The prince had moved towards the door even before his words were quite concluded, and, to my regret, he turned and bowed to us on the threshold, and then passed out. It was the hour for business, and he retired to his own study until the carriage was announced for his morning drive.
That very evening, the courier from Paris brought me the summons to repair to my station, which I dared not disobey; that official summons, sealed with the official seal, and stamped with the official _griffe_, which strikes such terror into the hearts of youthful aspirants to diplomatic fame. I have grown older and wiser since that time, and have in my turn despatched many an official summons to strike terror into the heart of some diplomatic tyro. I have lived to satisfy even my mother’s ambitious hopes, and have had my full share both of diplomatic toils and their glittering reward; but I can never look back without an overwhelming gratitude and regret towards the time when, unknown and obscure, I passed those pleasant hours in the society of the great and illustrious Prince de Talleyrand, during that short vacation at Valençay.
It was scarcely six o’clock, on the morning of the 17th of May (1838), when I bent my steps towards the old hotel in the Rue St. Florentin, with a mind full of sad misgivings; for when, at a late hour on the evening previous, I had quitted it, I had been but slightly encouraged to hope that another day could possibly be granted to its proud and gifted owner. The dull grey dawn was just struggling to rise above the tall chestnuts of the Tuileries. All was still silent, and as I pulled the heavy bell, its echo reverberated through the vast court-yard with a sound almost unearthly. I did not pause at the porter’s lodge to inquire news of the night, for the first object which met my eye was the physician’s carriage, and I rushed at once to the foot of the grand staircase, which I had so often ascended with feelings so far different from those I now experienced. The two stone figures of Silence, which stood on each side of the gigantic portal, humid and dripping with the morning fog, struck a chill to my very soul. Those huge lions, which had so often been compared to the insatiate lions of Venice, now reminded me of those mute and motionless watchers carved by the marble gates of an ancient sepulchre. It seemed as if every object were already enveloped in that atmosphere of death, and that the old mansion, at all times sad and dreary, was already pervaded with the odour of the tomb.