Chapter V

TALLEYRAND’S DESIRE FOR AMITY BETWEEN ENGLAND AND FRANCE—LOUIS
DIXHUIT—THE ARCHBISHOP DE M.—MADAME DE KRUDENER—ALEXANDER OF
RUSSIA.

Just as my friend had ceased speaking, the door was opened, and the two valets-de-chambre of the prince, armed with shaving-pot and powder-puff, with the same solemn look as at the toilet of Louis Quatorze, described with such humour by Saint Simon, entered and took their station one on each side the doorway; but when the prince himself entered likewise, in dressing-gown and slippers, leaning on his cane, and bowing low, with a courteous “good morrow,” the picture was complete. Le grand monarque in his old age, Fagon and Bréville, seemed to arise before me. I have heard it said that one great test of the temper of a man is the mood in which he awakes from slumber. This certainly was true as applied to Prince Talleyrand, for perhaps at no other moment in the day was he more lively, more free from care, than at the hour of his toilet. It seemed as if the dreams of the past night had brought with them calm and pleasant recollections, for he was always more disposed to narrate at that moment than during the rest of the four-and-twenty hours. He had soon despatched the business upon which he had summoned me; but he bade me remain, and I was in no hurry to depart; for one by one the favoured few dropped in, and the conversation became interesting enough to make me behold without regret the hurrying off to the wood of a joyous caravan which issued from beneath the gateway with echoes of merriment.

C. had busied himself in turning over the journals, translating from the various English papers the leading article of each, and pausing here and there to extract speeches and opinions most worthy of notice. I shall never forget that morning—it was the last opportunity which was afforded me of judging of the never-failing faculty of that _conteur intarissable_. The conversation had turned upon England, and it was in reference to some observation made in one of the articles which C. had just been reading that the prince expressed himself towards this country with an admiration and gratitude which I shall never forget.

“It has ever been my dream,” said he, “to behold a firm and stable alliance between England and France. I cannot live to behold what I have yearned for all my life long; but _you_ may yet be witness to the result to which the events of Europe have all tended for the last three centuries. There are many countries, many climes in Europe; there will soon be but two nations—the English and the French. Before many generations have passed away, they will even stand face to face alone upon the globe. They must become, not only allies, but friends. Already you will perceive that their mutual hatred has become tradition. The wars between these two great nations have often partaken of the chivalrous character of the ancient duel, in which the combat was carried on less from antipathy or thirst of vengeance, than from a boyish valour and love of glory. Believe me, where genius and courage are equal, peace becomes indispensable—two countries cannot make war upon each other until both fall dead upon the field of battle; destruction is not triumph. The good which has sprung up, even amidst their mutual jealousies, has been immense; much more has been sown than has yet been gathered, but the seed which has thus been buried will bring forth fruit, in its own good time, to benefit the whole human race.

“You will find, by the study of history, that they have proceeded in the goodly work together, as though by a tacit agreement, working with the same perseverance and the same success, to promote the progress of reason and the advancement of prosperity throughout the world. It was at the very same instant that the cry of horror at the tyranny and oppression of the people arose from the heart of each, and hand in hand did their philosophers and men of genius sound the first alarm at the encroachments of despotism. They are destined to regenerate the world.”

I may be forgiven if I listened to this eloquent and soothing speech as to a hallowed prophecy. The theme was one upon which I could have loved to hear him expatiate yet further; but other matters soon pressed upon his attention, and drove the subject from his mind. I observed, however, during my stay at Valençay, that the prince took every opportunity of exalting and approving England, and of putting forth his favourite theory of an _exclusive_ alliance between the French and English.

Meanwhile, the toilet was proceeding rapidly under the skilful hands of the two veteran valets; and while I was contemplating with infinite satisfaction a scene to me so novel in its details, the prince, who was in excellent spirits, kept up with even more than his wonted share of vivacity the ball of conversation. Many of the stories which he told that morning were exceeding curious and worthy of record. I was much struck with some observations which he made with regard to the policy and conduct of Louis the Eighteenth, a sovereign whom he disliked most particularly. To one who carried the principle of forgiveness of injuries to the extent to which the Prince de Talleyrand displayed throughout his career, the cold, vindictive nature of Louis must have been singularly obnoxious, while the sense of obligation must have pressed heavily enough upon the small soul of the monarch. Besides which, a rivality of wit had sprung up between them, which served to increase their mutual dislike and distrust of each other. Louis Dixhuit could not bear the _succès_ which some of the bon-mots of the Prince had obtained, and sought to humiliate and embarrass him by direct attacks, as if to put to the proof before the courtiers the well-earned reputation for repartee which the prince had acquired. But the prince always came out of the affray with honour, his self-possession giving him an immense advantage over the irritable temper of the king.

On the day when Madame de Talleyrand (who had been sent to England with a pension) re-appeared in Paris, the king, who seized every opportunity to annoy M. de Talleyrand before the court, exclaimed, on perceiving him, “_Ah, monsieur, que je vous plains!_ Is it true that Madame is arrived in France?” “Alas, it is, sire. I also was doomed to have _mon vingt Mars!_” The king did not reply, but walked before the line of courtiers, biting his lip, as was his wont when vexed. Presently he returned, and again stood before the recreant wit, who alone looked all unmoved and unconscious amidst the general hilarity.

“Prince de Talleyrand,” said he, in a severe tone, “is it not time for you to seek the country? Paris is growing hot. I have been told that the shades of Valençay are the coolest and most delightful in all France.”

“Sire, they have lost that reputation since Ferdinand VII. cut down my lime trees to make bonfires at the Emperor’s fête!”

Once more was the king reduced to silence, and this time more effectually, for he did not return again to the charge; but he said to M. Decazes that evening, “Talleyrand answers as though he were _afraid_ of an encounter; in short, he always seems as if he considered himself attacked.”

I had often felt a desire to know the real opinion of M. de Talleyrand concerning the character of Louis Dixhuit, and I considered myself particularly fortunate that the conversation should have turned upon the subject. It was evident that he held in small esteem the principles of the Bourbon, whose crooked policy and cowardly revenge once drew from him an approval of the memorable words of Fox—“Of all revolutions, the worst is a restoration!” The indignation must have been great which could have caused this bitter criticism upon his own work, for he it was who, by the avowal of the king himself, had planned and executed his great principle of legitimacy, and restored the Bourbons to the throne.

