THE LAST ACT

Talleyrand had acquired through his long experience a sense of political equilibrium. Men of science point out to us in lowly marine organisms a little vesicle filled with fluid and containing a little stone. It is the organ by which they feel that they are ascending or descending. In some such way Talleyrand felt the motion when the governing power had begun to descend a slope. In the later twenties he knew, as many did, that Charles X was moving towards the abyss into which he had seen so many plunge. The King was too narrowly Catholic to love Talleyrand, and, though their relation was amiable enough during the Martignac Ministry, Talleyrand’s house became once more the centre of the opposition. All the older Liberals and a large number of the younger men used to gather about his couch in the morning, or fill his rooms in the evening from eleven to one. The Martignac Ministry was the last effort to stem the tide of reaction. But Charles X was quietly hostile to its enlightened policy, and he dismissed it at the first check. On August 8th (1829) he bade the Prince de Polignac, a man of his own views, form a Clerical ministry. Talleyrand left Paris for Rochecotte in the interest of his health. It was said in Paris that, as when Napoleon set out for Russia, he had declared it “the beginning of the end.”

At Rochecotte he was visited by MolÉ, Sebastiani, de Broglie, Villemain, and numbers of other politicians. Thiers also was there, but Talleyrand regarded him rather as a promising writer than a politician. There was no plotting at Rochecotte. It was unnecessary. While Polignac was receiving directions from the Virgin Mary in visions for the governing of France, Liberal leagues were being organised everywhere, and the second revolution was preparing. “A thousand sinister rumours are circulating in the capital,” said an orator from the tribune. In March (1830) Roger Collard presented to the King an address, voted by the Chamber and drawn up by Guizot and himself. The King replied by proroguing the Chamber until September. “So you have decided on prorogation,” said Talleyrand to one of the ministers. “Well, I think I shall buy a little property in Switzerland.” Charles X declared he would make no concessions. Weakness had destroyed Louis XVI; “for my part I have no alternative but the throne or the scaffold.” “He forgets the post-chaise,” said Talleyrand.

In May Talleyrand was back at Rochecotte, tending his peaches and flowers as he loved to do, and discussing the situation with Thiers, Mignet, and others. The elections had gone heavily against the ministers. On June 11th he wrote to the Princess de Vaudemont that “the decisive moment was at hand.” On the 14th he wrote to Barante, “We are moving onward towards an unknown world, without pilot or compass: the only certain thing is that it will all end in shipwreck.” Although he had certainly discussed the change from Bourbons to Orleanists with his friends, he was really in a state of great concern and anxiety. It was not at all certain that they would be consulted as to the future. The excesses of the Clerical and Royalist party had so deeply moved the country that a bloody rebellion and mob-triumph was possible. In July he was back at Paris. On the 26th appeared the royal ordinances that would destroy the liberty of the press, dissolve the Chamber, and manipulate the elections. On the following day he saw the troops marching to destroy the machines of the rebellious printers, and the first barricades raised in their path. It is said that he had the large golden sign, “Hotel Talleyrand,” taken down from over the gate of his house. His darkest recollections of 1792 were revived. On the morning of the 28th the streets of Paris were found to be cut everywhere with barricades. The tricolour floated from the roof of the Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame.

The long days of the 28th and 29th were spent in great anxiety. His secretary (or that extremely imaginative person who has dressed up and expounded Colmache’s “Recollections”) says that when the tocsin rang out on the morning of the 28th the Prince exclaimed: “Hark! We triumph.” When the man asked who triumphed, he is said to have answered: “Hush! I will tell you to-morrow.” On the 29th he tried to induce the peers to take a definite line, but they were too timid. On the 30th the rumour spread that the King had fled from St. Cloud. He sent his secretary to make inquiries at the palace, and heard that it was so. He then sent Colmache with a note, to be burned in the secretary’s presence or returned to him, to the sister of the Duc d’OrlÉans, Mme. AdÉlaide, who was at Neuilly with the Duke. The note merely said: “Madame may have full confidence in the bearer, who is my secretary.” The secretary was instructed to tell her that the Duke must come to Paris and call himself Lieutenant-General of the kingdom—“the rest will follow.” Before night the Duke was at the Palais Royal. Charles X had withdrawn his inspired ordinances at three o’clock that afternoon, but it was too late. The Republicans were gradually controlled, and the Duke of Orleans was accepted as the head of the State.

