The correspondent of a morning paper, who writes from the head-quarters of fashion, recording the decease of a French nobleman, tells us “he may be said to have lived every day of his life.” One would think, at first sight, that this feat was not of so rare or difficult accomplishment as to call for special notice; but on looking at it from a peculiar point of view we shall see that it is not so easily performed. We get a glimpse at the hidden meaning in another sentence, which tells us “that there was scarce a gentleman-like folly of which he was not guilty.” “Abandoning diplomacy he flung himself into a certain set, and was the acknowledged leader of the demi-monde who always wagered on his mounts, aud petted his horses when they came in with their lace-fringed handkerchiefs.” According to the opinion of the correspondent whom we quote, this personage (unlike Trajan) never lost a day. He lived the fast life, and though he was obliged to die somewhat in the ordinary run, there was a fast flourish about his departure shown in the manner with which he tossed a legacy to a comedienne. We are informed that the “butterflies stuck to him to the last,” from which we may infer that the companions of his little suppers were at his death-bed, and that the lace-fringed handkerchiefs which were waved for his winning horses served to dry the tears which fell for his untimely end. The sort of career in which this creature was distinguished is not entirely unknown to us. A few years since, an English nobleman of completely French habits made a similar disposition of property, and finished his progress in corresponding style. The number of cigars he was possessed of, his rack of billiard cues, and his galliard pictures, were the wonder of Paris for nine days. His posthumous favours also fell in unseemly places. He, too, had a column in the papers from our correspondent, enriched with full-flavoured anecdotes, and notes of wonder at his brilliant career. Then we had that famous marquis, whose head was broken by Norwegian watchmen, who paid innumerable fines to London police magistrates, and who finally wound up in the hunting field, by being killed on the very scene of his greatest triumphs. From what has been given us of the biography of the Duc de Caderousse, he seems to have been the pink of a fast Frenchman. When he came in for his title he had the spending of seven millions of francs. Large as this sum will appear, even when reduced to English money, we are told that two or three years of his Parisian life made such sensible inroads upon it, that a conseil de famille was summoned, and the Duc put upon an allowance. This was done under an excellent statute of the Code Napoleon, by which an agent is appointed over the funded property and estates of a confirmed spendthrift, and the interdit can only receive the interest, the agent being responsible for the principal. However, there are many ways of procuring money open to a Duc, and Caderousse does not appear to have been stinted. He gave banquets similar to the festivals of the Borgias. He was the lion of the Jockey Club. Baden-Baden knew him and so did Hombourg. He rode races and won them occasionally, being greeted to the winning-post by the queens of the demi-monde. There was, indeed, a soupçon of hetairism about all his performances. He openly wore the colours of Traviata, and the plume of a soiled dove was one of the highest feathers in his cap. This was his especial gift, the open defiance even of that facile propriety of the Kursaals, which scarcely objects to anything short of what is outrageous. The Duc was the most splendid patron of vice upon the Continent, and fought determinedly for admission for his protegees into the ballrooms. His memoirs, with a fancy title, are already threatened. His intrigues, his bets, his extravagance, and his plans for living not only every day, but the most of every night of his life, are to be cooked by some courageous chef, who undertakes the high dishes of French literature. Broken-hearted grisettes, distracted blanchisseuses, and lorettes of every variety will garnish the salmagundi. Probably the humours of the Mabille will also light up the entertainment, and something in the Morgue, about the middle of the volume, will give occasion for a nice bit of sentiment, with a superabundance of emotion and a great deal of impiety. Then will follow a sketch of England with a sort of willow-plate pattern of the country, and a vivacious account of the poor Sir Smith whose wife is fascinated by the invincible Frenchman. This is usually the style followed in such works, and miserable rubbish as it is it would find purchasers on this side the water. The taste which is hit by “Slap Bang,” and which finds itself suited in casinos, apes this kind of thing to the extent of a feebler incapacity. The snob who is both impecunious and vicious, who peddles a guinea in a sporting public-house, whose cigars are cheap, and whose collars are paper, may possess as fine, though undeveloped a talent for dissipation, as a Duc de Caderousse. The degrees between the fast character are narrow enough, and in some respects you might find the cheapringed fingers of the lesser dandy close enough to grasp the Jouvin-sheathed hand of the heavior swell. Both are very useless lumber to a community, but one is pitched high enough to be dangerous as an example. A title borne without reproach should be treated with the respect due to an institution which consolidates the well-being of a State; but when a name which carries a part of history with it is stained with a desperate disregard for family or repute, it is only right to protest against the wearer being accepted as a type of the order which he dishonours. The Duc de Caderousse bore the shield of the noble house of Gramont. His ancestors gave Cardinals to the Church, Ministers to the State, and were often the representatives of Royalty to foreign Courts. What shall we say of their descendant? The amiability of writers, who will speak nothing but praise of the dead, has had more than full play in his case, and the believers in fast life may imagine there is an undercurrent in their direction when they find that a leader among them can have as neat a trope dropped upon his coffin, as if he had been a model of virtue and usefulness. The Duc de Caderousse was no hero, and it is well that this should be said. He certainly slew a man in a duel, “whose vanity forced the quarrel on “him.” We believe he displayed a very opportune ability on that occasion, and that his antagonist had scarce ever held a rapier in his hand before. He detected Garcia, a famous leg; “but, to discover a swindler requires a system of education and a peculiar experience which society is perfectly content should be limited to persons in a different position from the Duc de Caderousse. It is only charity to suppose that had the Duc lived longer he would have lived better, but a Frenchman who is on for wild oats is very slow to settle down. When pleasure jades him, he takes for consolation to Voltaire. Our custom of going off at least with a religious decency is not so general on the Continent. There is le vieux garçon who haunts the Vaudeville and the Varietes, and who reminds one of that terrible picture reproduced from Plato by Addison, of the ghost who is condemned to walk the scene and occasion of his evil deeds with a desire to commit them again, and a torturing sense of his utter incapacity to do so. There is the doctrinaire stage, in which the used-up man becomes a sour-grape philosopher. The tenacity with which an old boy of France will anchor to the earthy things of earth, cannot be paralleled by even our Major Pendennis, or Marquis of Steyne. We hear from a prescient editor that Caderousse reproached himself for his frippery still more than he was blamed by his friends. Perhaps; but Sterne irreverently hints of Solomon that his vanitas vanitatum was not enunciated before the great king had previously enjoyed more than a reasonable share of the vanitas. The lesson taught by the remorse of a fast man , a feeling which may arise as much from a palled appetite as
a wounded conscience, is not worth to us half as much as he pays for it. The men who are said to point a moral are generally akin to the women who have a history. For both there is often something claimed on account of supposititious qualities which they were never known to show. The tale which might be adorned with the exploits of Ludovic de Caderousse wo would not much care to have in circulation, nor can we see that the pet of Le Sport and Figaro deserves a sympathy, which to bestow wrongly, is to commit a breach of moral trust. Duc de Caderousse-Gramont has already selected his mourners, and however sad his choice, our compassion should be limited to as much pity as may be consistent with a stern disapproval of the life he led, and of the example he furnished.

From: The London review of politics, society, literature, art, & science, Volume 11, Nr. 276; Oct 14, 1865.