“Louis Dixhuit was the veriest liar that ever trode the earth,” said the prince. “His love of falsehood was so great, that those admitted to his intimacy had grown to dread the expression from his lips of any kindness, feeling sure that disgrace was nigh. He was the greatest hater I ever met with; cold and calculating in his vengeance, and meanly taunting in its gratification. I cannot describe to you my disappointment when I first beheld him in 1814, after the events which had changed him from a miserable exile into the sovereign of the greatest European country. He received me in the palace at Compiègne. I could judge the character of the man by the manner of his greeting. He was in the great gallery of the château, surrounded by his friends and many of the foreign diplomates, who were all eager and _empressé_ in their congratulations—all full of hope and bright anticipations of the future. I may, without being suspected of _fatuité_, declare that a murmur of welcome ran through the assembly when my name was announced, and the king advanced a few steps to meet me with a warm and friendly welcome. He pressed my hand with great kindness, and drawing forward a chair which stood beside him, exclaimed, ‘Prince de Benevent, be seated—and believe me, I do not forget that had it not been for your assistance in the late events, they might have turned in a different chance, and _you_ might have said to _me_, “Count de Lille, be seated.”’

“The phrase appeared to me so artificial, so stiff and embarrassed, that I involuntarily looked his majesty full in the face for an explanation. By that single glance I could tell that I was not destined to remain a minister of Louis Dixhuit, and my anticipations proved true, although he knew well that had it not been for my exertions, he would not have regained his throne until much later—perhaps, indeed, never!

“The dinner which succeeded the grand reception I shall never forget. Everyone had expected that the conversation would have been most interesting; that the most important topic of the day would have been duly discussed and commented upon. Each guest had come prepared with his own peculiar suggestion concerning the most effective entry into Paris. Each one had his bon-mot for approval, some appropriate phrase to be printed in the journals. I myself am forced to plead guilty to the like ambition, and obtained the honour of preference over many which, in my opinion, were far better and more piquant than my ‘_Français de plus_,’ although its subsequent popularity justified in some measure its adoption. Whatever might have been our anticipations, it soon became evident that the monarch had learned one great accomplishment during his exile, and he ate in silence of every dish which was presented to him. The court, principally composed of men who had been accustomed to the rapid and noisy dinners of the Emperor, soon began to grow weary of the tedious deglutition of the king, and became ere long reduced to be the mere spectators of his enjoyment.

“Not one single word had been spoken during the whole of the first course. It would be impossible to describe the extraordinary effect of that silence, undisturbed save by the timid rattle of the knives and forks, and the hesitating steps of the servants. We gazed at each other with embarrassment. No one dared to speak even to his neighbour save in a whisper; when, just about the middle of the second course, an event occurred which served to arouse us from the stupor into which we had fallen. The king was about to help himself from the dish of spinach which had been handed to him by the servant, when the intention was suddenly arrested by a loud exclamation from the Duke de Duras, who, rising from his chair, and leaning forward with an earnest and stricken look, exclaimed, ‘For the love of Heaven, your Majesty, touch not that spinach!’ The king let fall the spoon which was already half way towards his plate, and raised his eyes in alarm—he was pale as death. There were few, indeed, at the table who did not change countenance at this unexpected exclamation. Suspicions of foul treason—of premeditated crime, immediately filled every eye, and we looked aghast towards the duke for an explanation. Even I myself, although prepared by experience for every exaggeration of court flattery, could not resist the dread of some terrible disclosure.

“‘_Pourquoi pas?_’ faltered out the king, his nasal twang rendered even more tremulous than usual by the terror under which he laboured.

“‘Oh, sire, I warn you—be advised by me; eat not of that spinach—it is drest with most villanous butter!’

“The etiquette of the royal table, of course, prevented the explosion of the roar of laughter with which the speech would have been greeted had it not been for the mighty presence; and even as it was, an irrepressible titter ran round the room. The king, however, did not laugh; the subject was of too much importance to be trifled with; he looked first at the Duc de Duras with an expression of doubt, then raised the dish to his nose, pushed it from him with a sigh, and exclaiming, ‘_C’est pourtant vrai!_’ sank back in his chair to brood upon his disappointment.

“After this event, the silence certainly continued still, but not the embarrassment, for, during the rest of the entertainment, we were all convulsed with suppressed laughter, and although of course good breeding and the rules of etiquette prevented its explosion, the conviction that we mutually understood the joke made us feel its relish the more keenly. The dinner concluded while this ludicrous impression lasted, and we retired to the drawing-room, glad to be emancipated from the restraint which sitting thus face to face with royalty always occasions.

“After a moment’s consultation amongst ourselves, we decided that it would be advisable to proceed at once to business, as many of us wished to return to Paris as soon as possible, to forward the measures concerning the public entrance of his majesty into the capital. I was spokesman upon the occasion, and ventured to suggest the propriety of at once opening the discussion at which we were all come prepared to be amicable wranglers. To our great surprise, his only answer was, ‘_Let us digest first_; we will speak of business another time.’

“I leave you to imagine the effect produced by these words. The action which accompanied them was even more expressive of his earnestness in the pursuit which he recommended, for he sank calmly down among the cushions of the sofa, and in another moment, before our astonishment had subsided, was lost in the sweetest and most quiet slumber I ever witnessed. It was a source of the greatest amusement to us all, as we moved noiselessly about the room, and spoke to each other by signs or in low whispers in order to avoid interrupting the important slumbers of the sovereign, to behold from the windows of the palace the eager expectation of the crowd assembled in the court below, whose anxious countenances, lighted up by the glare of the illuminations which decorated the frontage of the building, gave token of the intense interest with which they were regarding the moving shadows of those within.

“No doubt they deemed that the proceedings there taking place were big with the fate of the empire—the destiny of thousands of their fellow-countrymen. Each time that any form of more than ordinary dimensions happened to pass before the windows, it was immediately taken for that of the king, and was greeted with loud shouting and applause, which, however, failed to reach the ear of him for whom it was intended, and who still slumbered on, all unconscious either of the disappointment of those within or the expectation of those without.

