Chapter IV (2)

“It was indeed a fitful night,” said C.; “one of those wherein the superstitious might easily believe that the devil is allowed to walk abroad and mingle his curse with the vain projects of aspiring man. It had begun for M. de Talleyrand with a scene of purgatory—it ended with a vision of heaven.

“He hastened home full of the stormy emotions of the interview with Fénélon, and the strange and almost terrific discovery he had made beneath the lantern in the Rue de Montpensier. He was harassed and fatigued; and, eager to gain the quiet and solitude of his own chamber, was hurrying to repose, when, judge of his annoyance—his servant informed him that a lady was waiting to receive him in his study, whose business was of so much importance, that having called late in the evening with the hope of finding him at home, she had preferred awaiting his return, even although it should not take place until dawn, so great was her fear of losing the interview she had come so far to obtain.

“It was thus with more vexation than curiosity that M. de Talleyrand entered, therefore, the study—where the stranger, according to the account of the servant, had already been awaiting him for _five_ long mortal hours!—without any of the _prestige_ which had usually accompanied his introduction to a stranger of the softer sex, perhaps even _his_ calm temper a little ruffled at the unseasonable hour and the unexpected _corvée_.

“The shaded lamp upon the chimney-piece threw but a dim light around the room, and some few moments elapsed before he could even perceive the lady, who was seated in the large arm-chair by the fire, her figure enveloped in the mantle worn at the time, wide but not long, reaching only to the knees, and displaying the gauze and gold tissue of the ball-dress worn beneath. It was evident that the fair stranger, exhausted with fatigue and watching, had fallen into a sleep so sound, that not even the entrance of M. de Talleyrand, nor his approach, nor his convenient fit of coughing, had power to rouse her. A letter addressed to himself lay upon the table, and he opened it, hoping that the noise which he made in moving to and fro would awaken her. It was a letter from Montrond, introducing to his acquaintance the bearer, Madame Grandt, who wished to confer with him upon urgent business, and to seek his advice in an affair concerning which none but himself could give information.

“The name of Madame Grandt immediately awakened all the dormant curiosity of M. de Talleyrand, and he now turned towards the fair stranger with a feeling of interest far different from that which he had experienced on his entrance. He had heard much of her extraordinary beauty, and had long desired the opportunity of judging whether the reputation were well earned. The whole scene was unique of its kind, and never before had M. de Talleyrand felt so much embarrassment as when the servant, after having in vain endeavoured by every innocent artifice to awaken the lady, left the room with an ill-suppressed titter at the novelty of the situation in which his master was placed. The noise of the door, however, which the cunning varlet took care to close with as loud a report as possible, succeeded at last in awaking the fair stranger, who started to her feet, surprised and terrified to find herself thus discovered in slumber by a stranger, whom, however, she instantly knew to be M. de Talleyrand, from the description which she had already received of his appearance. The impression he produced upon her mind, startled and alarmed as she was at the moment, was one of awe and veneration, while the effect which she created in his was that of admiration so intense that he has called it instantaneous devotion.

“Madame Grandt was at that time in the full zenith of her beauty, and of the kind of loveliness most rare and most admired in France. I have heard that she was of English origin. This is not true. Her maiden name was Dayot, and she was born at l’Orient; but her connexion with India, where a great part of her family resided, and the peculiar character of her beauty, would seem to have been the groundwork of the supposition. She was tall, and, at that time, slight in person, with that singular ease and languor in her carriage which have been considered the peculiar attributes of the creole ladies. Her features were of that soft and delicate mould but seldom seen in Europe; her eyes, large and languishing, were of the deepest black, while her hair played in curls of brightest gold upon a forehead of dazzling whiteness, pure and calm as that of an infant. Throughout her whole person was spread a singularly childlike grace, which at once interested the beholder infinitely more than the sublime beauty which distinguished her great rivals for the admiration of the worshippers of fashion at that day, Madame Tallien and Madame Beauharnais.

“M. de Talleyrand, who, with remarkable independence of spirit, talks of the princess without the slightest prejudice, observed to me, while describing this scene, that when she first threw aside her hood and disclosed to view that lovely countenance, all blushing with shame and with surprise, the effect was such that even he, man of the world, _blasé_ and _désillusioné_ as he already was, felt himself completely deprived, for the moment, of his usual self-possession, and stood before her almost as abashed as she herself. It was some time, indeed, before he recovered sufficient self-command to give utterance to the phrases of politeness usual on such occasions, and to offer his services in whatever manner would facilitate the business concerning which she had sought him at this hour.

