Talleyrand by François Gérard: a Crippled Sonnet
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He isn’t looking quite askance at us
From oils and frame. The gilt surrounding trim,
The mouldings, desk, rectangle-rimmed canvas)
Are as close as he’ll allow shame near him.
Proximity to guilt was not his style.
He wears or sits among mild orangey-pink,
Aristocratic blue, a ribbon vile
As blood from guillotines—and a wink
Of off-white lace around his cuffs—warm brown
On walls and even green. In brief, he
Refuses to be written or pinned down
To one Estate, except the free
Estate of medal-round-the-neck seeming
And velvet-smooth mendacious scheming.