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Book online «Devereux — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best free novels txt) 📖». Author Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
Nothing could exceed the kindness manifested towards me by my father’s early connections. The circumstance of my accompanying Bolingbroke, joined to my age, and an address which, if not animated nor gay, had not been acquired without some youthful cultivation of the graces, gave me a sort of eclat as well as consideration. And Bolingbroke, who was only jealous of superiors in power, and who had no equals in anything else, added greatly to my reputation by his panegyrics.
Every one sought me; and the attention of society at Paris would, to most, be worth a little trouble to repay. Perhaps, if I had liked it, I might have been the rage; but that vanity was over. I contented myself with being admitted into society as an observer, without a single wish to become the observed. When one has once outlived the ambition of fashion I know not a greater affliction than an over-attention; and the Spectator did just what I should have done in a similar case, when he left his lodgings “because he was asked every morning how he had slept.” In the immediate vicinity of the court, the King’s devotion, age, and misfortunes threw a damp over society; but there were still some sparkling circles, who put the King out of the mode, and declared that the defeats of his generals made capital subjects for epigrams. What a delicate and subtle air did hang over those soirees, where all that were bright and lovely, and noble and gay, and witty and wise, were assembled in one brilliant cluster! Imperfect as my rehearsals must be, I think the few pages I shall devote to a description of these glittering conversations must still retain something of that original piquancy which the soirees of no other capital could rival or appreciate.
One morning, about a week after my interview with Madame de Balzac, I received a note from her requesting me to visit her that day, and appointing the hour.
Accordingly I repaired to the house of the fair politician. I found her with a man in a clerical garb, and of a benevolent and prepossessing countenance. She introduced him to me as the Bishop of Frejus; and he received me with an air very uncommon to his countrymen, namely, with an ease that seemed to result from real good-nature, rather than artificial grace.
“I shall feel,” said he, quietly, and without the least appearance of paying a compliment, “very glad to mention your wish to his Majesty; and I have not the least doubt but that he will admit to his presence one who has such hereditary claims on his notice. Madame de Maintenon, by the way, has charged me to present you to her whenever you will give me the opportunity. She knew your admirable mother well, and for her sake wishes once to see you. You know perhaps, Monsieur, that the extreme retirement of her life renders this message from Madame de Maintenon an unusual and rare honour.”
I expressed my thanks; the Bishop received them with a paternal rather than a courtier-like air, and appointed a day for me to attend him to the palace. We then conversed a short time upon indifferent matters, which I observed the good Bishop took especial pains to preserve clear from French politics. He asked me, however, two or three questions about the state of parties in England,—about finance and the national debt, about Ormond and Oxford; and appeared to give the most close attention to my replies. He smiled once or twice, when his relation, Madame de Balzac, broke out into sarcasms against the Jesuits, which had nothing to do with the subjects in question.
“Ah, ma chere cousine,” said he: “you flatter me by showing that you like me not as the politician, but the private relation,—not as the Bishop of Frejus, but as Andre de Fleuri.”
Madame de Balzac smiled, and answered by a compliment. She was a politician for the kingdom, it is true, but she was also a politician for herself. She was far from exclaiming, with Pindar, “Thy business, O my city, I prefer willingly to my own.” Ah, there is a nice distinction between politics and policy, and Madame de Balzac knew it. The distinction is this. Politics is the art of being wise for others: policy is the art of being wise for one’s self.
From Madame de Balzac’s I went to Bolingbroke. “I have just been offered the place of Secretary of State by the English king on this side of the water,” said he; “I do not, however, yet like to commit myself so fully. And, indeed, I am not unwilling to have a little relaxation of pleasure, after all these dull and dusty travails of state. What say you to Boulainvilliers to-night? you are asked?”
“Yes! all the wits are to be there,—Anthony Hamilton, and Fontenelle, young Arouet, Chaulieu, that charming old man. Let us go, and polish away the wrinkles of our hearts. What cosmetics are to the face wit is to the temper; and, after all, there is no wisdom like that which teaches us to forget.”
“Come then,” said Bolingbroke, rising, “we will lock up these papers, and take a melancholy drive, in order that we may enjoy mirth the better by and by.”
CHAPTER V.
A MEETING OF WITS.—CONVERSATION GONE OUT TO SUPPER IN HER DRESS OF VELVET AND JEWELS.
BOULAINVILLIERS! Comte de St. Saire! What will our great-grandchildren think of that name? Fame is indeed a riddle! At the time I refer to, wit, learning, grace—all things that charm and enlighten—were supposed to centre in one word,-Boulainvilliers! The good Count had many rivals, it is true, but he had that exquisite tact peculiar to his countrymen, of making the very reputations of those rivals contribute to his own. And while he assembled them around him, the lustre of their bons mots, though it emanated from themselves, was reflected upon him.
It was a pleasant though not a costly apartment in which we found our host. The room was sufficiently full of people to allow scope and variety to one group of talkers, without being full enough to permit those little knots and coteries which are the destruction of literary society. An old man of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet polished and courtly expression of countenance, of a great gayety of manner, which was now and then rather displeasingly contrasted by an abrupt affectation of dignity, that, however, rarely lasted above a minute, and never withstood the shock of a bon mot, was the first person who accosted us. This old man was the wreck of the once celebrated Anthony Count Hamilton!
“Well, my Lord,” said he to Bolingbroke, “how do you like the weather at Paris? It is a little better than the merciless air of London; is it not? ‘Slife!—even in June one could not go open breasted in those regions of cold and catarrh,—a very great misfortune, let me tell you, my Lord, if one’s cambric happened to be of a very delicate and brilliant texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward folds of a lady’s heart, by developing to the best advantage the exterior folds that covered his own.”
“It is the first time,” answered Bolingbroke, “that I ever heard so accomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton repine, with sincerity, that he could not bare his bosom to inspection.”
“Ah!” cried Boulainvilliers, “but vanity makes a man show much that
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