“This apparently insipid and eventless dinner was to me one of the most extraordinary and interesting I ever remember, and it has remained a _souvenir_, when others, more remarkable for the wit and spirit of the guests or the generosity of the entertainer, have long ago been forgotten. It placed me at once _au courant_ as to the views and habits of our ‘restored sovereign.’ In no one of the anticipations formed from this interview was I deceived. Selfish, insensible, luxurious, ungrateful, did I ever find him. This dinner at Compiègne was the very picture of his whole reign, and he fully justified the words of my honest friend Dunoyer—‘Among the millions of human lives confided to his charge, there is but _one_ of value in his eyes; and that one the most valueless of all to the whole world besides.’”

“This repast must have equalled in its interest the famous dinner of the Consulte, eh? you remember, prince?” said the Count de Montrond, who had been listening attentively.

“Indeed, I do remember, and more’s the pity,” returned the prince, with a gentle laugh, “and I often wish that I could forget the circumstances attendant on that dinner. People talk of the _sublime_ and ridiculous; but the _horrible_ and ridiculous which were mingled in that scene rendered it altogether one of the most powerful and extraordinary of any I have ever witnessed, either mimicked on the stage or played in real life. I must tell you that I had considered myself extremely fortunate in my transactions with the representatives of the different Italian States who had assembled at Lyons to negotiate for the protection of their liberties by France. There remained but one clause of our treaty to be disputed—the most knotty point of all, and the one which I felt would exercise my utmost powers of persuasion when it came to be discussed in council. In order to conciliate as much as possible the opposing belligerents, I had been obliged to have recourse to the bait which seldom fails, if well ordered and well executed, that of a _dîner diplomatique_, trusting to my worthy ally, Carême, who, in cookery, had talent enough in his own person to finish what our united talents in diplomacy had so well begun.

“The dinner, then, was decided on; the day had arrived; and I was alone in my study, composing myself for the great struggle which was about to take place, when M. de la Bernardière came hurrying in, pale and breathless. ‘Well, we have committed a pretty blunder,’ said he; ‘only see; with all the “very clever men” by whom we are surrounded, what great fools we must be.’ He placed upon my desk an open letter which he had just received. It was from the secretary of the Archbishop of M—— to M. de la Bernardière, who was then supposed to be acting as _my_ secretary. A letter purporting to be written in the strictest confidence, from ‘one gentleman to another,’ from a secretary to a man of honour, holding the same important office, having the same ministerial functions to fulfil, &c.; containing a sort of mysterious warning; a kind of covert denunciation against the whole proceedings of the Consulte; a threat of failure in all our schemes; an assurance that all the ambitious views of France were perfectly understood; and the letter concluded by declaring that they would be unmasked if the Archbishop of M—— were not invited to the dinner! I must own that this announcement took us rather by surprise; we had reckoned upon the Archbishop of M—— as one of the firmest allies of France, and it was, indeed, by a most inconceivable _bévue_ that he had been left out. It must have occurred, no doubt, through some awkward mismanagement on the part of the servants; but, whatever the cause, and it was then too late to enter into any examination, it became evident that the remedy must be applied at once, and that the company of the archbishop must be secured without delay.

“It was M. de la Bernardière, then, who was commissioned to be the bearer of our humble excuses for the neglect of which the servants had been guilty, and our humble request that his Grandeur would overlook the awkwardness of our domestics, and accord us the advantage of his presence at the dinner, which certainly would not be complete without his company. I must confess that I awaited the return of La Bernardière with the greatest anxiety, as I was quite as fully aware of the necessity of securing the good-will of the Archbishop as the officious secretary himself could possibly be. La Bernardière, however, returned triumphant, and the description which he gave us of his visit added to the amusement caused by our groundless fears. He had found the archbishop attired in flowered dressing-robe and broidered slippers, reclining on an ottoman of curious workmanship, which had been presented to him on that very morning by a deputation of the manufacturers of the good city of Lyons, and the scene altogether had reminded him of an episode of the middle ages. His Grandeur the Lord Archbishop was a singular-looking personage; the melancholy expression of his countenance contrasting with ludicrous effect with the fat, rubicund jollity of his form and features. He was a large, heavy man, with a look of absolute despair, and perpetual groans issued from his brawny chest, like the angry bellowings of Mount Vesuvius. At his feet were seated, on a low stool, two young boys, who were chanting from the same book, and whose rare false notes were now and then punished by a smart kick behind, from his grandeur’s peaked slipper.

“He sighed sorrowfully when La Bernardière was announced, and received him with many a lugubrious lamentation on the miserable weather, which, by-the-bye, was beautiful; then he groaned deeply at the badness of the music of the mass at the cathedral on the day before, which, being of the very best order, and under the superintendence of the maëstro di capello of the Emperor of Austria, had been by every one else considered excellent; then he moaned at having been induced to leave his own country to come to such a place as Lyons, where it was evident his presence was neither sought nor needed, and finally pronounced a most bitter archiepiscopal curse upon the miserable fare of the hotel where he was staying, regretting, with most sublime energy, that he should ever have been induced to travel without his own cook, and vowing before the Virgin that he never would do the like again.

“This was the opportunity for La Bernardière to press his suit and to pray forgiveness for neglect, and to urge his presence at our table with many an assurance of the utter discomfiture and despair which his refusal would occasion. The countenance of the worthy archbishop lighted up at the mention of the dinner. He was evidently a _bon vivant_ of the first class, and it was doubtless to this quality that he owed both the rotundity of his person and the mournful discontent under which he laboured. He apparently deemed, however, that a little hesitation was necessary to preserve his dignity in the eyes of La Bernardière, and he summoned his secretary to learn from him if it were possible to accept an invitation upon so short a notice—if there were no other engagement to interfere with his desire to prove his respect and consideration for M. de Talleyrand by accepting both the invitation and the excuses so courteously conveyed. Of course the secretary was too well schooled to decide precipitately; he had to consult his registers, his list of invitations for the week, &c.; however, La Bernardière soon perceived that there was little danger of refusal. The prospect of a real French dinner, Carême and Minguet, was too much for the philosophy of the archbishop; and as La Bernardière had anticipated, he ended by not only accepting the invitation, but almost excusing himself for having hesitated.