This was Talleyrand’s share in the second Revolution, and the fifth change of government in France during his career. He took his last oath of loyalty without hesitation. Speaking once to an Imperialist who distrusted him, he said: “I have never kept fealty to anyone when he has himself ceased to obey the dictates of common sense. If you will judge all my actions by this rule you will find that I have been eminently consistent.” Certainly, there is no serious need of justifying his conduct in 1830. He had plainly told Louis XVIII the conditions on which the Bourbons were reinstated. “Governments exist to-day solely for the people.” Louis and his friends had tried to reverse the principle. Charles X had thought government a branch of the Church.

Talleyrand’s restoration to public affairs was a matter of course. Louis-Philippe offered him the Foreign Ministry, but he felt that the embassy at London would be at once less onerous and more important. Once more Talleyrand’s bias towards England proved its soundness. They agreed that London must be made the pivot of France’s foreign policy. Austria, Russia, and Prussia looked with little favour on the new outburst of French revolutionary ardour, or on the monarchy it had set up on deliberate utilitarian grounds. The best guarantee for the preservation of peace was to convince and draw close to England. Here, again, where the principles on which the throne of Louis-Philippe was raised should be familiar enough, there was (apart from the trouble that supervened in Belgium) a very natural tendency to view the outburst with alarm. Wellington had said in 1815, when the Duke of OrlÉans was proposed for the French throne, that he would be “merely a well-bred usurper.” What would he say now? The instability of Louis-Philippe’s first ministry and the propagandist expressions of the revolutionaries at Paris made the situation more difficult. It was decided that Talleyrand would be most useful at London. He received a very amiable reply from Lord Aberdeen (then Foreign Minister) to the announcement of his appointment, and left Paris on September 22nd, and reached “beautiful England, so rich, so peaceful,” a few days later. The cannonade at Dover that welcomed his arrival reminded him of the day when he had last quitted the country under an ignominious order of expulsion.

There were many sources of opposition to Talleyrand’s mission, and he was at first exposed to great annoyance. Caricatures in Piccadilly shops represented him as a cripple leading the blindfolded Kings of Europe, or as a trainer leading a monkey dressed in the livery of the new French monarchy. In society he had to face a good deal of prejudice against the new regime. He had his own way of answering it. “Say what you like,” the Russian Ambassador’s wife once said in his presence, “what has taken place in France is a flagrant usurpation.” “You are quite right, madame,” he replied. “Only it is to be regretted it did not take place fifteen years ago when your master, Alexander, desired it.” The Princess Lieven afterwards became friendly. On the other hand he was well received by Aberdeen and cordially welcomed by Wellington and his older friends.

The personnel of his embassy was not impressive, he himself admits. In the obituary notice of him a few years later in the Morning Post, he is described as receiving visitors in his salon with a high hat and a huge tricolour rosette on it, while three young sansculottists lounged with revolutionary freedom on the couch. This was an echo of the hostility of 1830. Talleyrand had always been strongly opposed to the obtrusion of French revolutionary feelings at other courts or capitals, and is not likely to have furnished the slightest ground for this gibe over his coffin. He had brought the Duchess de Dino with him, and this relieved the character of his mission. Such productions of the time as “Raikes’ Journal” indicate how prominent and distinguished a place he at once took up in the country. In fact the writer in the Morning Post himself says that in time Palmerston was almost the only man to stand conspicuously aloof from the aged Prince, and speak of him disdainfully as “old Tally.”

The great issue that complicated his work at London was the revolt of Belgium against the Dutch. Talleyrand had looked forward to the not uncongenial task of introducing the new monarchy into the respectable society of the older ones in Europe by prevailing on England to espouse its cause. Knowing well the pacific feeling of Louis-Philippe and his political integrity, he had every reason to hope for success in this without more than an easy and cheerful use of his own accomplishments. Aristocratic feeling even in England was suspicious and reserved. He would disarm it, and place in the hands of the French Foreign Office the strong card of England’s friendship. Unfortunately for his peace, the spirit of the Revolution spread immediately into Belgium, and the Dutch were gradually driven out of the country. It was England especially that had created this joint kingdom of the Netherlands in 1815, and she now looked with concern on what seemed to be an attempt of France to regain the control of Belgium.

