UP THE LADDER OF FAME
TEDIOUS SOJOURN IN THE COUNTRY -- SOCIAL AMENITIES IN PARIS --
MLLE. VIGEE BECOMES MME. LEBRUN -- PROGNOSTICATIONS OF UNHAPPY
WEDLOCK -- ON THE LADDER OF FAME -- SINGULARITIES OF ORIENTAL
TASTE -- MARIE ANTOINETTE AS A MODEL -- PAINTING THE ROYAL FAMILY
-- HOW LOUIS XVIII. SANG -- THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE.
My detestable stepfather, annoyed no doubt by the public admiration
shown my mother, forbade us to go for any more walks, and informed us
that he was about to take a place in the country. At this announcement
my heart beat with joy, for I was passionately fond of the country. I
had been sleeping near the foot of my mother's bedstead, in a dark
corner where the light of day never penetrated. Every morning,
whatever the weather might be, my first care was to open the window
wide, such was my thirst for fresh air.
So my stepfather took a small cottage at Chaillot, and we went there
on Saturday, spent Sunday there, and returned to Paris on Monday
morning. Good heavens, what a country! Imagine a tiny vicarage garden,
without a tree, without any shelter from the blazing sun but a little
arbour, where my stepfather had planted some beans and nasturtium,
which refused to grow. At that we only occupied a quarter of this
delightful garden, for it was divided into four by slender railings,
and the three other sections were let out to shopboys, who came
every Sunday and amused themselves by shooting at the birds. The
incessant noise threw me into a desperate state of mind, besides which
I was terribly afraid of being killed by these marksmen, so inaccurate
was their aim. I could not understand why this stupid, ugly place, the
very recollection of which makes me yawn as I write, was "the
country." At last my good angel brought to my rescue a friend of my
mother's, who one day came to dine with us at Chaillot with her
husband. Both were sorry for me in my exile, and sometimes took me out
for a charming drive.
[Illustration: MADAME VIGEE LEBRUN
Marked: "Virginia Lebrun, St. Luke's Gallery, Rome".]
We went to Marly-le-Roi, and there I found a more beautiful spot than
any I had seen in my life. On each side of the magnificent palace were
six summer-houses communicating with one another by walks embowered
with jessamine and honeysuckle. Water fell in cascades from the top of
a hill behind the castle, and formed a large channel on which a number
of swans floated. The handsome trees, the carpets of green, the
flowers, the fountains, one of which spouted up so high that it was
lost from sight--it was all grand, all regal; it all spoke of Louis
XIV. One morning I met Queen Marie Antoinette walking in the park with
several of the ladies of her court. They were all in white dresses,
and so young and pretty that for a moment I thought I was in a dream.
I was with my mother, and was turning away when the Queen was kind
enough to stop me, and invited me to continue in any direction I might
prefer. Alas! when I returned to France in 1802 I hastened to see my
noble, smiling Marly. The palace, the trees, the cascades, and the
fountains had all disappeared; scarcely a stone was left.
I found it very hard to quit those lovely gardens and go back to our
hideous Chaillot. But we at last went back to Paris, and settled there
for the winter. The time left over from my work I now spent in a most
agreeable manner. From the age of fifteen I had been going out into
the best society; and I knew all the celebrated artists, so that I
received invitations from all sides. I very well remember the first
time I dined in town with the sculptor Le Moine, who was then enjoying
a great reputation. It was there I met the famous actor Lekain, who
struck terror into my heart because of his wild and sinister
appearance; his huge eyebrows only added to the fierce expression of
his face. He scarcely talked at all, and ate enormously. At Le Moine's
I made the acquaintance of Gerbier, the noted advocate, and of his
daughter Mme. de Roissy, who was very beautiful, and one of the first
women I made a portrait of. Gretry and Latour, an eminent pastellist,
often came to these dinners at Le Moine's, which were highly convivial
and amusing. It was then the custom to sing at dessert. When the turn
of the young ladies came--to whom, I must admit, this custom was
torture--they would turn pale and tremble all over, and consequently
often sing very much out of tune. In spite of these dissonances, the
dinners ended pleasantly, and we always rose from the table with
regret, although we did not immediately order our carriages, as the
fashion is to-day.
