[100] Mlle. Pauline de Périgord did in fact marry M. de Castellane, on April 11, 1839. He then assumed the title of Marquis from his grandfather, who had just died. His father, General de Castellane, afterwards Marshal of France, yielded the title to him on the occasion of his marriage and never bore it himself. From his grandmother, who brought him up, the old Marchioness de Castellane, _née_ Rohan-Chabot, whose first husband, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, had left her a large fortune, M. de Castellane received as a wedding-gift the property of Aubijou, in Auvergne, in the department of Cantal, which will often be mentioned in these memoirs.
The Duchesse de Sagan, eldest sister of the Duchesse de Talleyrand, had died in the winter of 1840. A number of business difficulties were involved by the disposal of her property, and the Duchesse de Talleyrand resolved upon a journey to Prussia, which she had not visited since her marriage. She was accompanied by her eldest son, M. de Valençay, while her correspondent, M. de Bacourt, who had been appointed French Minister to the United States, went to take up his new post at Washington, where he remained for several years.
_Amiens, May 16, 1840._--I cannot say with what fear I think of my departure from Paris this morning and of the real trials upon which we are to enter. I am now on the way to Germany, while you are starting for America.[101] But to return to my journey of to-day: the roads are heavy, the postillions brought us along rather badly, and we did not arrive here until nine o'clock in the evening. I have read a good deal of the life of Cardinal Ximenes. It is a sober and a serious book, correctly written, but cold, and progress in it is difficult. I do not, however, regret my trouble with it, for I know but little of this great character, and he is worth studying.
[101] Extract from a letter to M. de Bacourt.
The country is beautifully green and fresh, with bushy vegetation. We had pleasant weather, in spite of a few showers, but twenty times I told myself that travelling was the most foolish of all professions; to be carried along these interminable roads, bumped upon their rough surface, delivered to the tender mercies of postillions, fleeing from all one loves, going as rapidly as possible towards things and people who are quite uninteresting; thus spending one's life as though it were eternal, and only realising its shortness when it is at an end.