“‘_Why, trust to Providence!_’ was the answer, from one of those standing near. The voice made me start, so little was I prepared to hear it in such a place. I turned to the speaker—it was indeed my own dear D——!
“‘Of course my inquiries and his replies followed each other in rapid succession, and I was almost led to believe that his philosophy was the best that had ever been devised, when he informed me that he had come to Versailles as representative of the clergy, deputed by his _commune_, the electors being of course in this, as in every other case, compelled to disburden him of his debts before he could leave the canton. ‘It was quite unexpected,’ said the good man, ‘almost a miracle; for how could I dream even a short month ago of deputies, and notables, and gatherings at Versailles. You see I was right in trusting to Heaven for relief. However, it _did_ astonish the worthy _bourgeois_ a little, when they discovered how dearly they would have to pay for their choice; and they might perhaps have cancelled it had such a proceeding been allowed. _Mais, c’est égal!_—summer is coming on, harvest time will soon draw near, and the poor of my parish have, meanwhile, been clothed and fed!’
“‘It would perhaps be difficult to meet with a more beautiful realization of the spirit of Scripture than is to be found in this anecdote. He has met with his reward, for “_mes pauvres_,” as he always called his little flock, protected him through the dangers and persecutions which he subsequently had to undergo; and, at the Restoration, he was appointed to the cure of St. Thomas, one of the best _bénéfices_ of Paris, which he still holds, and where, until these very few years, when, from old age, he has become incapacitated for preaching, he was wont to deliver many and many a pithy sermon upon the wonderful “bounty of Providence.”’
“There is scarcely a visitor at the Hotel Talleyrand,” resumed C., “who does not, as in the case of the _curé_ of St. Thomas, elicit some quaint history, some _piquant_ anecdote of days gone by, on the part of the prince. His memory is so wonderful, that he can scarcely relate the simplest trait of his own life without being led into many other stories illustrative of the times in which the incidents happened, and to which he knows better than any living being how to give a charm, an interest, which will sometimes render the smallest circumstance of value, and which is a gift so highly esteemed by our nation, that _l’art de raconter_ has ever been placed far above any other accomplishment in the qualifications requisite to form an agreeable member of society. You will in general find the prince _indulgent_ when relating anecdotes even of persons from whom it may be a well-known fact that he has differed all his life. I have often heard him say that ‘experience teaches us indulgence,’ and that ‘the wisest man is he who doubts his own judgment with regard to the motives which actuate his fellow-men.’ I have sometimes heard him entertain his intimate circle, during a long evening, with a vast number of amusing traits and anecdotes relating to his ‘fellow-labourers in the vineyard,’ without once having recourse to scandal or ridicule; which I consider the very perfection of the story-teller’s science. The only person with whose name he likes, even now, sometimes, to disport himself in his _moments de malice_ is Madame Necker, whom he never could tolerate, and with whom, even in her most palmy days, he scrupled not to declare himself openly at war. He really _felt_ with regard to her what he so happily expressed, ‘She has every virtue and but one fault, and that is, she is insupportable!’ The good lady never forgave his comparing her to a ‘frigate riding at anchor, and receiving a salute from a friendly power,’ when she stood upon her own hearth-rug at the Hôtel Necker, upon the occasion of her weekly receptions; her ample proportions obscuring the light of the fire, as, with pinched-up features and prudish smile, she listened to the compliments of the Academicians, whom she assembled but for this purpose. The ‘strait-laced Genevese,’ as he calls her, has furnished him, I verily believe, with more witty _bon mots_, with more stinging epigrams, than even his most bitter enemy.