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. What gave a colouring to this idea was the total silence which reigned around, where in general, even at this early hour, all was hurry and business. The antechamber was deserted, for the anxious domestics had crowded one and all to the apartment nearest to that occupied by their beloved master, in order to obtain the earliest information respecting the progress of his malady. There perhaps never existed a person who, with so little apparent effort, possessed in so great a degree the power of conciliating the affections of his dependents as the Prince de Talleyrand. Of those who were with him at that moment, all had, with few exceptions, grown grey in his service; while of those who had started in their career with him in his youth, none remained: he had lived to see them all go down before him into the grave. The prince had always been accustomed to treat his chief domestics as persons worthy of confidence, and many a subject of the highest importance, which had been nursed with the greatest secrecy through the bureaux of the Foreign-office, has been discussed at full length, and with all liberty of speech, before his valet-de-chambre. It was, indeed, his custom for many years before his death to select the hour allotted to his toilet for the transaction of the most important affairs, and the discussion of the most weighty politics, and never, upon any occasion, was he known to dismiss his valet from the chamber. Perhaps some apology may be found for this apparent carelessness in the fact of his trust having never been betrayed.