Talleyrand had not celebrated many masses as bishop. The day before the Fête, he rehearsed the ceremony at the house of the Marquis de Saisseval, in rue de Lille, together with his friend Mirabeau, who was more familiar with the liturgy. Mirabeau had learned it in prison, to pass the time. They used the mantelpiece as the altar. The other guests sat laughing in their armchairs. Talleyrand’s small dog bit his episcopal cassock in fright.

The vast procession set off from the Bastille at seven in the morning. The sky was gray and overcast. Repeated showers of rain. Delays. Crowds pressed everywhere, breaking through the ranks. A floating bridge was built across the Seine. Then everyone, near and far, surrounded the blue-and-gold tent of the royal tribune. On the steps the king, the dauphin, the queen, dressed in tricolor. Flags everywhere. Lafayette cantering on a white horse. Three hundred robed priests and servers in smocks and tricolor sashes. Talleyrand follows them with his miter, limping along with the aid of his crook. The orchestra plays, twelve hundred instruments. Passing in front of Lafayette, who has just climbed down from his steed, Talleyrand murmurs: “Please, don’t make me laugh …”

At the end of this ceremony—a strident idyll that marked the beginning of the age of mass politics—Talleyrand took off his bishop’s vestments and immediately went to a gaming hall. He won, won massively—he broke the bank. Then he left. “I had more gold on me than I could put in my pockets, without counting the bills from the Caisse d’Escompte.” He went to the house of the Vicomtesse de Laval and, in front of his friends, he turned the piles of gold onto the table. After dinner he went back to play. He won again, won massively. “I went back to the vicomtesse, to show her the gold and the banknotes.¹⁷¹ I was covered with them; they were even stuffed into my hat. And note well: it was July 14.”

The day after the Fête de la Fédération, Talleyrand sent the following comment to his mistress en titre, Madame de Flahaut: “If you were as satisfied with your place at yesterday’s ridiculous celebration as I was at seeing you and admiring you sitting there, you must have endured the storm with the same philosophy as your friend Sieyès, who, in the presence of sixteen people, asked me, with the sardonic smile that you well know, how I had managed to keep a straight face while performing the buffoonery of the Champ de Mars with such skill, and how many Christians I thought there were among those hundred thousand spectators present who swore the National and Christian oath. I told him I had no idea how many. ‘According to my calculations,’ he went on, ‘there may have been five hundred, including the Duc [de Biron], you, me and those of our party.’ To tell the truth, dear friend, I fear he was exaggerating the number of believers. And I will say this: despite being a philosopher, I deplore the progressive lack of faith in the people. I share the opinion of Voltaire: whether we ourselves believe in God or not, it would nevertheless be dangerous for any society if the multitude thought that, finding no punishment in this world nor retribution in the next, it can therefore steal, poison, murder. We find ourselves in an age when doctrines against morality are to be feared more than ever, since the mass of the people believe themselves superior to it. And the most deplorable thing is that the Assembly shows an interest in stirring up among the people this spirit of political and moral anarchy. I well know that it is quite unromantic to entertain one’s beloved with idle philosophical thoughts. But in who else could I ever confide my innermost thoughts if not in you who are above the biases and prejudices of your sex? … … …