shadow of britain

Chapter 879 The Executor of Talleyrand's Will

The wind at Place de la Concorde sounded particularly chilly on a summer morning.

To the north from here is the Tuileries Palace, and to the west is the Champs-Élysées.

When the square was first completed in 1772, it was called Place Louis XV.

During the French Revolution, this place became the site of the guillotine, where many French nobles, including King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, were beheaded. Therefore, it was later known to Parisians as the Place de la Révolution.

It wasn't until after the Thermidorian Reaction in 1795 that the Directory renamed the place Place de la Concorde in an effort to resolve the animosity, symbolizing national reconciliation and the restoration of order.

As the carriage passed the obelisk and the surrounding fountain, Arthur saw the magnificent and luxurious mansion through the carriage window.

The stone facade of Saint Florentine Palace looks classical and solemn, with the splendor and austerity unique to old French aristocratic mansions of the 18th century.

As soon as Arthur got out of the car, the heavy bronze door slowly opened.

Several servants stood guard at the door, greeting the guest who had come all the way from London: "Sir Arthur Hastings?"

“Yes.” Arthur raised his hand and adjusted his white gloves. “Is Mr. Talleyrand already awake?”

“His Highness is reading the newspaper.” The butler bowed and made way for you. “He instructed that you can go directly to the dining room to wait for him after you arrive.”

"I understand. Please lead the way."

Arthur strode forward, and his servant led him into the hall that bore the marks of half a century.

Upon entering, one is immediately struck by the aged atmosphere of the oil paintings and tapestries.

At the entrances on both sides of the corridor hang 18th-century Italian landscape paintings, the flames on the candlesticks reflected on the gold-leaf frames, shimmering as if their glory had long since faded.

The heavy Persian carpet swallowed the sound of the boots, and the deeper one went, the more stagnant the air seemed, as if time itself had stood still.

Portraits emerge in the candlelight, like a corridor of time.

The portrait closest to the door depicts a young seminary student.

The figure in the painting wears a black robe with a white priest's cape hanging down his shoulders. His gaze is lowered, and he holds a thick Bible in his hand. At that time, Talleyrand's brows had not yet been etched by the world, and his thin lips were tightly closed, giving him a somewhat sorrowful and melancholic look, like many young people whose futures are uncertain.

A few steps further on is a bust of him during his time as Bishop of Ottan, dressed in a deep red clerical robe, the cross on his chest shimmering in the candlelight, with a veil embroidered in gold thread behind him. His expression no longer reveals much of his bewilderment, but rather a hint of arrogance. Perhaps just before this bust was painted, he had led the vote in the National Constituent Assembly to approve the confiscation of church property.

By the third painting, Talleyrand had changed into the uniform of a Constituent, with a blue, white, and red sash hanging diagonally across his chest. He stood upright in front of the council chamber, and at first glance, one could almost forget that he was actually a cripple, and even more so, that the speaker of the French National Constituent Assembly had once been a bishop.

Arthur stared intently at the portrait of the senator, as if the clamor of that turbulent era were echoing in his ears.

Just then, a suppressed yet clear sound came from behind, wheels rolling over a thick carpet, accompanied by a servant's soft cough as a reminder: "Sir Arthur."

Arthur turned his head away.

Deep in the corridor, a servant was slowly pushing a wheelchair with gold trim toward him.

The thin old man in the wheelchair was leaning back, his legs covered by a dark blanket, and his right hand firmly resting on an ivory-headed cane.

Talleyrand's appearance hasn't changed much since he stepped down three years ago; it's just that his gray-blue eyes no longer gleam with cunning.

He raised his chin, as if trying to get a better look at the young guest standing in front of the portrait, but before he could see the visitor clearly, his young friend had already stepped up to his side.

"Mr. Talleyrand, do you still play cards?"

Upon hearing this, Talleyrand's previously dry lips twitched slightly, and his voice sounded somewhat hoarse: "Playing cards? Ha... My hands have been shaking badly these past two years. If the cards are laid out, you'll probably be able to see everything clearly."

“That would be a loss for all of France.” Arthur bent down and gently took the armrest of the wheelchair in place of the servant. “You know, in all of Paris, no, in all of Europe, you probably can’t find anyone better at cards than you.”