“It was a real satisfaction to learn the acquiescal of his grandeur, for we had waited in fear and trembling the return of La Bernardière. It was immediately resolved among the little knot of gentlemen gathered in the salon that it would be necessary to display even more courtesy towards him at the dinner-table in consequence of this involuntary neglect; and thus, much to my subsequent discomfiture, it was agreed that the poor archbishop was to be placed at my right hand. I was exceedingly diverted at the extreme self-complacency with which he received all our demonstrations of respect, all our contrivances to do him honour—a mixture of embarrassment and haughtiness which I have never seen equalled. But at sight of the dinner all stiffness and formality were banished. His heavy countenance brightened, and he exhibited the most lively interest in every arrangement, tormenting me terribly to know the name of every dish which was handed to him, then questioning the servant who presented it upon the nature of the ingredients employed in its composition, and finally calling, in a shrill tone, for ‘Nino,’ the short fat man who stood behind his chair, dressed in a livery which, I believe, is called heraldic, and which is all striped and cross-barred with every colour in the rainbow—red, yellow, blue, white, as many, in short, as there may be quarterings in the escutcheon, producing an effect more resembling that of the pictures on playing cards than anything else that can be imagined.

“This ‘Nino’ would stoop forward and lean his chin upon the shoulder of his grandeur, and his grandeur would point with a fat, white, stumpy finger to some particular dish upon the table, and after a few moments whispered conversation between the pair, Nino would disappear for a short time, and then return all in a heat and blaze. He had evidently been despatched to the kitchen for information respecting the origin and composition of the approved _morceau_, in order that it might be reproduced at some future time upon the archiepiscopal table. His delight at every new discovery of this nature was perfectly uncontrollable, and he would chuckle and clap his hands like a child whenever a fresh dish, wearing a tempting exterior, was placed before him.

“To me his grandeur was unfolding a new chapter in the eternal history of human eccentricity, and I watched every motion with the most intense interest. Towards the end of the repast, the ecstasies with which he had greeted the endeavours of our French _artistes_, and, perhaps, also the enormous efforts which he had used to prove his admiration of their talents, had produced a state of excitement which rather began to alarm me, the more so as even La Bernardière had not been able to win a moment’s attention, so absorbed had his grandeur been with the culinary excellence of our political system. Every dish had been discussed by the archbishop; neither _entremets_ nor _hors d’œuvre_, however insignificant, had escaped investigation, until, at last, I grew perfectly amazed at the quantity which had been absorbed, and perceived, with an indescribable feeling of terror and dismay, the hue of dark purple, which, beginning with his ears, had gradually overspread his whole physiognomy, and more particularly the look of stolid dulness with which he now eyed the table.

“‘Your grandeur is ill,’ said I, in a whisper; ‘allow me to order yon window to be opened above your head, or would you prefer to retire for a moment to breathe the air upon the staircase?’

“‘No, no,’ returned the archbishop, ‘I have not finished dinner yet,’ and immediately helped himself most copiously from a dish of _artichauts à la Barigoul_, (a dish for which, by-the-bye, my cook was famous,) and fell to eating once again, as if refreshed by the pause he had been compelled to make. I was verily astounded! His grandeur seemed to have reserved all his energies for the _artichauts à la Barigoul_, and devoured them with as much gusto as though he had eaten nothing since morning.

“It was during the mastication of this most approved morsel that La Bernardière at last succeeded in making the little request in favour of our country which had been hovering on his tongue during the whole of dinner. His grandeur hesitated not; he was ready to grant everything; he could refuse nothing to any one in this hour of plenitude and satisfaction, and I, in my turn, plied him with propositions and demonstrations, to all of which he assented by a dignified inclination of the head. Emboldened by the view of my unexpected success, La Bernardière took up the burden of my discourse, with an increase of vigour and an increase of presumption, as is invariably the case with solicitors when undisturbed by opposition. Question after question was proposed to the archbishop, who assented to all our demands in the same quiet manner, until I advanced _le point culminant_ of our requests, which really did seem to stagger him, for he raised his head suddenly, and remained an instant gazing on me with a vacant stare, then bent forward, as I thought, to whisper his objections more closely into my ear, and to my terror, as I looked up to listen for his answer, fell forward with his face upon my bosom, without sense and without motion, the dull, gurgling sound in his throat alone giving assurance that life still remained!

“I cannot describe to you the alarm and horror of that moment. I could not shake him off. I had not strength to move the weighty mass. I dreaded, of all things, making a scene and disturbing the whole company, and called as loudly as the immense weight pressing upon my throat and bosom would allow me to do, for ‘Nino!’ But, alas! Nino had been deputed to the kitchen a few minutes before in search of the receipt for the _artichauts à la Barigoul_, and I was, therefore, compelled to support this ponderous mass unheeded, unobserved. In spite of the alarm and the personal inconvenience which I felt, for the big drops of perspiration were rolling down my face, and every muscle was strained to the utmost, yet was there something so ridiculous in the whole scene, that had it not been for that livid countenance so close to my own, those goggling, protruding eyeballs so close to mine, it would almost have created laughter; but it was too horrible! I shall never forget the expression of that face; it will haunt me to my dying day.

“How long I might have remained in this ludicrous position I know not, for every one was busy and boisterous, chatting and laughing with his neighbour; even the traitor La Bernardière had turned away and was now in full heat of a good story, which he was recounting to his companion on the other side, leaving me, as he imagined, fully occupied with the seduction of the archbishop. At length my deliverance was accomplished, the ever-watchful Nino, all breathless and panting hot from the kitchen, perceived my danger even from the door of the banqueting-hall, and, bounding across the floor, seized his master by the collar and pulled him backwards with violence into his chair, where he lay, motionless. By a simultaneous movement, as if attracted by some magic spell, the whole company turned at once towards us;—a cry of horror burst from the guests at the contemplation of that ghastly countenance. The confusion, of course, became general, every seat was abandoned, and the guests crowded round us with recommendations and offers of assistance; but the screaming voice of the piebald ‘Nino’ was heard loud above the hubbub and confusion. ‘Leave him to me; I know him of old. Stand back. Lord, as if this were the first time! You see he only wants to breathe, and he can’t, because his teeth are closed.’ With these words he seized upon the poor archbishop, and after looking round the table in vain for an instrument, he drew from his pocket a huge iron door-key, and attempted, with the effort of a Hercules, to force it between the set, clenched jaws of the archbishop. But alas! they were already set and clenched in death, and no human power could now avail.