The news from France increased the difficulty. There was a strong and loud demand at Paris for the annexation of the rich, and largely French, provinces of Belgium, and this was echoed by a considerable party at Brussels. So powerful was the feeling and so moving the temptation, that the French Cabinet itself inclined to it and the King hesitated. From the end of October until the end of February Talleyrand had to fight the whole of Paris, as well as allay anxiety at London. But he was convinced that a general war would ensue if France directly or indirectly recovered control of Belgium, and he fought bravely for peace against King and ministers and people. Non-intervention was the word that he pleaded unceasingly at London and thundered at Paris. There is a story that when someone at London asked him to define non-intervention he said it was “a metaphysical and political term that meant pretty much the same thing as intervention.” He may have said so for the fun of the phrase, but his correspondence with Paris shows that he was in deepest earnest about it.

His policy at London was perfectly straight, but unfortunately his diplomatic history made many hesitate to accept it as such. It is said that once under the Empire some piece of news relating to Spain had reached the knowledge of the Spanish Minister, and Napoleon grumbled. Talleyrand said he would put the matter right. He went to M. d’Azara, said that he had something important to whisper to him regarding his country, and then told him precisely the piece of news that had leaked out. D’Azara was so far unable to conceive Talleyrand speaking the truth in such a matter that he concluded the whole story was a hoax, and wrote to his Government to disregard the information he had sent them. At London in 1830 and 1831 Talleyrand was pleading in perfect sincerity for non-intervention, but Palmerston (who came to the Foreign Office in November) and others were unable to believe him. The more he assured them of his struggle against his own Government, the more they suspected him. Palmerston dreaded his diplomatic ascendancy, and looked for his secret inspiration in every movement towards war and territorial expansion that was reported from Paris.

There was no unreality about Talleyrand’s statement that he was fighting his own Government. In November they sent Count Flahaut to assist him in London and induce him to favour the scheme of a partition of Belgium between Holland, England, Prussia, and France. Talleyrand told him he would cut off his right hand before signing such a treaty, and sent him back to Paris. Sebastiani (Foreign Minister) then sounded Talleyrand on a scheme for making the King’s son, the Duc de Nemours, King of Belgium, and was told that it was a “mad idea.” Talleyrand, in fact, resorted to the device of writing constantly to the King’s sister, Mme. AdÉlaide, and told her the Duke “must absolutely refuse” the Belgian crown if it were offered to him. He believed that Belgium would not remain a distinct nation (in which his sagacity failed altogether), and might eventually fall to France, but for the moment it was “a secondary matter.” “We must make France first,” he said. But the Congress at Brussels on February 3rd did invite the Duc de Nemours to the throne, and Paris wavered once more. Talleyrand signed a protocol at London engaging France to refuse the crown for the Duc de Nemours. Sebastiani complained seriously, and Talleyrand had to submit, but added that “if it seemed to him at any time that there would be imminent danger of war if he refused to sign the protocols of the Conference, and the real interests of France were not at stake, he would sign them in accordance with the first instructions given him,” and threatened to leave London if the situation did not improve in Paris. Moreover, when, under the influence of a deputy from Brussels, the King wavered again, and Sebastiani sent word that his reply was postponed, Talleyrand refused to submit his message to Palmerston.

The Conference to which he alludes was sitting on the Belgian question at London. When England proposed an international Conference, Talleyrand was instructed to demand that it be held at Paris, and he did so. His personal opinion was, however, that Paris was in too insecure a condition, and he was not disappointed when London was decided on. He had made up his mind from the first that Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg was the fittest candidate for the Belgian throne. To this there was no serious opposition at London, and a change of Ministry at Paris in March brought Casimir PÉrier to the head of affairs. With this able statesman and friend Talleyrand could make more progress, though he described his advance on Ancona as “a piece of filibustering.” By the middle of July Leopold was accepted in Belgium, and the irritating problem was settled.