I cannot, however, speak of the dinners of the present day excepting
through hearsay, in view of the fact that soon after the time I have
just mentioned I stopped dining in town for good. A slight adventure I
had made me determine to go out only in the evening. I had accepted an
invitation to dine with Princess Rohan-Rochefort. All dressed and
ready to get into my carriage, I was seized with a sudden desire to
take a look at a portrait that I had begun that same morning. I had on
a white satin dress, which I was wearing for the first time. I sat
down on my chair opposite my easel without noticing that my palette
was lying on the chair. It may readily be conceived that the state of
my gown was such as to compel me to remain at home, and I resolved
thenceforth to accept no invitations excepting to supper.
The dinners of Princess Rohan-Rochefort were delightful. The nucleus
of the society was composed of the handsome Countess de Brionne and
her daughter the Princess Lorraine, the Duke de Choiseul, the Cardinal
de Rohan, and M. de Rulhieres, the author of the "Disputes"; but the
most agreeable without question of all the guests was the Duke de
Lauzun; no one could possibly have been cleverer or more entertaining;
we were all fascinated by him. The evening was usually filled up with
playing and singing, and I often sang to my own accompaniment on the
guitar. Supper was at half-past ten; we were never more than ten or
twelve at table. We all vied with one another in sociability and wit.
As for me, I was only a humble listener, and, although too young to
appreciate the qualities of this conversation to the full, it spoiled
me for ordinary conversation.
My life as a young girl was very unusual. Not only did my
talent--feeble as it seemed to me when I thought of the great
masters--cause me to be sought after and welcomed by society, but I
sometimes was the object of attentions which I might call public, and
of which, I avow, I was very proud. For example, I had made portraits
of Cardinal Fleury and La Bruyere, copied from engravings of ancient
date. I made a gift of them to the French Academy, which sent me a
very flattering letter through the permanent secretary, d'Alembert. My
presentation of these two portraits to the Academy also secured me the
honour of a visit from d'Alembert, a dried up morsel of a man of
exquisitely polished manners. He stayed a long time and looked my
study all over, while he paid me a thousand compliments. After he had
gone, a fine lady, who happened to be visiting me at the same time,
asked me whether I had painted La Bruyere and Fleury from life. "I am
a little too young for that," I answered, unable to refrain from a
laugh, but very glad for the sake of the lady that the Academician had
left before she put her funny question.
My stepfather having retired from business, we took up residence at
the Lubert mansion, in the Rue de Clery. M. Lebrun had just bought the
house and lived there himself, and as soon as we were settled in it I
began to examine the splendid masterpieces of all schools with which
his lodgings were filled. I was enchanted at an opportunity of
first-hand acquaintance with these works by great masters. M. Lebrun
was so obliging as to lend me, for purposes of copying, some of his
handsomest and most valuable paintings. Thus I owed him the best
lessons I could conceivably have obtained, when, after a lapse of six
months, he asked my hand in marriage. I was far from wishing to become
his wife, though he was very well built and had a pleasant face. I was
then twenty years old, and was living without anxiety as to the
future, since I was already earning a deal of money, so that I felt no
manner of inclination for matrimony. But my mother, who believed M.
Lebrun to be very rich, incessantly plied me with arguments in favour
of accepting such an advantageous match. At last I decided in the
affirmative, urged especially by the desire to escape from the torture
of living with my stepfather, whose bad temper had increased day by
day since he had relinquished active pursuits. So little, however, did
I feel inclined to sacrifice my liberty that, even on my way to
church, I kept saying to myself, "Shall I say yes, or shall I say no?"
Alas! I said yes, and in so doing exchanged present troubles for
others. Not that M. Lebrun was a cruel man: his character exhibited a
mixture of gentleness and liveliness; he was extremely obliging to
everybody, and, in a word, quite an agreeable person. But his furious
passion for gambling was at the bottom of the ruin of his fortune
and my own, of which he had the entire disposal, so that in 1789, when
I quitted France, I had not an income of twenty francs, although I had
earned more than a million. He had squandered it all.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS.]