“His grandeur was dead; the melancholy fact was too visible to all present, excepting, indeed, to the obtuse perceptions of ‘Nino,’ who, in spite of remonstrance and opposition, would insist on repeating his experiment, until at last, with a horrible crash, the strong front teeth of the archbishop gave way; and roused by the certitude of his misfortune, the unhappy Nino burst into a yell of despair which echoed to the very roof of the apartment. I leave you to judge of the effect of the whole scene, and of the extent of the appetite with which we returned to the table when the ugly sight was removed; and yet, no sooner had the ghastly corpse, borne upon men’s shoulders, and followed by the howling Nino, passed through the yawning door, than the conversation was resumed, perhaps even with more energy than before: the jingling of glasses, the clatter of knives were renewed with even more noisy glee, and soon, to all appearance, the very memory of the awful circumstance to which we had all borne witness seemed to have been forgotten, for the laughter and the shouting, the eager gesture and the noisy discussion were resumed, as if nought had happened to disturb the harmony of the meeting.

“The due meed of lying toasts were likewise bawled forth; vows for the ‘_Fraternity of Europe_,’ and ‘_Universal Union_,’ &c., with some few favourite names, were also shouted with much riot and applause. Disputes of the most animated kind, concerning the rival merits of divers of our public men, were also started and quelled, but never once was the subject with which every heart must have needs been full made the topic of a single observation. I observed that many, while loudest and most clamorous in their discourse, would cast a shuddering glance towards the chair which had so lately been filled with the violet robes and portly dignity of the Lord Archbishop, and which stood now empty and reproachful by my side; then, by a sudden effort turn away and grow more clamorous and noisy than before; but, as I have already said, not once was the subject of his miserable death alluded to in any one of the numberless speeches which were subsequently uttered. One would have thought that he had been forgotten on the instant, although his cover still remained upon the board, and his jewelled snuff-box still sparkled beside it. While yet the very presence of the man hovered round us, he was, to outward seeming, as much unthought of as though he had never been.”

This story gave rise to others of the same nature, and many were the anecdotes related of sudden death, the summons which startles men in the midst of revelry and festival, at council-board or in the judgment-seat. Some of these are well known, others would have but small interest for the general reader, but one of the most curious was told by the prince himself with the piquant raciness in which he so much excelled, and which has graven the history in my memory. It happened during a time, too, which possessed a peculiar interest to me—a time which, in spite of its importance, has found but few chroniclers—the period of the occupation of Paris by the allied armies, and the visit of the sovereigns of Europe, in 1815. Men’s minds were so agitated by the crowding of events the one upon the other, by dread anticipations of what would come next, that public feeling was taken by surprise, and scarcely had time to set up its own standard, or leisure to record its own impressions; this I take to be the reason why so few of the memoirs of our day contain any special description of the state of society at that time.

“I had been dining with a circle of wary, ever-watchful diplomates of the lesser kind, Russians, Austrians, and Prussians,” began the prince; “every word had been weighed in the balance of prudence and _prévoyance_ before I had ventured to give it utterance. Not a syllable of the conversation of others had been permitted to fall unheeded on my ear, and the extreme tension of intellect which it had required, both in weighing my own words and in watching those of others, had, at last, so wearied my mind, that I experienced a feeling of vacancy, an exhaustion of moral power, which might be compared to nothing but inebriation. When the repast was over, I strolled forth on foot to seek my old friend and comforter, Bergasse. I knew by experience that an hour spent with him would restore my spirit to its equilibrium, and soothe, by the counter-irritation of his fund of whimsical argument, the agitation of my nervous system. He was not at home, however, and I was turning away, disappointed, from his lodgings, when his valet, an old confidential servant, followed me with the information, that, if I needed Monsieur very much, he had left word where he was to be found; he had gone to the _soirée_ at Madame de Krudener’s; it was to be a grand gala night at her house, and the Emperor Alexander was to be among the guests!

“This information of course roused me at once from the fatigue and lethargy of my diplomatic dinner, and I determined to do that night what I had never done before, in spite of the frequent solicitations of the fair _philosophe_ herself, go to ‘the _soirée_ at Madame de Krudener’s;’ nay, there was something in the very project which seemed to revive my flagging spirits, and I set forth on my expedition, determined to be amused; this object being already more than half attained by the very determination alone.

“When I arrived in the Rue de Cléry, where Madame de Krudener then resided, I found the street impassable—a crowd of carriages of every description filling it from one end to the other. I immediately perceived among the number admitted into the courtyard the plain green carriage and unpretending liveries of the Emperor Alexander. It is an extraordinary thing how time and place will suddenly tend to the development of certain sentiments, which, even if they have existed before, have, perhaps, been rather repulsed than encouraged. Thus it was with me on the night in question. No sooner had I beheld the pressure of the crowd, the difficulty of obtaining admittance into the sanctum of Madame de Krudener, than I was seized with an indescribable longing to press forward, and a regret that I had never been to her receptions before. It was some time before I could force my way through the dense mass of visitors which obstructed the staircase. However, in all matters, great or small, everything happens, to those who know how to wait with patience, and my turn did come in due course, and I also found myself ushered into the mighty presence. How different did I find this _huitaine_ from those I had witnessed at her former residence!

“The whole scene of former days flashed upon me, as I made my way through the rooms towards the sanctorum wherein the divinity of the place sat enshrined in mysterious and hallowed seclusion. When I had last beheld her, before her departure for Riga, she was in the bloom of youth and beauty; her complexion, of exquisite fairness, bespoke her northern origin, while the delicate and graceful form bore all the softness of the south. The long ringlets of golden hair which shaded her face in such rich luxuriance had been the theme of many an ode and sonnet, while her grace in the dance had made many an unhappy ‘Gustave’ among the sad _incroyables_ of the day.