But one difficulty was removed only to lead to another. Talleyrand had in April (1831) obtained from the Allies of 1815 a secret promise that some of the fortresses raised at that time against France should be demolished. Louis-Philippe wanted to be able to announce this welcome decision in his July address. As Talleyrand was dilatory in obtaining permission, the King made the announcement and declared he would not evacuate Belgium until the forts were destroyed. His ambassador had meantime secured the assent of the Powers, but had also signed a promise to evacuate Belgium in August. The King was much annoyed, but Talleyrand politely requested him and PÉrier not to make so much noise about the fortresses. To a private correspondent he wrote that he was tired to death of fighting Paris, when his whole attention was needed at London. He could see nothing but amour propre in the agitation at Paris. The struggle continued for some time. Louis-Philippe wanted different forts destroyed from those that Talleyrand had named, and wrote angrily to him. His ambassador sent a polite and sarcastic reply, and the names of the forts remained unchanged when the matter was settled in January. Talleyrand’s weariness expressed itself in the following passage of a letter to Sebastiani, which would probably be submitted to Louis-Philippe: “The King knows that I am a partisan of no dynasty. Since the days of Louis XVI I have served all Governments out of attachment to my country. I have abandoned them the moment they sacrificed the interests of France to personal interests. If the King is going to listen to domestic chatterers, he must not count on me.” It was the voice of the King-maker.

At London he had maintained his diplomatic ascendancy, though Palmerston annoyed him exceedingly. There was a good deal of ill-natured carping at his distinction. One day Lord Londonderry was misguided enough to voice this in the House of Lords. He referred to the influence of a certain “astute diplomatist” over the Conference, and said it was “disgusting” to see English Ministers in such assiduous attendance on this man. Talleyrand, he peevishly reminded them, had been the Minister of Napoleon, of Louis, and of Charles, before he took the service of Louis-Philippe. Lord Goderich protested that Talleyrand’s character should have protected him from such an attack, and then Wellington arose. After speaking of his relations to Talleyrand, he said: “I have no hesitation in saying that at that time, in every one of the great transactions in which I have been engaged with Prince Talleyrand, no man could have conducted himself with more firmness and ability with regard to his own country, or with more uprightness and honour in all his communications with the Ministers of other countries than Prince Talleyrand.... No man’s public and private character had ever been so much belied as both the public and private character of that individual.” His words were greeted with loud cheers. Lord Holland added that “forty years’ acquaintance with the noble individual referred to enabled him to bear his testimony to the fact that although those forty years had been passed during a time peculiarly fraught with calumnies of every description, there had been no man’s private character more shamefully traduced, and no man’s public character more mistaken and misrepresented, than the private and public character of Prince Talleyrand.” A visitor the next morning found the aged diplomatist in tears, with the Times in his hand. He wrote to a friend that “at Paris, for which he was killing himself, no one would do as much for him.” Cynics have not failed to point the moral. But it was merely a grateful exaggeration. Casimir PÉrier wrote to him soon afterwards: “Posterity will do you that full justice which, in times of social agitation, those who have charge of public interests must not expect from their contemporaries.” Unfortunately, posterity still likes to shudder over romantic wickedness.

Casimir PÉrier died in May, and there were not a few at Paris who thought of Talleyrand as his successor. The Prince was rather bent on retiring from public life. He went over to Paris, and found a condition of comparative anarchy resulting from the death of the strong leader. However, an abler Ministry than ever was got together, and in October he returned to London. If the chroniclers may be trusted, his wit had not diminished with age. A poet of suspicious repute had issued a piece on which his opinion was asked. “C’est que la corruption engendre les vers,” he replied. A more questionable story is that he found Montrond one day in a fit on the floor, clawing at the carpet with his nails. “It looks as if he is quite determined to go down,” he is described as saying.

The Belgian trouble was still unsettled, and in October he signed a convention with England to compel the Dutch to retire from Antwerp in obedience to the Conference. French troops were sent into Belgium, the Prussians massed a considerable force on the frontier, and this was a brief period of great anxiety. The Dutch did not finally yield until May, 1833. But this difficulty had scarcely disappeared before a fresh one arose. The Sultan of Turkey had appealed to Russia for help in subduing a rebellious vassal, and signed a treaty with the Tsar in July. The French were, however, jealous of Russian interference, and Talleyrand had to press at London for joint action. Nothing was done, however, when Russia anticipated them, though there was no slight risk of war at one time.

