She knew all the genealogies of every noble house in Europe--princes, dukes, and counts--and could put her hand on the last descendants of Charlemagne in the direct line.No usurpation of title could escape the Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry.
Young men who wished to stand well at Court, ambitious men, and young married women paid her assiduous homage.Her salon set the tone of the Faubourg Saint-Germain.The words of this Talleyrand in petticoats were taken as final decrees.People came to consult her on questions of etiquette or usages, or to take lessons in good taste.And, in truth, no other old woman could put back her snuff-box in her pocket as the Princess could; while there was a precision and a grace about the movements of her skirts, when she sat down or crossed her feet, which drove the finest ladies of the young generation to despair.Her voice had remained in her head during one-third of her lifetime; but she could not prevent a descent into the membranes of the nose, which lent to it a peculiar expressiveness.She still retained a hundred and fifty thousand livres of her great fortune, for Napoleon had generously returned her woods to her; so that personally and in the matter of possessions she was a woman of no little consequence.
This curious antique, seated in a low chair by the fireside, was chatting with the Vidame de Pamiers, a contemporary ruin.The Vidame was a big, tall, and spare man, a seigneur of the old school, and had been a Commander of the Order of Malta.His neck had always been so tightly compressed by a strangulation stock, that his cheeks pouched over it a little, and he held his head high; to many people this would have given an air of self-sufficiency, but in the Vidame it was justified by a Voltairean wit.His wide prominent eyes seemed to see everything, and as a matter of fact there was not much that they had not seen.Altogether, his person was a perfect model of aristocratic outline, slim and slender, supple and agreeable.He seemed as if he could be pliant or rigid at will, and twist and bend, or rear his head like a snake.
The Duc de Navarreins was pacing up and down the room with the Duc de Grandlieu.Both were men of fifty-six or thereabouts, and still hale; both were short, corpulent, flourishing, somewhat florid-complexioned men with jaded eyes, and lower lips that had begun to hang already.But for an exquisite refinement of accent, an urbane courtesy, and an ease of manner that could change in a moment to insolence, a superficial observer might have taken them for a couple of bankers.Any such mistake would have been impossible, however, if the listener could have heard them converse, and seen them on their guard with men whom they feared, vapid and commonplace with their equals, slippery with the inferiors whom courtiers and statesmen know how to tame by a tactful word, or to humiliate with an unexpected phrase.
Such were the representatives of the great noblesse that determined to perish rather than submit to any change.It was a noblesse that deserved praise and blame in equal measure; a noblesse that will never be judged impartially until some poet shall arise to tell how joyfully the nobles obeyed the King though their heads fell under a Richelieu's axe, and how deeply they scorned the guillotine of '89 as a foul revenge.
Another noticeable trait in all the four was a thin voice that agreed peculiarly well with their ideas and bearing.Among themselves, at any rate, they were on terms of perfect equality.
None of them betrayed any sign of annoyance over the Duchess's escapade, but all of them had learned at Court to hide their feelings.
And here, lest critics should condemn the puerility of the opening of the forthcoming scene, it is perhaps as well to remind the reader that Locke, once happening to be in the company of several great lords, renowned no less for their wit than for their breeding and political consistency, wickedly amused himself by taking down their conversation by some shorthand process of his own; and afterwards, when he read it over to them to see what they could make of it, they all burst out laughing.And, in truth, the tinsel jargon which circulates among the upper ranks in every country yields mighty little gold to the crucible when washed in the ashes of literature or philosophy.In every rank of society (some few Parisian salons excepted) the curious observer finds folly a constant quantity beneath a more or less transparent varnish.Conversation with any substance in it is a rare exception, and boeotiani** is current coin in every zone.
In the higher regions they must perforce talk more, but to make up for it they think the less.Thinking is a tiring exercise, and the rich like their lives to flow by easily and without effort.It is by comparing the fundamental matter of jests, as you rise in the social scale from the street-boy to the peer of France, that the observer arrives at a true comprehension of M.
de Talleyrand's maxim, "The manner is everything"; an elegant rendering of the legal axiom, "The form is of more consequence than the matter." In the eyes of the poet the advantage rests with the lower classes, for they seldom fail to give a certain character of rude poetry to their thoughts.Perhaps also this same observation may explain the sterility of the salons, their emptiness, their shallowness, and the repugnance felt by men of ability for bartering their ideas for such pitiful small change.
The Duke suddenly stopped as if some bright idea occurred to him, and remarked to his neighbour--"So you have sold Tornthon?"