“I now found her, after a lapse of years, the same in all things, and yet, how strangely altered! Her youth was gone; and her beauty, of which she still possessed some little share, no longer satisfied that ardent thirst of admiration, that morbid, eager craving for popularity, which had possessed her soul from her childhood upwards. She had been greeted with divine honours, and divinity she would insist upon remaining, in spite of the change which had taken place both in herself and in her worshippers. She had exchanged her pedestal of alabaster, wreathed with roses, for one of mere painted paste-board, and only maintained her _àplomb_ upon its narrow surface by the strangest efforts and contortions. It was a curious scene; such a one as I should have thought it impossible to see enacted in the nineteenth century.

“The rooms were crowded; and, with an admirable comprehension of theatrical display, the fair hostess remained in the furthermost of all from the entrance. A space of the width of the doorways through which you had to pass was kept vacant for the approach of strangers. It was thus that, through a long lane of curious gazers, I was e’en forced to wend my way towards the place where Madame de Krudener sat, in her hallowed and almost solitary glory. In the midst of all that was singular in this extraordinary reception, what struck me most was the unearthly silence which reigned in the assembly. Not a word was uttered above a whisper, and the few greetings of friendly recognition with which I was hailed as I passed through the _seven_ chambers, all crowded to excess, were scarcely audible from the low tone in which they were uttered. The room which Madame had honoured with her preference was a very small boudoir at the extreme end of the apartment. I observed in a moment that those which I had traversed were dimly and poorly lighted, although there was animation enough imparted to the assembly by the gay _parure_ of the ladies, and the glittering uniforms of all nations, which were gathered there; but the effect was so artistically managed, that, as you looked forward down a narrow, shaded vista, the single point brilliantly lighted—the white dress of the lady became the immediate centre of attraction.

“Madame received me most graciously, and I will confess that it was not without some emotion that I bent low to kiss her hand. She courteously reminded me of former times, and, in the sweetest tones which ever fell upon the human ear, reproached me gently for my tardy compliance with her oft-repeated invitation. There certainly was something irresistible in her voice and manner; for I, who had come prepared to resist, yielded to the charm without a struggle, and gazed at her with an interest which I had little expected to feel. She was at that time fast verging towards the dreaded forty, and it was even said that it was merely owing to the disagreement in the two calendars that she had not already passed that fatal boundary, and she defended herself, with most amusing earnestness, against the charge brought forward by the evil-disposed persons who accused her of being both ‘visionary and quadragenary.’ However, time had dealt kindly with her, having left traces of his passage more upon her figure than her face. Both had increased and spread; the bloom and freshness had departed, but wrinkles and suffusion had not yet arrived.

“She was attired in a robe of her own invention, made of some kind of woollen stuff of the purest white, long, full, and flowing, with sleeves which reached to the very ground; the whole was edged with silver, and the robe was confined at the waist by a silver girdle. Her hair, which was still beautiful as ever, although not quite of so bright a golden hue as I remembered it, hung loose down her back and over her bosom, reaching to the waist in the most beautiful ringlets, which, whether the effect of nature or of art, were well calculated to enhance the expression of her inspired attitudes. There was exquisite coquetry in the manner in which, by a gentle movement, she shook the ringlets from her brow, in order to clear her vision, when any new visitor drew near, and in the peculiarly graceful motion with which she would draw her hand now and then across her eyes, as if to shade the light for an instant, during which the snowy fingers, laden with gems, glistened through the drooping curls with an effect perfectly bewildering.

“She was reclining upon a low divan which ran along the wall, supported by cushions of crimson velvet, which set off her fair complexion and the dazzling whiteness of her dress to the greatest advantage. On one side stood the Emperor Alexander, attired in a suit of black, with no mark of his high rank save the glittering star of brilliants on his bosom. If he had come prepared to heighten the effect of Madame de Krudener’s _tableau_, he could not have adopted a costume and bearing more in harmony with her intentions. On the other side, leaning backward in his chair, with the most perfect nonchalance imaginable, sat the King of Prussia _en personne_. Before I had recovered from the surprise which the latter discovery had occasioned, my hand was seized in a friendly grasp by my old friend and ally, Bergasse, who, together with a sombre, wild-looking individual, was seated on a low stool at the feet of the prophetess, both having, apparently, been occupied in transcribing the words which fell from her lips, for each was armed with a _calpin_ and pencil-case.

“When I had paid my respects to the lady, I was about to retire, as I supposed was the etiquette for casual visitors, but I was destined to feel the advantage of possessing a ‘friend at court,’ for Bergasse drew me gently back, and led me to a seat in the corner of the room, where I remained an observer, unobserved, of all that was going on around me. Bergasse endeavoured for a moment to satisfy my curiosity by a few brief answers to my whispered questions, but he had no time to waste upon a poor, uninitiated novice like myself, and he soon left me, and resumed his seat by the side of his necromantic-looking companion. However, from the few short words he had found time to utter, he informed me that I was in great good luck that evening, for Madame de Krudener was in one of her most ecstatic moods, and had already three times experienced the state of _extase_, and, while under this influence, had given utterance to some of the most powerful and most beautiful prophecies and denunciations, which himself and his friend had most righteously transcribed, word for word, and in the order of their utterance.

“‘Who is your companion?’ said I, pointing to the long, thin figure in black which remained gathered up at the feet of the lady.

“‘That is our new _illuminé_,’ returned Bergasse, triumphantly. ‘It is Jüng Stilling, who has left home, family, and friends, to follow our inspired mistress. I have attached myself to Madame de Krudener from admiration and conviction; he has done so from the sympathy of mystic science, the strongest of all ties. How I regret, my friend, that I began not life as I now am ending it, in communion with the lofty-minded, the inspired. How I grieve now over the time lost, the unambitious aims of my youth! Why come you not with us? In our existence is true happiness only to be found.’

“‘What further he would have added I know not, for, just then, the dull, sepulchral voice of Jüng Stilling called him by his name, and he slunk back to his side, leaving me to contemplate the scene before me.