“If he had reason to be astonished, first of all, at the singular time of night she had chosen for the execution of her errand, then more astonished still at sight of her wondrous beauty, most of all did he own himself astonished when he came to listen to her description of the purport of her unseasonable visit. With the _naïf_ credulity which suited so well with the childlike beauty I have already remarked, she proceeded to relate to him, with much trembling and with tears, all the alarm she had experienced upon hearing the report which had been afloat at the assembly at Madame Hamelin’s, (where she had been spending the evening,) concerning Buonaparte’s intended invasion of England, and his promise of delivering up the Bank to pillage as a reward to his successful soldiery. So great, indeed, had been her terror at this news, that she had involuntarily let slip a secret which she had hitherto most religiously kept: ‘that, in fact, she had long ago lodged the greater part of her fortune, and the whole of her plate and jewels, in this very Bank of England, which Buonaparte had so generously promised to abandon to the pillage of his victorious troops as the reward of their valour.’ This announcement had been received at the assembly with shouts of laughter; and again did she burst forth in bitter weeping when complaining of the cruelty displayed towards her by such untimely levity.

“So great was the power of her tears, that M. de Talleyrand began to press more than ever to be informed in what manner he could be of service in this matter. She then intimated to him that at sight of her grief two or three of her tried and valued friends, foremost of whom stood M. de Montrond, had recommended to her to hurry immediately to M. de Talleyrand, for that he alone had power to save her property; that, from his situation, he could even make himself responsible for its safe delivery into her hands; and for this purpose M. de Montrond had immediately penned the letter which she had brought, begging her to fly with it immediately to his house, and not on any account to leave it until she had obtained the guarantee.

“Although, of course, highly diverted at the mystification, and somewhat embarrassed at the situation in which he found himself, yet M. de Talleyrand was too gallant to disclose to the fair lady that she had been the dupe of her own fears and of Montrond’s insatiable love of practical fun; and in order to quiet her nerves, he instantly drew up in due form a security, signed and sealed, for the safe delivery of her plate and jewels into the hands of any person she might choose to appoint to receive them, as soon as ever Buonaparte’s triumphal army had entered the City of London. The fair applicant, highly delighted at the success of her petition, left the house, reading again and again with confidence the writing he had given her, and perfectly insensible to all his gallantry and admiration amid the joy inspired by his kind proceeding.

“Such is the history of the first interview of M. de Talleyrand with Madame Grandt. I know it to be true, for I had it from the lips of the prince himself, who enters with the keenest relish into the ridicule of the whole scene, sparing himself as little as the princess. The mystification was completely successful. Madame Grandt was fooled to the top of her bent by the perpetrators, but the affair had a far different sequel from that which had been anticipated, for M. de Talleyrand became most passionately attached to the fair solicitor, and to the surprise of all Paris, he who had resisted the refined beauty of Madame Tallien, the elegance of Madame Recamier, and the wit and fascination of Madame de Staël, fell an easy victim to the more plain and unsophisticated graces of Madame Grandt. It is certain that not one of the ladies who had laid siege to his heart had managed to obtain so strong a hold upon his affections or to keep them so long; and I can only account for this by the _naïveté_ which gave so strong a tinge of originality to all she said or did, so unlike the slavery to forms and etiquette which must ever influence professed ‘women of the world,’ such as those by whom he was surrounded.

“So much has been said about her ignorance and stupidity, that they have passed into a proverb, while, in reality, she was neither ignorant nor stupid; but there was certainly an _inexperience_ in the social traditions of the world into which she was ushered through the influence of M. de Talleyrand, which gave rise to much amusement among the wits who frequented her society. It would be difficult to account for the strength of the attachment with which, from the very first, she inspired the prince. It certainly was the longest and the strongest that he ever experienced. Various have been the conjectures respecting the causes of his marriage, but the story which was told me by one who was a confidant of the prince at the time, is, I think, the best calculated to unravel the mystery which still hangs over it.

