La Fête de la Fédération had only just finished. Still quivering with excitement, Jean-Baptiste de Cloots wanted to recount it all to the turbulent “Sappho of the Gauls,” Fanny de Beauharnais, his friend, writer, and Joséphine’s aunt by marriage: “We have won, we have triumphed, and you were not there! Hurry. Madame, hurry. Come, be a witness to the joy of a free nation which, in its happy struggle, takes its place among the Greeks and the Romans. Now we can believe the amazing stories of the father of history and his emulators, those like Thucydides and Titus Livy. I won’t describe to you a solemn ceremony that eclipses the memory of all celebrations, ancient and modern. The picture I gazed at for twelve hours cannot be adequately depicted, either with a paintbrush or in words. The place, prepared with our own hands, is breathtaking for its enormity, simplicity, arrangement. Imagine the largest coliseum in the world, crowned by the fine hills of Chaillot, Passy, Meudon, Montmartre; and the dense branches of eight avenues of trees forming a verdant enclosure that surrounds the arena and provides a charming setting for three hundred thousand spectators. The triumphal arch, the bridge over the river, the elegant altar, and the Roman edifice together provided an enchanting scene, with all the flags, all the banners, all the French Empire’s weapons of attack and defense. The cannon, the music, and the applause shook heaven and earth.

“In my capacity as ambassador of the human race, I was at the head of the foreigners in the palace galleries, and the ministers of the tyrants looked upon us with a jealous and fearful eye.¹⁶⁹ This national celebration transports us back two thousand years, through its own indescribable patina of antiquity, and it transports us forward two thousand years, through the swift progress of reason, for which this federation is the sweet and early fruit. I will not describe, Madame, all that I experienced yesterday; my heart is delicate and my patriotism ardent: imagine the rest and come as soon as you can.”

Talleyrand limped up to the altar of the Champ de Mars to carry out the ceremony. He was then bishop of Autun, and considered by both the old and the new religion as a most godless being. It is not the clumsy king, nor the treacherous queen, but the Priest of the Fête who is the blot that assures the presence of deceit at the center of the paradise improvised by the General Will. And such Will, above all, in its tumultuous vagueness, needed a light finishing touch from Talleyrand himself to stir the feast. To some extent it has to thank him that this day remains the most luminous for those who dream of the quiet and spontaneous embraces of the masses. A month earlier, speaking at the Constituent Assembly, it was Talleyrand who claimed that “that Fête de la Fédération would never have been solemn enough,” and then went on to suggest the reasons for its utility: “Strengthening the ties of brotherhood between all citizens, making everyone aware of the Patriotism that stirs the French, it will end up convincing the enemies of the revolution, if any still exist, how vain their efforts would be in destroying it.”¹⁷⁰