prince concerning its fate, I was shewn a long brassy-looking object, from which all gilding had long ago vanished, and was told that the magical berry had been lost in his various peregrinations. ‘Perhaps,’ observed he, ‘it was stolen by some one who knew its value.’ But as the remark was accompanied by the peculiar dropping of the lip and deadening of the eye with which he usually ventures upon a _mystification_, I knew well what to think, and questioned him no more.”

My friend paused after he had concluded this strange story, and, beginning to fear lest he had been led away from the original purport of the tale, I reminded him that he had not yet explained to me the particulars of that first interview with Madame Grandt, which had had such a powerful effect on the destinies of the after-life of the prince.