My marriage was kept secret for some time. M. Lebrun, who was supposed
to marry the daughter of a Dutchman with whom he did a great business
in pictures, asked me to make no announcement until he had wound up
his affairs. To this I consented the more willingly that I did not
give up my maiden name without regret, particularly as I was so well
known by that name. But the keeping of the secret, which did not last
long, was nevertheless fraught with disastrous consequences for my
future. A number of people who simply believed that I was merely
considering a match with M. Lebrun came to advise me to commit no such
piece of folly. Auber, the crown jeweller, said to me in a friendly
spirit: "It would be better for you to tie a stone to your neck and
jump into the river than to marry Lebrun." Another day the Duchess
d'Aremberg, accompanied by Mme. de Canillas, and Mme. de Souza, the
Portuguese Ambassadress, all very young and pretty, came to offer
their belated counsels a fortnight after the knot had been tied. "For
heaven's sake," exclaimed the Countess, "on no account marry M.
Lebrun! You will be miserable if you do!" And then she told me a lot
of things which I was happy enough to disbelieve, but which only
proved too true afterward. The announcement of my marriage put an end
to these sad warnings, which, thanks to my dear painting, had little
effect on my usual good spirits. I could not meet the orders for
portraits that were showered upon me from every side. M. Lebrun soon
got into the habit of pocketing my fees. He also hit upon the idea of
making me give lessons in order to increase our revenues. I acceded to
his wishes without a moment's thought.
The number of portraits I painted at this time was really prodigious.
As I detested the female style of dress then in fashion, I bent all my
efforts upon rendering it a little more picturesque, and was delighted
when, after getting the confidence of my models, I was able to drape
them according to my fancy. Shawls were not yet worn, but I made an
arrangement with broad scarfs lightly intertwined round the body and
on the arms, which was an attempt to imitate the beautiful drapings of
Raphael and Domenichino. The picture of my daughter playing the guitar
is an example. Besides, I could not endure powder. I persuaded the
handsome Duchess de Grammont-Caderousse to put none on for her
sittings. Her hair was ebony black, and I divided it on the forehead,
disposing it in irregular curls. After the sitting, which ended at the
dinner hour, the Duchess would not change her head-dress, but go to
the theatre as she was. A woman of such good looks would, of course,
set a fashion: indeed, this mode of doing the hair soon found
imitators, and then gradually became general. This reminds me that in
1786, when I was painting the Queen, I begged her to use no powder,
and to part her hair on the forehead. "I should be the last to follow
that fashion," said the Queen, laughing; "I do not want people to say
that I adopted it to hide my large forehead."
As I said, I was overwhelmed with orders and was very much in vogue.
Soon after my marriage I was present at a meeting of the French
Academy at which La Harpe read his discourse on the talents of women.
When he arrived at certain lines of exaggerated praise, which I was
hearing for the first time, and in which he extolled my art and
likened my smile to that of Venus, the author of "Warwick" threw a
glance at me. At once the whole assembly, without excepting the
Duchess de Chartres and the King of Sweden--who both were witnessing
the ceremonies--rose up, turned in my direction, and applauded with
such enthusiasm that I almost fainted from confusion.
But these pleasures of gratified vanity were far from comparable with
the joy I experienced in looking forward to motherhood. I will not
attempt to describe the transports I felt when I heard the first cry
of my child. Every mother knows what those feelings are.
Not long before that event I painted the Duchess de Mazarin, who was
no longer young, but whose beauty had not yet faded. This Duchess de
Mazarin was said to have been endowed on her birth by three fairies,
Wealth, Duty and Ill-luck. Certain it is that the poor woman could
undertake nothing, not even so much as entertaining a party of
friends, without some mishap befalling. A number of tales of all sorts
of untoward happenings were current. Here is one of the least known:
One evening, having sixty people to supper, she conceived the plan of
putting on the table an enormous pie, in which were imprisoned a
hundred tiny living birds. At a sign from the Duchess the pie was
opened, and the whole fluttering flock beat their wings against the
faces of the guests and took refuge in the hair of the women, making
nests of their elaborately built-up head-dresses. It may be imagined
what consternation and excitement there was! It was impossible to get
rid of the unfortunate birds, and at last the company was obliged to
leave the table, while they blessed such a silly trick.