“There was a moment of deadly silence after Bergasse had regained his seat. Madame de Krudener sat motionless, staring with fixed, unmeaning gaze upon the vacant space before her. The Emperor Alexander stood in passive expectation, not a muscle of his features disturbed, while the King of Prussia, who at that time never left his side and never turned his gaze from the autocratical countenance, looked at it now with more intent and searching earnestness. Presently the seeress started from her dream, and slowly arose from the divan where she had been reclining. She waved her arm aloft, while yet her fixed gaze wavered not, and moved a step or two forward. Nothing could exceed the grandeur of her appearance at that moment. The long robe in which she was enveloped, drooped in graceful folds about her person, and the loose sleeve fell back from the extended arm, and displayed its rounded form and snowy whiteness with most bewitching effect. She spoke—her voice was deep and solemn, and its accents fell with slow and measured cadence on the ear.

“‘Let us pray,’ said she; then paused; while I could hear from the rooms beyond, and which I had traversed on my entrance, that peculiar agitation and bustle which precedes the change of position in churches. ‘Let us pray; all sinners that ye are, sink upon your knees, and beg forgiveness from the God of heaven!’ exclaimed she, in a louder tone; and in a moment, while yet she stood with arms uplifted, and with her head thrown back, every person present, from Alexander, the autocrat of all the Russias, to the very waiters who had been handing the refreshments to the company, sank down upon their knees, and bowed their foreheads to the very ground! She herself knelt not, but remained standing, while she poured forth a prayer, spoken in earnest and burning language; words of which I have not been able to recall a syllable to memory, so absorbed was I in contemplation of all that was passing. I verily believe that of all that multitude—for I think there must have been at least five hundred persons present—there was not a soul save myself who had dared to remain seated; and with me it was neither mockery nor bravado which had caused me to disobey the injunction, but at the moment I was so taken by surprise, so absorbed with the novelty of the scene, that I was scarcely conscious of the impropriety of which I was guilty. To speak truth, I was busy comparing the circumstances now passing before me, with those under which I had last beheld Madame de Krudener; Garat, the opera singer, and Bernardin de St. Pierre were then her supporters. Sounds of mirth and festivity, the light _fiorituri_ of Garat, the mildly-caustic declamation of Bernardin, had given place to the solemn tones of the prophetess, the language of love and gallantry to the language of prayer.

“She continued, for the space of at least an hour, in a state of inspiration, never ceasing, during all that time, to hold on her discourse with the same unhesitating eloquence. She spoke of Alexander, ‘the white angel of the north,’ predicting for him and his descendants, glory, happiness, and honour, unlimited sway from the rising of the sun to the setting of the same. Then did she revert to the black angel of the south, foretelling that he ‘would escape from his second cage like a chained lion.’

“The prophecies were uttered with a self-confidence, an implicit belief, which I could not but admire; it was so well calculated to inspire the same feeling in others. The only drawback was the reflection that none of them had as yet come true.

“This state of _extase_ lasted for some time after the prayer was ended, during which the whole assembly remained kneeling. I bent forward and looked through the open door; not a single gesture of impatience, not a single wandering glance could I detect among the crowd. Every head was bent low. Some even kissed the very floor; and it really was a curious sight to behold those dainty ladies, those gaily-dressed courtiers, whose costume of white kerseymere knee-breeches and silk stockings was anything but favourable to the kneeling posture, remain thus without a murmur, so long as it pleased the fair preacher to hold them in expectation that she would resume her discourse.

“The prayer was ended at length, and every one arose, gently, without confusion and without noise, and sank again into their seats in silent meditation, which continued undisturbed by a single sound for several minutes. The prophetess had fallen back upon her ottoman, and her golden locks completely buried her face beneath their shadow. I would have given much to have been sure of the expression of her countenance, for once I became aware that her eye sought mine, and then I observed that she turned aside to avoid my scrutiny. Bergasse sprang to my side in delight and triumph. ‘Is she not splendid?’ inquired he, with a naïveté of tone and manner at which I was highly amused. ‘You have heard her in her glory to-night,’ he whispered in my ear, with an air of the greatest mystery, while his countenance changed from the expression of childish admiration, which it had worn when he had addressed me, to that of awe and wonder—‘She has had a _pressentiment_, and is under its influence still.’ He took my arm, and walked with me through the crowd into the adjoining room.

“As I left the sacred boudoir, I beheld the ‘white angel of the north’ in busy conversation with the prophetess, and the unhappy King of Prussia bending forward, eager to catch the slightest syllable which fell from the lips of the speakers; but the effort was vain; his neck was too short, and his eye wandered from the one to the other with the restless, unquiet look of a person afflicted with deafness.

“Bergasse turned to me as soon as we were alone. ‘There is something dreadful about to happen,’ said he, in a solemn whisper. ‘She has had her _pressentiment_ to-night, and she has never deceived us yet. Something awful is about to occur here; in this very apartment, perhaps—in this very room, upon the very spot where we now are standing!’ He seized my arm and drew me nearer to his side, then added—‘My dearest friend, some one is about to DIE beneath this very roof!’ I drew back aghast; but Bergasse seemed too much _exalté_ by his subject to care if even he himself were the victim, provided the prophecy of his divinity came true. ‘Yes,’ added he, with a grim smile, ‘_she_ has felt that death is walking amongst us; he is now, at this moment, choosing his victim. She has insisted on my sending home my nephew. She wished me to depart also, but I must not leave her. Even while I am dallying with you, I am losing the precious words which fall with such sweet unction from her tongue.’

“He left me abruptly, and hurried back to the boudoir of Madame de Krudener, while I remained lost in astonishment, to think that the man, who had once dealt terror into the heart of the boldest satirist that ever existed—he who had for awhile, by his energy and sarcastic bitterness alone, arrested the headlong progress of Beaumarchais, and turned the popular tide of ridicule against him who had so long ridiculed all things with impunity, should have thus become, in his old age, the puling slave of a self-deluded impostor, who was prompted in the comedy she was playing by the wild vagaries of the ex-tailor, Jüng Stilling. I left the soirée with feelings of mingled pity and disgust, to which was added, a strange suspicion concerning the motive which actuated the ‘white angel of the north’ in thus making this public display of his admiration of the prophetess, and consenting to be made one of the _coryphées_ in the theatrical representations she was thus in the habit of giving.

