Talleyrand’s art belongs to metamorphosis, hence to monstrosity. Nineteenth-century sentimental moralism failed to understand it: political corruption and volte-faces were not enough to reach monstrosity. But one of the most feminine eyes to set its gaze on Talleyrand, that of Aimée de Coigny, could recognize the fearful and difficult moments when he changed his skin: “Like the fairies we used to talk about as children, which for a certain period of time were forced to shed the glittering forms that covered them in order to assume other repellent forms, Monsieur de Talleyrand is subject to sudden transformations that are short-lasting, but frightening.⁶⁵⁰ Then the sight of respectable people annoys him and he becomes horrible toward them. I used to fear, I don’t know why, finding him in this state that I call shedding his coat and was pleasantly surprised to see him amiable and sincere.”

Léon Daudet had a dream—this was the time when Edmond de Goncourt was still calling him “grand gamin,” though he was already flaunting the black velvet mortarboard worn by chic students. He dreamed that Professor Charcot brought him some of Pascal’s thoughts, and at the same time pointed out in a brain he had with him—and it was Pascal’s brain—“the brain cells where those thoughts had dwelt, which were absolutely empty, and similar to the cells of a dissected beehive.”⁶⁵¹

The Wolf-Man Recalls

I was born where the earth of Odessa

is blacker.

French governess, Austrian tutor.

I traveled throughout Europe with my doctor

and an assistant for card-playing.

Years later I found myself off limits

with my easel in no-man’s-land.

Allied command, Russian command.

All wanted to arrest me.

Want to see Europe? Then go to Spa: “There’s no better vantage point than those places where the waters flow.”⁶⁵² The Prince of Ligne had a saber wound and wanted to take a look, always curious, footloose, with little interest in his own affairs, impulsive, since he knew his chances were good. What he saw was the changing allegory of Europe, depicted by a continental Hogarth, the improbable and precarious world that history had raised and abandoned to the flow: “I arrive in a large hall where I see amputees with their arms on display, cripples with their legs on display; ridiculous names, titles, and faces; amphibian animals of the Church and of society who leap and run behind a column of Englishmen; hypochondriac lords who stroll around sadly; flirtatious girls from Paris who arrive with great giggles of laughter, trying to appear friendly and casual, and hoping this is the way to do it; young men from all countries, who pretend to be Englishmen and imagine they are, talking through clenched teeth, dressed in riding outfits, their hair curled up, black and greasy, and Jewish-looking side-whiskers as far up as their filthy ears; French bishops with their nieces; an obstetrician with the Order of Saint Michael; a dentist with the Order of the Golden Spur; dance and song masters dressed as Russian majors, Italians with the rank of colonel in the Polish army, carrying behind them young bears from that country; Dutchmen scanning the gazettes for the currency rates; thirty self-proclaimed knights of Malta; sashes of every color, left and right, and in their buttonholes; badges of every shape and size, arrayed on both sides; fifty knights of Saint Louis; elderly duchesses returning from their walk, with thick walking sticks à la Vendôme and three inches of powder and rouge; several marquises returning from playing cards in the country; ghastly and suspicious faces, in the middle of a mountain of ducats, they were devouring everything that was put down tremulously on the green baize; one or two electors in hunting dress, with gold braid and knife; a few princes incognito, who would have produced no greater effect under their true names; several old generals and officers on leave for wounds they’d never received; several Russian princesses with their doctors; and Palatine or Castilian princesses with their almoners; a few Americans; some local burgomasters; fugitives from all the prisons of Europe; charlatans of every kind; opportunists of every sort; abbés from every country; several poor priests, tutors to young boys of Liège; several English archbishops with their wives; twenty sick people who dance like mad things to restore their health; forty lovers, or presumably so, who sweat and fret; and sixty women who dance the waltz, of varying degrees of beauty or innocence, skill and coquetry, modesty and voluptuousness.”⁶⁵³