The Duchess de Mazarin was very stout; it took hours to lace her. One
day, while she was being laced, a visitor was announced. One of her
maids ran to the door and exclaimed: "You can't come in until we have
arranged her meat." I remember that this excessive corpulency evoked
the admiration of the Turkish Ambassadors. When asked at the opera to
point out the woman that pleased them most of all the occupants of the
boxes, they pointed without hesitation to the Duchess de
Mazarin--because she was the fattest.
While speaking of ambassadors, I must not forget to say how I once
painted two diplomats, who, though they were copper-coloured,
nevertheless had splendid heads. In 1788 some envoys were sent to
Paris by the Emperor Tippoo Sahib. I saw these Indians at the opera
and they appeared to me so remarkably picturesque that I thought I
should like to paint them. But as they communicated to their
interpreter that they would never allow themselves to be painted
unless the request came from the King, I managed to secure that favour
from His Majesty. I repaired to the hotel where the strangers were
lodging, for they wanted to be painted at home. On my arrival one of
them brought in a jar of rose-water, with which he sprinkled my hands;
then the tallest, whose name was Davich Kahn, gave me a sitting. I did
him standing, with his hand on his dagger. He threw himself into such
an easy, natural position of his own accord that I did not make him
change it. I let the paint dry in another room, and began on the
portrait of the old ambassador, whom I represented seated with his son
next to him. The father especially had a magnificent head. Both were
clad in flowing robes of white muslin worked with golden flowers, and
these robes, a sort of long tunic with wide, upturned sleeves, were
held in place by gorgeous belts.
Mme. de Bonneuil, to whom I had spoken of my artistic sittings, very
much wanted to see these ambassadors. They invited us both to dinner,
and we accepted from sheer curiosity. Upon entering the dining-room we
were rather surprised to see that the dinner was served on the floor,
which obliged us to assume an attitude that was very much like lying
down, following the example of our Oriental hosts. They helped us with
their hands to the contents of the dishes. In one of these was a
fricassee of sheep's feet with white sauce, highly spiced, and in
another some indescribable hash. Our meal was not exactly pleasant;
it was rather too much of a shock to us to see those brown hands used
as spoons. The ambassadors had brought a young man with them who spoke
a little French. During my sittings Mme. de Bonneuil taught him to
sing a popular ditty. When we went to make our farewells the young man
recited his song, and expressed his regret in parting from us by
adding: "Ah! my heart! how it weepeth!" which I found very Oriental
and very well put.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE, DONE IN 1779
Mme. Lebrun's First Portrait of the Queen, Destined for Presentation
to the Emperor Joseph II. Marie Antoinette Ordered Two Copies, One for
the Emperor of Russia and One for Herself.]
When Davich Kahn's portrait was dry I sent for it, but he had hidden
it behind his bed and would not give it up, asserting that the picture
still needed a soul. I could only obtain my painting by employing
strategy. When the ambassador could not find it he put the
responsibility on his valet, and threatened to kill him. The
interpreter had all the trouble in the world to explain that it was
not the custom to kill one's valet in Paris, and informed him,
moreover, that the King of France had asked for the portrait.
It was in the year 1779 that I painted the Queen for the first time;
she was then in the heyday of her youth and beauty. Marie Antoinette
was tall and admirably built, being somewhat stout, but not
excessively so. Her arms were superb, her hands small and perfectly
formed, and her feet charming. She had the best walk of any woman in
France, carrying her head erect with a dignity that stamped her queen
in the midst of her whole court, her majestic mien, however, not in
the least diminishing the sweetness and amiability of her face. To any
one who has not seen the Queen it is difficult to get an idea of all
the graces and all the nobility combined in her person. Her features
were not regular; she had inherited that long and narrow oval peculiar
to the Austrian nation. Her eyes were not large; in colour they were
almost blue, and they were at the same time merry and kind. Her nose
was slender and pretty, and her mouth not too large, though her lips
were rather thick. But the most remarkable thing about her face was
the splendour of her complexion. I never have seen one so brilliant,
and brilliant is the word, for her skin was so transparent that it
bore no umber in the painting. Neither could I render the real effect
of it as I wished. I had no colours to paint such freshness, such
delicate tints, which were hers alone, and which I had never seen in
any other woman.