“I was scarcely awake the next morning, when Bergasse rushed into my room, exclaiming, in a tone of triumph, ‘She did not deceive—it was true—the _pressentiment_ was justified! Why did you not stay till later?—you would have _seen_ the truth with your own eyes, and have been an unbeliever no longer.’ With the artful tact of a professed marvel-monger, he allowed me time for reflection after he had pronounced these words, and then resumed, as soon as he perceived that I had collected my wandering senses.

“‘You were no sooner gone, my friend, than her inspired prophecy of last evening was fulfilled. I was seated where you had left me, at her feet, when a young man of the Neapolitan embassy, who had been hovering around the door, gathered sufficient courage to enter the boudoir and make his bow to Madame de Krudener. His name was Carascola; he had arrived but a few days since from Naples. Madame de Krudener had known his mother, and in courtesy and kindness felt in duty bound to ask him some few questions concerning the prospects and intentions which had led him to Paris. He had answered her questions with that embarrassed timidity with which young men are used to reply to their superiors, and Madame de Krudener had already dismissed him, and turned again to the “white angel of the north,” whose conversation had been interrupted by the young man’s entrance, when suddenly she started from the sofa as though a pistol-shot had been fired through her brain, and darting on me a look of terror, she exclaimed, faintly, “Bergasse, the hour is come—nought can save us from the approach of our Sovereign Lord and Master. He is here—his choice is made.” At that very instant, I give you my honour as a gentleman, I beheld Carascola, who was leaving us, full of youthful spirit, to gain the outer room, fall forward upon the floor, without stumbling, without resistance, without convulsion, but rather as it were sink down softly as though seeking repose, and there lie stretched his full length, without sense and without motion. A crowd soon gathered round him, and they raised him up; his countenance was pale and his features frightfully swollen, even in that minute; a doctor who was present opened a vein upon the forehead, but it was all of no avail. She had spoken truth. Death had chosen his victim, and that victim was Carascola.’

“Such was the tale which Bergasse had come so early to my bedside to tell me. I ascertained, that very day, that it was true in every particular, and was certainly an extraordinary proof of the possibility of an almost supernatural coincidence. I doubt not that Madame de Krudener had often experienced these _pressentiments_ before, but I much doubt whether any one of them ever came true so rapidly, so _àpropos,_ as in this case. The young man had evidently been in a bad state of health, perhaps subject to fits, from his childhood, and on this occasion the excitement of meeting with the august personage he had come to visit, the heat of the room, the emotion of the prayer and prophecies, must have caused a congestion of the brain. I can, however, vouch for the entire truth of the fact I have related; you must yourselves arrange the causes, according to your own scepticism or powers of belief.”

The prince arose as he concluded his story; his toilet was completed, and he was released from his tormentors. I was sorry to behold the morning conference thus breaking up, for I could have listened on until sunset. I dared, however, to hazard one single question. “Did you ever see Madame de Krudener after this?”

The prince bit his lip slily. “Never so close as on that night,” returned he; “but from a distance, as such great luminaries should only be gazed at by vulgar mortals like ourselves. It was at the review of Alexander’s troops in the _plaine des Vertus_, a ceremony of which she has left us such a flaming description. But alas! already was she no longer the object of exclusive adoration to the ‘white angel of the north,’ for I observed that his head was often close under the pink bonnet of Madame du C——, while the yellow ringlets and broad straw hat of Madame de Krudener were left to float unheeded in the wind. The purpose for which he had been playing the comedy of such assiduous attendance at her prayer-meetings was evidently answered, and he cared no longer to expose himself to ridicule for her sake. Soon after this, she left Paris for ever, and I beheld her no more. But my niece, who, like many of her sex, was infatuated with the eloquence and talents of Madame de Krudener, followed her to the Greuzacher Horn, whither she had retired. Here she sank lower in the scale, and no longer preached to kings and emperors, but to an immense army of ragged proselytes, whom her generosity in alms-giving, more than her pious exhortations, had drawn around her. This same army followed her, I believe, in all her wanderings, and I am told that at her death the little colony established itself at Karasoubazar, where it is flourishing still, and where almost divine honours are paid to her remains; pilgrimages are performed to her tomb to this very day, and miracles are wrought as freely as at many other shrines.

“It is certain that the game which Alexander deemed it worth his while to play was a deep one, for its object has not been discovered to this very day. I know, from the best authority, that for a long time he counterfeited entire obedience to her commands, fasted, prayed, and wept, beat his bosom and tore his hair when she so ordered it—took the whole responsibility of the absurd and childish project of the Holy Alliance upon his own shoulders—and, in short, gave himself up to the guidance of one whom he feigned to consider as Heaven-inspired. And when the allied sovereigns—who had all, at first, been blinded by the tinsel of the framework of that famous treaty—turned round and laughed it to scorn, shamed by the blunt good sense of England, who had pronounced the document _unintelligible_ and refused to sign, Alexander—whether from misplaced _amour propre_, or from real conviction, still remains a mystery—would never consent to withdraw his signature. Whatever may be the merits of the conception of that mighty work, it certainly sprang from the brain of Madame de Krudener alone; but when complimented upon the stupendous, though ‘unintelligible,’ design, it was her wont to reply with great modesty, while she flung back her ringlets and looked towards Heaven, ‘The Holy Alliance is the immediate work of God. It is He who has chosen me for his weak, uncertain instrument, and it is He who has inspired me with the idea of uniting the sovereigns of Europe in the holy bonds of brotherly love, for the good of the great human family under their charge.’”

The prince had moved towards the door even before his words were quite concluded, and, to my regret, he turned and bowed to us on the threshold, and then passed out. It was the hour for business, and he retired to his own study until the carriage was announced for his morning drive.

* * * * *

That very evening, the courier from Paris brought me the summons to repair to my station, which I dared not disobey; that official summons, sealed with the official seal, and stamped with the official _griffe_, which strikes such terror into the hearts of youthful aspirants to diplomatic fame. I have grown older and wiser since that time, and have in my turn despatched many an official summons to strike terror into the heart of some diplomatic tyro. I have lived to satisfy even my mother’s ambitious hopes, and have had my full share both of diplomatic toils and their glittering reward; but I can never look back without an overwhelming gratitude and regret towards the time when, unknown and obscure, I passed those pleasant hours in the society of the great and illustrious Prince de Talleyrand, during that short vacation at Valençay.