The crown and end of Talleyrand’s work in England came in April, 1834, when he signed the alliance between England, France, Spain, and Portugal. In August of that year he left England, and shortly afterwards resigned his position of ambassador. A number of reasons for this step are assigned in his letters at the time, though his age and the completion of his work at London by an alliance might be deemed sufficient. To Lady Jersey he spoke of a personal affliction, which is surmised to have been the death of the Countess Tyszkiewitz. To Mme. AdÉlaide he complained of his growing infirmity of the legs, and the behaviour of Palmerston; and also that her son, the Duc d’OrlÉans, had been telling his own English guests at ValenÇay that he was past work. He declared to Von Gagern that he “only quitted affairs because there were none to attend to”; while to the King he explained that he had now secured “the right of citizenship” for France in Europe, and his work was over. All these motives influenced him, no doubt; but there was another one, of some interest. He had witnessed at London the growing agitation for reform, and completely failed to appreciate it. As the agitation wore on, he spoke moodily of the state of France in 1789. The convocation of the first reformed parliament in 1833 he described as “the States-General of London.” He was too old to understand the new movement, to see a permanent and proper advance beneath all the menacing clamour. England was no longer “so rich and peaceful.” He wrote slightingly to the King of her value to France, and thought rather of a coalition of Europe against what he thought to be a rising tide of anarchy.

He resisted, therefore, the kindly pressure of the King and retired to ValenÇay. “There is,” he wrote to a correspondent, “an interval between life and death that should be employed in dying decently.” There still remained three or four years of life. It is said that he offered to go as ambassador to Vienna in 1835, but Louis-Philippe was apprehensive of advances being made to him by the Bourbons. In that year were published, in the Revue des Deux Mondes, George Sand’s outrageous Lettres d’un voyageur. Imagining her traveller to stand by moonlight before the chateau of ValenÇay, she puts into his mouth some of the most repulsive calumnies against Talleyrand, as the silhouetted forms appear at the windows. The subject of her ridiculous nightmares was then an old man in his eighty-first year, peacefully concluding his memoirs and passing the last slow days in the company of the Duchess of Dino and her young daughter, Pauline. Maubreuil was hardly less chivalrous. George Sand was a not distant neighbour, and her description of his “daily round” may be less imaginative. He rose at eleven, and spent three or four hours (?) in the hands of his valets. At three he had a drive round the park with his doctor, and at five enjoyed “the most succulent and artistic dinner in France.” After a few words to his family, he would drive in the park again until eleven, and then work in his own room until five o’clock. Visitors still made their pilgrimages to ValenÇay. We find Sir Robert and Lady Peel there in 1836. His mind is described as retaining its vigour and perspicacity, but by the end of 1835 loss of power in the legs began to foreshadow the end. His temperate habits had their reward in good general health. It is said that after death his organs—apart from the local trouble—were found to be singularly sound for an octogenarian.

On his eighty-third birthday he wrote a few lines that reveal the pain and weariness that were growing on him. He concluded a rather gloomy summary of his long life with the words: “What result from it all but physical and moral exhaustion, a complete discouragement as to the future and disdain for the past.” On that day he had asked Dupanloup to dinner, but the rector of Saint Sulpice pleaded his work in excuse. “He does not know his business,” said Talleyrand with a smile. For some time the Prince had been importuned from many sides to make his peace with the Church. It is said that on one occasion at ValenÇay he incautiously asked the little Pauline one Sunday where she had been. “I have been to mass,” she said, “to pray the good God to give you better sentiments.” The Duchess of Dino was deeply anxious to see him reconciled. Letters reached him from very old friends with the same aim. Royer-Collard advised it. The Archbishop of Paris, Mgr. Quelen, who had been coadjutor to his uncle, was pressing as far as discretion allowed. He had obtained instructions from Rome as to the minimum that need be asked of the illustrious apostate. In 1835 he had received the dying Princess Talleyrand into the Church, and made it an occasion for a strong appeal to her husband. Talleyrand politely thanked him for his interest.