“Madame Grandt was, as I have told you, unrivalled in the tact and _convenance_ with which she received company, dispensing politeness to each and all alike, contenting every one, and displaying so much cleverness in her management of the fiery spirits who frequented her _salon_, that it was impossible for those who knew her then to deem her either ignorant or foolish. It was this peculiar talent which had induced M. de Talleyrand, who was quick both to perceive any peculiar excellence and also to turn it to account, to hold his receptions at her house instead of at his _ministère_. He had already done so for some time without having been subjected to remarks; for the system was, alas! too common at the period to excite the slightest degree either of condemnation or surprise. Fouché, ever on the watch to injure Talleyrand, had taken care to apprise the First Consul of this arrangement. The information, which had excited no interest at the moment, was not wholly lost, however; and a short time afterwards, having been foiled in some of his projects by the policy of England, he sent for Talleyrand, and, puzzled to find a subject which he could use as a pretext for venting his spleen upon his minister, remembered the tale borne by the enemy Fouché. ‘It is no wonder that we are abused and vilified by England,’ said he, showing a paper in which appeared a scurrilous article upon the First Consul—‘when we expose ourselves to such attacks as these, and even our public ministers give public example of disorder and ill-conduct.’ The minister looked his inquiry concerning the meaning of this outburst. ‘Yes,’ continued Buonaparte, waxing warm, as was his wont, with his own words, like an ill-disciplined schoolboy—‘yes, it has reached me that you hold your receptions at Madame Grandt’s, and thus the envoys and ambassadors from foreign courts are compelled to wait upon your mistress. This must not continue.’ ‘Neither shall it,’ returned the prince, colouring slightly; ‘they shall henceforth be spared; they shall wait no longer on Madame Grandt, but on Madame de Talleyrand; no longer on my mistress, but my wife.’

“The marriage took place before the following week’s reception, and it is said that Buonaparte was so vexed and irritated at his own littleness, that he even condescended to _lie_ in order to cover it. ‘What can have caused Talleyrand’s abrupt and extraordinary marriage?’ said Barras, one day, soon after the event. ‘My _promise_ to ask from the Pope “absolution” and the cardinal’s hat as a reward for his services,’ returned the First Consul, quickly, and immediately changed the conversation.

“Whatever may have been the conduct of Madame Grandt, however reprehensible her facility of morals before her marriage, it cannot be denied that, from the very hour in which this event took place, it became irreproachable. M. de Talleyrand himself loves to render her every justice on that score. She was too proud of the name she bore ever to disgrace it by any action which she would have deemed unworthy. Like _parvenus_ in general, she grew rather intoxicated when arrived at the summit of honour, for, as Princesse de Benevent, her _morgue_ and insolence at the court of Napoleon became proverbial, and many amusing anecdotes are told of her absurd pretensions to royal privileges, her pages and her maids of honour, her chamberlain and mistress of the robes.

“I myself once witnessed a curious instance of that total forgetfulness of the ‘_jadis_,’ which seems to be the peculiar failing of persons who have risen from obscurity to rank and fortune. I was one day descending the _perron_ of the hotel in the Rue St. Florentine, when a hackney coach entered the court-yard and drove up to the vestibule. I was greatly surprised to behold alighting from it, fine as court robes and towering plumes could make her, the Princesse de Benevent herself. I of course hastened down the steps to offer her my arm on alighting. ‘My carriage struck against the lamp-post at the entrance of the Tuileries,’ said she, in answer to my inquiring look, ‘and the wheel came off. I was forced to return home in this absurd looking vehicle.’ Then turning to the wondering lacqueys, she added, in a tone of disgust and scorn which no language can describe, as she pointed to the coachman, ‘_Qu’on paie ce malheureux!_’ The mixture of the sublime and ridiculous in the tone and gesture by which the words were accompanied, was absolutely irresistible.

“To a mild and conciliating nature like that of the prince, and above all with his keen sense of the ludicrous, such a disposition must have been peculiarly irritating, added to which, Madame’s jealousy of every member of his family to whom he showed affection grew too irksome to be endured, and for their mutual comfort it became advisable to have separate establishments. But even amid the bitterness and soreness of feeling to which such an arrangement cannot fail to give rise in every family where it unhappily takes place, did the prince, with true generosity and liberality of sentiment, endeavour to render justice to her undeviating devotion to his interests, by making a settlement even too magnificent in proportion to his income, more, in fact, than it could comfortably bear. I frequently saw her after her separation from the prince. So far from having retained either rancour or ill-will against him, there was something touching in the eager interest with which she listened to the slightest details concerning him. She spared not questioning, and seemed never weary of listening to my report of his health and well-being. Everything in her apartment bore witness to her constant remembrance of the days of her happiness and grandeur; the rug before the fire, the embroidered cushion upon which her feet were rested, the lawn handkerchief in her hand, the clock upon the mantelpiece, all bore the impress of the arms of the Talleyrands, and ‘_Ré que Diou_’ shone forth conspicuously on each; while even the little cage wherein reposed a couple of snow-white dormice displayed in its mimic dome and tower a complete model of the château of Valençay.

