Chapter 2022: Chapter 189: Talleyrand’s Executor
The wind over Concorde Square felt especially chill in the summer dawn.
From here, to the north lay the Tuileries Palace, and to the west the Champs-Elysees.
In 1772, when this square had just been completed, it was called Place Louis Quinze.
During the French Revolution, this became the site of the Guillotine, where numerous members of the Nobility were beheaded, including the King Louis XVI and the Queen Mary Antoinette; thus later the Parisians also called it Revolution Square.
It was not until after the Thermidorian Reaction in 1795 that the Directory, in order to dissolve hatred, renamed it Concorde Square, as a symbol of national reconciliation and the restoration of order.
As the carriage drove past the obelisk and the encircling fountains, Arthur looked through the window and caught sight of that solemn and luxurious mansion.
The stone façade of the Saint Florentin Mansion appeared classical and austere, bearing that peculiar splendor and severity of eighteenth-century French old Nobility residences.
Arthur had barely stepped down from the carriage when the heavy Copper door slowly swung open.
Several servants were standing guard at the entrance, greeting this guest who had come all the way from London: "Sir Arthur Hastings?"
"Yes." Arthur raised his hand to straighten his white gloves once more. "Has Mr. Talleyrand gotten up yet?"
"The Prince is reading the newspaper." The butler bowed and moved aside. "He instructed that once you arrived, you could go straight to the dining room and wait for him."
"Understood; I must trouble you to lead the way."
Arthur set off, and the servant guided him across the threshold of that hall which already bore the traces of half a century.
The moment he stepped in, he was met by the stale scent of oil paintings and tapestries.
At the entrances on both sides of the corridor hung eighteenth-century Italian landscapes; the flames on the candlesticks reflected on the gilded frames, flickering like a glory long since faded.
The thick Persian carpet swallowed the sound of his boots; the farther in he went, the more stagnant the air seemed, as though time itself had come to a standstill here.
Portrait after portrait emerged in the candlelight, like a corridor of time.
In the portrait closest to the door, a young Theological Seminary student was depicted.
The man in the painting wore a black cassock, a white Priest’s tippet draping over his shoulders; his gaze was lowered, and he still held a heavy Bible in his hands. At that time, Talleyrand’s brows had not yet been carved by the affairs of the world; his thin lips were pressed together, and he still appeared somewhat troubled and melancholy, like so many young men whose futures are uncertain.
A few steps further on was a half-length portrait from his period as Autun Bishop: he wore deep red ecclesiastical vestments, the cross on his chest glinting in the candlelight, with a curtain embroidered with gold-thread patterns as his backdrop. There was no longer much confusion in his expression; in its place were certain traces of proud bearing. Perhaps it was not long before this portrait was painted that he had taken the lead in casting that affirmative vote in the National Constitutional Assembly in favor of confiscating Church property.
By the third painting, Talleyrand had already donned the attire of a Constitutional Assembly deputy; a tricolor sash of blue, white, and red slanted across his chest, his erect figure standing before the debating hall. At first glance, one almost forgot that he was in fact a lame man, and forgot even more that this Speaker of the French National Constitutional Assembly had once been a Bishop.
Arthur stared, lost in thought, at this portrait of the deputy, as though the clamor of that tumultuous age were also echoing in his ears.
Just then, from behind him came a restrained yet distinct sound—the wheels rolling over the thick carpet—accompanied by the servant’s soft, coughing reminder: "Sir Arthur."
Arthur turned his head.
From the depths of the corridor, a servant was slowly pushing toward him a wheelchair adorned with gilded trim.
The thin, frail old man in the chair was half-reclining against the backrest; his legs were covered by a dark-colored blanket, while his right hand rested firmly on an ivory-headed cane.
Talleyrand’s features, compared with three years earlier when he had resigned, had in truth changed very little, only those grey-blue eyes no longer glittered with their former sly light.
He lifted his chin slightly, as though to see clearly the young guest standing before the portrait; but before he could make out who it was, his young friend had already stepped forward to his side.
"Mr. Talleyrand, do you still play cards these days?"
At these words, the desiccated corners of Talleyrand’s mouth actually twitched slightly; his voice sounded somewhat hoarse. "Play cards? Heh... These past two years my hands have been shaking badly; the moment I lay my cards out, I’m afraid you’d see every one of them clear as day."
"That would truly be a loss for all of France." Arthur naturally bent down, and, in place of the servant, lightly took hold of the wheelchair’s armrest. "You know, in all of Paris—no, in all of Europe—it would be hard to find anyone whose card-playing surpasses yours."
"You’re still just as good at saying pretty things." Talleyrand let himself be coaxed into a hearty laugh, though the strength in his laughter was indeed less than in previous years. He raised the cane in his hand slightly, signaling for Arthur to wheel him toward the dining room. "But tell me, do you truly think so?"
Arthur pushed the chair forward slowly. "Absolutely; as you know, I am a man who rarely lies."
Talleyrand shrugged and pursed his lips. "Yes, you don’t lie—but you do tell the truth with certain reservations, don’t you?"
Arthur replied with a smile, "Yes and no. At least in front of you, I have no reservations at all. To be honest, I still cannot understand why you suddenly announced your retirement three years ago. Plainly, in that position, no one could perform better than you. Have you grown weary of politics?"
"Weary?" Talleyrand listened to Arthur’s words and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the ivory-headed cane. "’Weary’ is far too gentle a word; it sounds as if some old fellow were merely fed up with eating the same dessert. I did not decide to retire because I was weary of politics, nor was it some rash impulse. I left public affairs simply because there was no longer any cause that required my concern. Once, I took upon myself the task of rebuilding peace; to achieve that, it was necessary to form an alliance with Britain. Once, I made it my duty to see the civil laws of the July Revolution of 1830 realized throughout Europe, and, on the basis of the ideas of the new Government, to bring quiet to the world. And all of this has already been accomplished. So, apart from disappearing like Horace, what else is there left for me to do?"