What was the real state of Talleyrand’s mind in regard to religion as he approached the end? It is quite impossible to discover it with certainty. It seems probable that throughout life Talleyrand maintained an attitude of agnosticism, standing between the dogmatic theism or dogmatic atheism of his friends. It seems clear, too, that his agnosticism had not very deep philosophic roots, and it would not be unnatural for it to yield under the pressure of approaching death. It is true that he often uses theistic expressions in his letters from 1814 onwards, but that may be merely a concession to the new fashions introduced with the new monarchy. Napoleon had openly described him as a man who “did not believe in God.” But there are two facts that strongly dispose us to take a diplomatic view of Talleyrand’s “reconciliation.” The first is that he had a strong incentive to go through the form of submission. There were frequently disorderly scenes at the funerals of his non-Christian friends, and he betrayed a great concern lest his own exit from the stage should be marred by the same disorder. He even spoke towards the end of leaving France, and it was thought that he wanted to die out of the country so as to be buried in peace without submission. And the second fact is the way in which he postponed the act of reconciliation until the very last and inevitable moment, as we shall see.

In March his life-long friend, Count Reinhard, died, and Talleyrand read a paper on him at the Institut. The hall was crowded with scholars and politicians, and Talleyrand was greeted with a remarkable ovation. He read his paper in a strong and sonorous voice, and then made his way from the room between two compact hedges of admirers, who bowed their heads as he passed. “A greater than Voltaire,” cried Victor Cousin. There is little in the oration to explain the enthusiasm. To us, indeed, who read it in full consciousness of Talleyrand’s whole career, and not merely in connection with his last work at London, it has a curious look. The only passage of particular interest is where he describes the qualities that make the great diplomatist. Of these “good faith” is the first. He protests against the “prejudice” that conceives diplomacy as “a science of ruse and duplicity.” “If good faith is ever necessary it is in political transactions.” The passage rings with perfect sincerity; but the tradition that Talleyrand’s successes have left in the school of diplomacy is of a very different kind. The speech was plain and ineloquent. Lady Blennerhasset thinks Talleyrand had nearly every gift of this life bestowed on him except “respect.” It is impossible to see in the splendid enthusiasm evoked by his last public appearance at Paris anything else but a great demonstration of respect.

The suppuration in his legs ceased some time before his death, and he spoke cheerfully of a journey to Italy, but in April the last symptoms made their appearance. He bore his pain with great restraint and dignity. Dupanloup’s scruples had been overruled by the archbishop, and he was now a frequent visitor at the Hotel St. Florentin. There seems to have been no conversation about religion in these visits, but there was a business-like arrangement of terms. Until the end of March he politely evaded all Dupanloup’s attempts to make an opening. At last he promised the duchess he would summon the priest if he fell seriously ill. He then submitted to him a draft of a recantation, but as it contained an implication that he had been free to marry, Dupanloup had to reject it, and proposed another form on May 12th. He watched Talleyrand’s face with great eagerness as he read it, but not a muscle moved. The Prince asked him to leave it.

Anthrax had set in on May 11th, and all Paris was interested in the end of the great diplomatist and the question of reconciliation. Candles were burning in every chapel in the city. Messengers were running to and fro between Saint Sulpice and the archbishop’s house, as they had run so many times between foreign embassies when Talleyrand was obstinate. On the evening of the 16th he was visibly sinking, and his niece implored him to sign the form. He promised to do so at six in the morning. When he grew worse during the night, and they pressed him to sign, he observed it was not yet six. When the hour came Dupanloup sent in to him the little Pauline dressed for her first communion, and as Talleyrand caressed her the clock struck six. Dupanloup and the witnesses entered, and Talleyrand signed. “I have never ceased,” the paper ended, “to regard myself as a child of the Church. I again deplore the actions of my life that have caused it pain, and my last wishes are for its supreme head.” Dupanloup had politely refrained from inserting such phrases as “sin” and “repentance.” It was a gracious acknowledgment of errors committed in a wayward age. This was the price of a peaceful and honourable burial. Gregory XVI is said to have described it as one of the triumphs of his reign. The document was antedated two months.

During the day the King came to bid him farewell. Talleyrand was greatly moved at the honour, and received the King ceremoniously. Dupanloup was in constant attendance, and succeeded in inducing him to confess and receive the sacraments. As the day wore on he became more and more exhausted, and approached the end. In the adjoining room all Paris was waiting for the close. Statesmen, nobles and scholars, young and old, were gathered in little groups before the curtain that cut off the bedroom from the library. At a quarter to four the doctor was called, and there was a general movement towards the door. The curtain was drawn back, and all saw the figure of the Prince. He sat on the edge of the bed supported by two servants—a “dying lion,” says one witness. His long, white hair now hung loosely about the pallid and shrunken face. The head drooped on the chest, but now and again he slowly raised it and looked with the last faint shadow of a smile on the great crowd that had come to pay the tribute of France. It was a “grand spectacle,” said Royer-Collard; the fall of “the last cedar of Lebanon.” He “died in public,” “died amidst regal pomp and reverence,” say other eyewitnesses. The duchess and her daughter knelt by the bedside. He was conscious to the end—conscious that his career was ending amidst a manifestation of love, power and profound respect as great as he could ever have wished.

