isciplined his tongue into the obedient slave of his own
secret purposes, had given his confidence to a servant, in the full
knowledge that every word which he uttered, and every opinion which he
expressed, would be noted down, and published to the world when the
grave had closed upon his remains. A less astute person, occupying the
same conspicuous position in life, would have been guilty of no such
folly as this: and though M. Colmache may have thought otherwise, he was
obviously trusted with no more than it was perfectly safe for his
master's posthumous reputation that he should be allowed to know.
Moreover, we must remember, that though the French pride themselves on
their skill in conversation--_l'art de causer_, as they term it--it is a
wholly different thing from what would pass by that name in Britain. Men
do not meet together in France (or, rather, they _did_ not, for it is
impossible to tell what they do now, and it would be unprofitable to
inquire), freely to exchange their thoughts upon questions of
importance, to discuss philosophy, religion, literature, or even
politics; but to chat, to trifle with time, and to dispel weariness.
Every thing that is serious is interdicted as an offense against good
taste; and a French talker would rather run the risk of being considered
a fool than a bore. The tyranny of fashion has been always cheerfully
submitted to on this point; and to be brilliant, startling, and
epigrammatic, are the passports to conversational reputation: not to be
weighty, solid, or wise. To judge by M. Colmache's book, Talleyrand did
not converse. It was no part of his social economy to intercommune with
any one. His thoughts were his own, and he kept them to himself: hence,
after we have perused this book, abounding as it does in curious
sketches and narratives, we know nothing more of Talleyrand's sentiments
on men and things than we did before. There was, no doubt, the usual
lingual intercourse among his guests at the Chateau Vallencay, but the
great man took no part in it. His _role_ was lofty, mysterious, and
grand. When he spoke all were silent, all attentive, all obsequious: but
there was no conversation, in our sense of the word, and no dialogue,
for there were no interlocutors. It was a monologue, in fact, and an
interesting one--for his memory was deeply impressed with the
recollections of the past, and he delighted to call them up, and to
astonish his auditors by the freshness and vigor of