“She told me, with a frankness I little expected, that she should never cease to regret the life she led here; she could not even speak of the place without tears, and questioned me, with great minuteness, concerning every individual throughout the province; her memory never failing her in the slightest particular with regard to the genealogy of the different families whose estates lie in the neighbourhood of the château. Her heart seemed to yearn towards the prince, and her expressions of admiration concerning his great talents and wonderful powers of mind were affecting in their truthful simplicity. In spite of the want of elevation of soul, which neither nature nor education had imparted, I still think that the prince entertained a real regard for her, and of many a courteous message from him have I myself been the bearer, whenever it became known at the hôtel Talleyrand that she was labouring under the slightest indisposition. Towards the latter years of her life, however, her pre-occupation concerning all that passed in his household became one of the greatest sources of petty annoyance to which the prince was subjected. For some time before her death, it amounted, indeed, to positive mania. She insisted upon regulating her establishment entirely upon the model of that of the Rue St. Florentin, ruling the minutest details of her domestic economy in imitation of that observed in the prince’s household. She even subjected her own diet and hours of taking her repasts to the same system of imitation, and upon one occasion nearly fell a victim to her over-strict observance of the prince’s rule of never taking more than one meal in the day.

“As to the innumerable _naïvetés_ and _coqs-à-l’âne_ which have gone forth to the world as hers, you must not believe one half of them. I think that many of them were invented under the erroneous impression that the surest way of annoying M. de Talleyrand would be to ridicule his wife. It is certain that many of the blunders which are laid to her charge bear the unmistakeable stamp of the firm of Montrond and Co. I once attacked the prince upon the subject, and was much amused at the _bonhomie_ with which he laughed at the bare remembrance of all the _bêtises_ which so many wits had employed themselves in inventing for the poor princess. I asked him if the story, which has gone the round of every newspaper in Europe, about Baron Denon and Robinson Crusoe, were really true. ‘It did not actually happen,’ replied he, smiling; ‘the circumstance did not really occur as it has been represented, _for I was there to prevent it_. However, it was _guessed at_, and that was enough; the blunder was ascribed to her without compunction.’

“‘I certainly remember a _naïveté_ which she once uttered in the midst of a circle of savans and literati at Neuilly, which would be considered quite as good and become just as popular were it as generally known. Lemercier had volunteered after dinner to read us one of his unplayed and unplayable pieces. The company had gathered round him in a circle; his _cahier_ lay already unfolded on his knees, and, clearing his voice, he began in a high, shrill tone, which made us all start from our incipient slumber, ‘_La Scène est à Lyons_.’ ‘There now, M. de Talleyrand,’ exclaimed the princess, jumping from her chair, and advancing towards me with a gesture of triumph, ‘now I knew that you were wrong; you would have it that it was the _Saône_!’ To describe the embarrassment and consternation of the company would be impossible. I myself was perplexed for an instant, but soon remembered the difference of opinion to which she had alluded. As our carriage was crossing the bridge at Lyons, a little time before, she had asked me the name of the river which flowed beneath. I had told her it was ‘Saône;’ to which she had replied, with a truly philosophical reflection—‘Ah, how strange this difference of pronunciation; we call it the _Seine_ in Paris!’ I had been much amused at the time, but had not thought it worth while to correct the self-confident error, and thus had arisen this extraordinary confusion in the troubled brain of the poor princess. Of course we all laughed heartily at her unexpected sally; but we were grateful, nevertheless, for it saved us the reading of the dreaded drama, as no one that evening could be expected to _retrouver son sérieux_ sufficiently to listen with becoming attention to all the terrible events which Lemercier had to unfold.’

“You see the prince had succeeded in accepting his misfortune _en homme d’esprit_, and the keenest shafts of ridicule must have fallen pointless against one who joined with such hearty good-will in the mirth which was thus raised, without at all agreeing with those who deemed that it was excited at his own expense.”