At the first sitting the imposing air of the Queen at first frightened
me greatly, but Her Majesty spoke to me so graciously that my fear was
soon dissipated. It was on that occasion that I began the picture
representing her with a large basket, wearing a satin dress, and
holding a rose in her hand. This portrait was destined for her
brother, Emperor Joseph II., and the Queen ordered two copies
besides--one for the Empress of Russia, the other for her own
apartments at Versailles or Fontainebleau.
I painted various pictures of the Queen at different times. In one I
did her to the knees, in a pale orange-red dress, standing before a
table on which she was arranging some flowers in a vase. It may be
well imagined that I preferred to paint her in a plain gown and
especially without a wide hoopskirt. She usually gave these portraits
to her friends or to foreign diplomatic envoys. One of them shows her
with a straw hat on, and a white muslin dress, whose sleeves are
turned up, though quite neatly. When this work was exhibited at the
Salon, malignant folk did not fail to make the remark that the Queen
had been painted in her chemise, for we were then in 1786, and calumny
was already busy concerning her. Yet in spite of all this the
portraits were very successful.
Toward the end of the exhibition a little piece was given at the
Vaudeville Theatre, bearing the title, I think, "The Assembling of
the Arts." Brongniart, the architect, and his wife, whom the author
had taken into his confidence, had taken a box on the first tier, and
called for me on the day of the first performance. As I had no
suspicion of the surprise in store for me, judge of my emotion when
Painting appeared on the scene and I saw the actress representing that
art copy me in the act of painting a portrait of the Queen. The same
moment everybody in the parterre and the boxes turned toward me and
applauded to bring the roof down. I can hardly believe that any one
was ever more moved and more grateful than I was that evening.
I was so fortunate as to be on very pleasant terms with the Queen.
When she heard that I had something of a voice we rarely had a sitting
without singing some duets by Gretry together, for she was exceedingly
fond of music, although she did not sing very true. As for her
conversation, it would be difficult for me to convey all its charm,
all its affability. I do not think that Queen Marie Antoinette ever
missed an opportunity of saying something pleasant to those who had
the honour of being presented to her, and the kindness she always
bestowed upon me has ever been one of my sweetest memories.
One day I happened to miss the appointment she had given me for a
sitting; I had suddenly become unwell. The next day I hastened to
Versailles to offer my excuses. The Queen was not expecting me; she
had had her horses harnessed to go out driving, and her carriage was
the first thing I saw on entering the palace yard. I nevertheless went
upstairs to speak with the chamberlains on duty. One of them, M.
Campan, received me with a stiff and haughty manner, and bellowed at
me in his stentorian voice, "It was yesterday, madame, that Her
Majesty expected you, and I am very sure she is going out driving, and
I am very sure she will give you no sitting to-day!" Upon my reply
that I had simply come to take Her Majesty's orders for another day,
he went to the Queen, who at once had me conducted to her room. She
was finishing her toilet, and was holding a book in her hand, hearing
her daughter repeat a lesson. My heart was beating violently, for I
knew that I was in the wrong. But the Queen looked up at me and said
most amiably, "I was waiting for you all the morning yesterday; what
happened to you?"
"I am sorry to say, Your Majesty," I replied, "I was so ill that I was
unable to comply with Your Majesty's commands. I am here to receive
more now, and then I will immediately retire."
"No, no! Do not go!" exclaimed the Queen. "I do not want you to have
made your journey for nothing!" She revoked the order for her carriage
and gave me a sitting. I remember that, in my confusion and my
eagerness to make a fitting response to her kind words, I opened my
paint-box so excitedly that I spilled my brushes on the floor. I
stooped down to pick them up. "Never mind, never mind," said the
Queen, and, for aught I could say, she insisted on gathering them all
up herself.