He was accorded by State and Church the funeral of a prince. In the Church of the Assumption, where he was to be interred until the vault was ready at ValenÇay, an imposing ceremony was held, at which Europe was represented. Over the catafalque on which his worn frame lay was emblazoned by priestly hands the motto of his house: “Re que Diou”—I lived so high that God alone towered above me. It was his last triumph.

The story-tellers close their version of his career with the statement that, as the cortÉge started some time after for the gates of Paris, to take the body to ValenÇay, and the driver called out the usual question: “Which barrier?” a deep voice replied from underneath the hearse: “La barriÈre de l’Enfer.”

*****

That there are unanswered and perhaps unanswerable questions in regard to Talleyrand’s career must be admitted: that his personality is obscure and enigmatic can no longer be maintained. The work of successive historians and biographers, which I have put together in succinct form in this study, has made him intelligible. When we set aside demonstrable myths and legends, and when we decline to entertain the vicious charges of his enemies that are unsupported by other testimony, we have a tolerably clear character and consistent career.

We see a boy of many excellent qualities thrust into a school of hypocrisy, a youth of sensuous and amorous temper and sceptical views admitted into a Church that asks no serious questions, a sincere patriot serving a country that deliberately changes its rulers five times in the course of his life. The tortuousness is largely in the path marked out for him. A refined epicurean, but no sybarite, he set out with deliberate intent to enjoy life. It is no injustice to point out that he fell short in practice of ideals of personal and political asceticism that he never even respected in theory. A certain laxity of morals, a disposition to pass over in silence the misdeeds of those who employed him, a readiness to take money for service done, were parts or consequences of his map of life. He was no Stoic, and would be the last to expect us to strain his character into harmony with Stoic ideals.

But if Talleyrand chose the comfortable valleys instead of scaling the arduous heights of great personal or political virtue, he had, none the less, distinct graces of character. Few men of recent times have been so heavily and so successfully calumniated. He was not licentious, nor corrupt, nor vindictive, nor treacherous, nor devoid of idealism. He was humane, generous, affectionate, a sincere patriot, a lover of justice and peace. He sought a comfortable existence, but he desired to avoid inflicting pain or discomfort on others. He was sensitive of the honour of France, proud of her greatness, happy in serving her with distinction. He was a kind master, a genial and liberal friend, a lover of domestic peace and harmony. He sought throughout his career to disarm violence, prevent bloodshed, resist oppression, and help on the reign of good taste, good sense and good feeling.

His political career is to-day free from ambiguity. He was a Churchman by accident and the fault of others. He did right in abandoning the Church. Some of his Catholic royal critics in 1815 declared that the mistake of his life was not to have clung to the Church, and enjoyed his wine and his mistress in the tranquility and comfort of the cardinalate. He was not low enough in character for that. He behaved towards the Church he had left with a moderation and absence of passion that is rare in the embittered and calumniated apostate. Not a single change in his later political career can be seriously challenged. In later years he said, in varying phraseology, that he had never conspired except with the whole of France, and had never deserted a cause until it had deserted itself or common sense. He had no belief in the divine right of either kings or mobs; and no ruler he met had charm enough or real greatness enough to win from him a personal allegiance. With his last breath (and in his will) he spoke tenderly of Napoleon, and commended the ex-Emperor’s family to his heirs. He served France more in deserting Louis XVI than those who remained faithful; and his successive desertion of the Directors, Napoleon, and Charles X needs no defence. The only rational ground of censure is that he kept so entirely together his personal interest and the high cause of France and humanity that he served through all these vicissitudes of his country. This will withhold from him for ever the title of self-forgetting greatness, the nobler enthusiasm, which we so fitly reverence, of losing sight of self at times in an exalted cause. He made his choice, and he will abide by it.

THE END