Chapter 2023: Chapter 89: Talleyrand’s Executor_2
Although Talleyrand said so, Arthur still felt that after losing this 83-year-old elder, the world seemed a bit less colorful. He regrettably said, "I respect your personal decision, but I still think that you might be leaving a bit too hastily."
"You think I am leaving in haste, but there are also many people who have told me that I have dragged it out too long," Talleyrand replied with a calm smile on his face. "Arthur, deciding to retire is actually not a difficult decision to make. The hard part is exiting gracefully at the right time. I believe that I have accomplished enough and can proudly announce like the philosophers: ’The furrow has been smoothed, the starlight has dimmed, the oriole’s song has paused, the rose’s fragrance has dispersed.’
Hearing these words, Arthur couldn’t help but stop in his tracks. His gaze fell upon the portrait of Talleyrand from the Vienna Conference, who handled weighty matters with ease. "Mr. Talleyrand, even just based on those few words, your name will be forever remembered in history."
Hearing this, Talleyrand slightly raised his eyelids: "I accept your kind words, child. However, your tone... tells me that you are not just saying this to me."
Arthur, being found out, was not annoyed but merely chuckled softly, "Perhaps."
Talleyrand, however, did not continue Arthur’s line of thought, but instead gently tapped the handle of his ivory-headed cane twice on the railing: "If a person knows where they are going before they set out, then they find it hard to take a single step. All great things were not great from the start; tall trees, brilliant flowers, glorious kingdoms, and talented individuals—such is the case with all of them. Arthur, my young friend, you sometimes seem a little too hasty."
Arthur gently pushed the wheelchair forward, "Are you referring to the Tower of London in 1832?"
Upon hearing this, Talleyrand merely shook his head slightly, "That was merely a fierce wind. No matter how strongly it blows, it cannot change the shape of the coast."
Arthur pursued, "Then are you referring to the Caucasus?"
The old man continued to shake his head slowly, "The Caucasus is equally unimportant. You focus on one tree, wanting it to immediately grow into a towering giant. You see a flower and wish for it to instantly bloom like the height of summer. But you’ve forgotten that the soil of politics never becomes fertile due to impatience. Those who consider themselves knowledgeable scurry around, while those who are truly capable always wait to be sought after."
Hearing this, Arthur couldn’t help but slow his pace, "Regarding this, I indeed owe you an apology. Even though, before setting off to the European Continent, you told me to learn to wait."
Talleyrand’s gray-blue eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement. He shook his head and his lips curled up slowly, "Do you think I am criticizing? Ha... At my age, I no longer have the energy to criticize anyone. I just recalled many young bloods like you back in the day, eager to write their names into the future, but in the end, their blood was completely wiped away by history."
Arthur continued to push the wheelchair forward, his eyes wandering the candlelit corridor, "The young people from the time of the Great Revolution... what were they like?"
"They..." Talleyrand began slowly, "had light in their eyes and fire in their voices. They lacked neither passion, spirit, nor courage. They treated the future like wine and the present like dice. They bet their lives on the gambling table, only to find they had already lost their lives when the dice stopped. So, some fell in pools of blood in the square, some died in nameless places of exile, and some remained within pages that others had altered."
Arthur chuckled softly at this: "It seems, indeed, that retiring gracefully at the right time is truly difficult."
"However, some young people like you never understand this truth even till death."
Arthur thought Talleyrand was hinting at the Clan Society, and he was remarkably honest about this matter, which had nothing to do with him, "If you are talking about those young people who attempted to assassinate Louis Philippe, I assure you, the British internal affairs system has nothing to do with it. However, when it comes to the diplomatic system, I cannot guarantee that Viscount Palmerston isn’t involved with them."
Unexpectedly, Talleyrand merely waved his hand upon hearing this, "I’m not interested in those young people; that’s no longer a matter for me to worry about."
"Then you?"
Arthur was candid, and Talleyrand was equally frank, "I heard that little publishing house you handled has been listed on the London Stock Exchange?"
"Are you interested in investing?"
Hearing Arthur’s words, Talleyrand first chuckled softly, a hint of weariness in his laughter: "If I were ten years younger, perhaps I would be interested. Securities, equities, railways, banks... I understood these things back in my day. But now, let alone investing, I’ve even planned to sell this mansion you stand within."
He raised his ivory cane, pointing at the gray-white relief on the ceiling and then at several old tapestries at the corridor’s far end: "These things used to symbolize the grandeur of 18th-century nobility. Now, in my eyes, they are just burdens on a stack of ledgers. Instead of letting them gather dust here, I might as well sell them to the Rothschild family, which would at least leave some property for the future generations."
Hearing this, Arthur couldn’t help but pause in his steps, "You intend to sell Saint Florentin Mansion to the Rothschild family?"
"Yes!" Talleyrand’s tone was indifferent as if discussing something inconsequential: "James Rothschild has coveted this mansion for a long time; he values its location and prestige. But to me, it’s just an obsolete old clock, reminding me each day that time is still moving. I no longer have time to enjoy it. Just as I don’t wish to linger on the political stage a moment longer, I don’t want to be ensnared for too long among these stones and paintings."
Arthur looked up to appraise the nobleman’s mansion in full splendor, "Since you are not interested in investing, is there anything my little publishing house can do for you?"
"Investing? Ha... child, the last thing I might be able to invest in is my own memories." His tone was slow yet extraordinarily clear, "I forgot to tell you, I’ve been summarizing my life’s merits and demerits and have written a memoir about myself."
Arthur paused for a moment, "A memoir?"
"Yes," Talleyrand nodded gently, "My life has witnessed, done, betrayed, and fulfilled enough things to intrigue future generations for centuries, but I don’t want them to merely guess in vain. I hope they can see an account from my hands."
Here, Talleyrand paused. A subtle, ambiguous smile rose on his face, "Of course, not now. It should wait until a hundred years later when people almost forget about me. By then, if you are still alive, I hope you will publish my memoir. Perhaps by then, you will have become a respected figure in British politics. By then, you will naturally understand that my writings are not just for the French to read."
"Mr. Talleyrand." Arthur’s emotions were somewhat complex for a moment, "Are you really entrusting such a task to me? Surely, I’m not the only one you can entrust."
"Indeed, not the only one; there are many in this world who can read and write letters, but very few who can understand them." Then suddenly, he laughed again, "Moreover, I’ve written too many people’s stories and spoken too much truth about others. You know, Arthur, the most unpopular person in this world is often the one who brings up old accounts. So, I need to entrust it to someone capable of suppressing it. Among those I believe worthy of entrusting, I think you have the best chance of reaching that level."
He lifted the ivory cane and tapped Arthur’s shoulder, "Promise me. After I’m gone, pass my story on to the future generations. Let them understand that I, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord—a Bishop of Autun, Speaker of the National Constitutional Assembly, French Foreign Secretary, Prince of Benevento, Napoleonic Imperial Deputy Elector, and Chief Steward of the Court, and a life-time member of the French Nobility in the restored Bourbon Dynasty—was not merely an appendage of a certain period of history, but a witness to an entire era, and also far more candid than they imagined."