“You’re still as good at sweet talk as ever.” Talleyrand laughed heartily at his flattery, though his laughter wasn’t as strong as it had been a couple of years ago. He raised his cane, gesturing for Arthur to push him toward the restaurant. “But speaking of which, do you really think that way?”

Arthur pushed the wheelchair forward slowly: "It's absolutely true. As you know, I rarely lie."

Talleyrand shrugged and curled his lip: "Yeah, I don't lie, but I'll tell the truth with reservations, right?"

Arthur smiled and replied, "Yes and no. Because at least in front of you, I've been completely open. To be honest, I still can't understand why you suddenly announced your retirement three years ago, when no one could have done it better than you. Were you tired of politics?"

“Tired?” Talleyrand listened to Arthur’s words, tapping his ivory cane lightly twice with his fingers. “Tiredness is too gentle a word; it sounds like some old man has grown tired of the same dessert. My decision to retire is not because I’m tired of politics, nor is it a rash act. I’m leaving public service simply because there’s nothing left for me to care about. I once took it upon myself to rebuild peace, and to achieve that, an alliance with Britain was necessary. I once took it upon myself to implement the laws of the common people that led to the July Revolution of 1830 in Europe, to bring peace to the world based on the ideas of a new government. And all of that has been accomplished. So, what else can I do but disappear like Horace?” Although Talleyrand said this, Arthur still felt that something was missing after losing this 83-year-old man. He said with regret, “I respect your personal decision, but I still think that perhaps you left too hastily.”

“You think I left in a hurry, but many others have told me I’ve dragged it out for too long.” Talleyrand smiled calmly. “Arthur, the decision to retire wasn’t difficult. The difficulty was retiring gracefully at the right time. I believe I’ve achieved my goals and can proudly declare, like philosophers: the furrows have been smoothed, the stars have faded, the nightingales have fallen silent, and the roses have lost their fragrance.”

Upon hearing these words, Arthur involuntarily stopped in his tracks, his gaze falling upon the portrait of Talleyrand, who held his position with effortless grace at the Vienna Conference: "Mr. Talleyrand, even just for these few words, you will be remembered in history."

Talleyrand raised his eyelids slightly upon hearing this: "Thank you for your kind words, child. However, your tone... makes me sense that you are not only speaking to me."

Arthur's thoughts were seen through, but he wasn't angry. He just smiled and said, "Perhaps."

Talleyrand, however, did not continue the conversation. Instead, he tapped the armrest twice with his ivory-tipped cane: “If a person knows where he is going before he sets out, he will never make it. Nothing great is great from the beginning—tall trees, beautiful flowers, magnificent kingdoms, and geniuses. Arthur, my lad, you sometimes seem too hasty.”

Arthur pushed the wheelchair forward slowly: "Are you referring to the Tower of London in 1832?"

Upon hearing this, Talleyrand simply shook his head slightly: "That's just a gust of wind; no matter how fiercely it blows, it can't change the shape of the coastline."

Arthur pressed further, "So you mean the Caucasus?"

The old man slowly shook his head again: "The Caucasus is not important either. You stare at a tree and want to see it grow into a towering giant immediately. You see a flower and are eager for it to bloom like in the height of summer. But you forget that the soil of politics never becomes fertile because of impatience. Self-righteous people are always scheming, while truly capable people are always waiting for people to seek their talents."

Upon hearing this, Arthur slowed his pace. "I do need to apologize to you for this. You told me before I set off for Europe that I should learn to wait."

A hint of a smile flickered in Talleyrand's grey-blue eyes. He shook his head, a slow smile playing on his lips. "You think I'm criticizing you? Ha... At my age, I don't have the energy to criticize anyone anymore. I'm just thinking of many passionate young people like you back then, eager to write their names into the future, but in the end, their blood was wiped clean by history."

Arthur pushed the wheelchair forward, his gaze lingering on the candlelit corridor: "What were those young people like during the Great Revolution...?"

