“‘Thanks, thanks,’ cried Madame de Staël, seizing the little volume with every demonstration of overpowering gratitude. ‘This is indeed a treasure, and will be prized by me far beyond gold or jewels.’ “She turned over the leaves slowly, while the delighted abbé watched her with a charming self-complacency—then suddenly dropping it into her lap, she exclaimed, turning on the abbé a languid glance, ‘You were talking of heroic poetry, dear abbé; have you seen my last attempt—a dramatic scene, “l’Exilé”—a slight and poor imitation of some of your own?’ “‘I have not been so blessed as to obtain a copy,’ replied the abbé. “‘How fortunate that I should have one in my reticule!’ said madame, hurriedly seizing the strings of the bag suspended from her arm, and drawing forth a thin volume in boards. The abbé bent low over it as she presented it, and kissing it with reverence, placed it by his side, and the conversation—that is to say, the complimenting—was continued with redoubled vigour. “M. de Talleyrand then departed, and did not return till the company broke up, when he found that they had both left the bench whereon they had been seated so long together, leaving, however, the ‘precious treasures,’ which they had received from each other with so much gratitude, behind them! M. de Talleyrand seized upon them with inexpressible delight, thinking that they would furnish matter for innocent _persiflage_, when the loss came to be remembered by either party. But the thing was complete—_they were never sought and never asked for_, and he has them now in his library, and loves to show them as he tells the story of their coming into his possession. “It is in this manner,” said C., as he pulled out his watch, surprised at the lateness of the hour, “that M. de Talleyrand will sometimes entertain us with familiar histories of many whom the world has set upon pedestals of its own erecting, and from which he is fain to bring them down, although without scorn or malice, in order that we may see them more closely and know them better. You will now understand the reason why it must be so difficult to write a good ‘Life of Prince Talleyrand;’ there would be so little of himself, compared to what must be told of other people—the work would be so full of digressions, that it would become as bulky as a cyclopædia. Besides, a single person could not do the whole. It would require writers of different talent, of different character, of different nations—I was almost going to say of different ages—to do justice to the varied scenes wherein he himself displayed such variety of talents.” “Then why do you not, my dear friend, seize upon the branch which you have at your own disposal, and give the world the _Vie Anecdotique_ of the prince?” said I. “Supposing you were to begin and try your skill by relating to me by way of practice before you publish?”