“They…” Talleyrand began slowly, “Their eyes shone with light, their throats burned with fire. They had no shortage of passion, fervor, or courage. They treated the future like wine and the present like dice. They staked their lives on the gambling table, only to find themselves dead when the dice stopped rolling. Thus, some fell in pools of blood in the square, some died in nameless places of exile, and some remained in pages altered by others.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur chuckled softly: "It seems that it is indeed not easy to gracefully withdraw at the appropriate time."

"But some young people like you will never understand this principle until they die."

Arthur assumed Talleyrand was alluding to the family society, and on this matter that had nothing to do with him, he was quite frank: "If you are asking about the young men who assassinated Louis Philippe, I assure you that the British Home Office has nothing to do with it. But as for the diplomatic system, I cannot guarantee that Viscount Palmerston has no connection with them."

Unexpectedly, Talleyrand simply waved his hand and said, "I have no interest in those young people. That's no longer my concern."

"Then you?"

Arthur was very frank, and Talleyrand was equally frank: "I heard that your little publishing house went public on the London Stock Exchange?"

Are you interested in investing?

Upon hearing Arthur's words, Talleyrand chuckled softly, but his laughter carried a hint of weariness: "If I were ten years younger, perhaps I would be interested. Securities, stocks, railroads, banks... I could understand these things back then. But now, let alone investing, I'm even planning to sell this house you're standing in."

He raised his ivory cane, pointed to the gray-white relief on the ceiling, and then to several old tapestries in the depths of the corridor: "These things were originally symbols of the aristocratic style of the 18th century. But now, in my eyes, they are just a burden on stacks of account books. Rather than letting them gather dust here, it would be better to sell them to the Rothschild family, so that we can leave some property for our descendants."

Upon hearing this, Arthur stopped in his tracks: "You're going to sell St. Florentine's Mansion to the Rothschild family?"

“Yes!” Talleyrand’s tone was nonchalant, as if he were talking about a trivial matter: “James Rothschild has long coveted this house; he was attracted by the location and its prestige. But to me, it’s nothing more than an outdated old clock, sitting here every day to remind me that time keeps moving forward. I no longer have time to enjoy it. Just as I am unwilling to linger on the political stage, I am unwilling to remain trapped among these stones and paintings for too long.”

Arthur looked up and surveyed the imposing aristocratic mansion: "Since you're not interested in investing, what else can my little publishing house do for you?"

“Investment? Ha… Child, the last thing I can invest in is probably my own memories.” His tone was low and slow, but exceptionally clear: “I forgot to tell you, during this time, I’ve been summarizing the merits and demerits of my life, and I’ve written a memoir about myself.”

Arthur paused for a moment: "Memoirs?"

“Yes.” Talleyrand nodded slightly. “The things I have witnessed, done, betrayed, and fulfilled in my life are enough for future generations to speculate about for centuries, but I don’t want them to just speculate. I want them to see an explanation from my hands.”

At this point, Talleyrand paused, a cryptic smile playing on his lips: “Of course, not now. It will have to wait until after I’m gone, until people have almost forgotten me. If you are still alive then, I hope you will publish my memoirs. Perhaps by then you will have become a respected figure in British politics. Then you will naturally understand that these words of mine are not just for the French.”

“Mr. Talleyrand,” Arthur said, his feelings a mix of emotions. “Are you really going to entrust me with such a task? Surely you have more than just me as an option.”

“Indeed, there’s more than one. There are many people in this world who can read and write the alphabet, but very few who can truly understand it.” He paused, then chuckled. “Besides, I’ve written too many stories about people and told too many truths about others. You know, Arthur, the most unpopular person in this world is often the one who brings up old grievances. So, I’m entrusting my memoirs to someone capable of suppressing these things. Among the people I think are worthy of this trust, you have the best chance of reaching that point.”

He raised his ivory cane and tapped Arthur's shoulder: "Promise me. When I'm gone, pass on my story to posterity. Let them understand that I, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord—Bishop of Autan, Speaker of the National Constituent Assembly, French Foreign Minister, Prince Benevento, Elector-General and Grand Master of the Court of Napoleon, and Life Peer of the French House of Nobility after the Bourbon Restoration—am not an appendage of a particular period of history, but a witness to an entire era, and I am far more honest than they imagine."

(End of this chapter)