When the Queen went for the last time to Fontainebleau, where the
court, according to custom, was to appear in full gala, I repaired
there to enjoy that spectacle. I saw the Queen in her grandest dress;
she was covered with diamonds, and as the brilliant sunshine fell upon
her she seemed to me nothing short of dazzling. Her head, erect on her
beautiful Greek neck, lent her as she walked such an imposing, such a
majestic air, that one seemed to see a goddess in the midst of her
nymphs. During the first sitting I had with Her Majesty after this
occasion I took the liberty of mentioning the impression she had made
upon me, and of saying to the Queen how the carriage of her head added
to the nobility of her bearing. She answered in a jesting tone, "If I
were not Queen they would say I looked insolent, would they not?"
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER CHILDREN
Known as "The Royal Family." Exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1788, the
Year Before the Outbreak of the Revolution.]
The Queen neglected nothing to impart to her children the courteous
and gracious manners which endeared her so to all her surroundings. I
once saw her make her six-year-old daughter dine with a little peasant
girl and attend to her wants. The Queen saw to it that the little
visitor was served first, saying to her daughter, "You must do the
honours."
The last sitting I had with Her Majesty was given me at Trianon, where
I did her hair for the large picture in which she appeared with her
children. After doing the Queen's hair, as well as separate studies of
the Dauphin, Madame Royale, and the Duke de Normandie, I busied myself
with my picture, to which I attached great importance, and I had it
ready for the Salon of 1788. The frame, which had been taken there
alone, was enough to evoke a thousand malicious remarks. "That's how
the money goes," they said, and a number of other things which seemed
to me the bitterest comments. At last I sent my picture, but I could
not muster up the courage to follow it and find out what its fate was
to be, so afraid was I that it would be badly received by the public.
In fact, I became quite ill with fright. I shut myself in my room, and
there I was, praying to the Lord for the success of my "Royal Family,"
when my brother and a host of friends burst in to tell me that my
picture had met with universal acclaim. After the Salon, the King,
having had the picture transferred to Versailles, M. d'Angevilliers,
then minister of the fine arts and director of royal residences,
presented me to His Majesty. Louis XVI. vouchsafed to talk to me at
some length and to tell me that he was very much pleased. Then he
added, still looking at my work, "I know nothing about painting, but
you make me like it."
The picture was placed in one of the rooms at Versailles, and the
Queen passed it going to mass and returning. After the death of the
Dauphin, which occurred early in the year 1789, the sight of this
picture reminded her so keenly of the cruel loss she had suffered that
she could not go through the room without shedding tears. She then
ordered M. d'Angevilliers to have the picture taken away, but with her
usual consideration she informed me of the fact as well, apprising me
of her motive for the removal. It is really to the Queen's
sensitiveness that I owed the preservation of my picture, for the
fishwives who soon afterward came to Versailles for Their Majesties
would certainly have destroyed it, as they did the Queen's bed, which
was ruthlessly torn apart.
I never had the felicity of setting eyes on Marie Antoinette after the
last court ball at Versailles. The ball was given in the theatre, and
the box where I was seated was so situated that I could hear what the
Queen said. I observed that she was very excited, asking the young men
of the court to dance with her, such as M. Lameth, whose family had
been overwhelmed with kindness by the Queen, and others, who all
refused, so that many of the dances had to be given up. The conduct of
these gentlemen seemed to me exceedingly improper; somehow their
refusal likened a sort of revolt--the prelude to revolts of a more
serious kind. The Revolution was drawing near; it was, in fact, to
burst out before long.
With the exception of the Count d'Artois, whose portrait I never did,
I successively painted the whole royal family--the royal children;
Monsieur, the King's brother, afterward Louis XVIII.; Madame Royale;
the Countess d'Artois; Madame Elisabeth. The features of this
last-named Princess were not regular, but her face expressed gentle
affability, and the freshness of her complexion was remarkable;
altogether, she had the charm of a pretty shepherdess. She was an
angel of goodness. Many a time have I been a witness to her deeds of
charity on behalf of the poor. All the virtues were in her heart:
she was indulgent, modest, compassionate, devoted. In the
Revolution she displayed heroic courage; she was seen going forward to
meet the cannibals who had come to murder the Queen, saying, "They
will mistake me for her!"
[Illustration: MADAME ELISABETH, SISTER OF LOUIS XVI.]
The portrait I made of Monsieur favoured me with the occasion to
become acquainted with a prince whose wit and learning one could extol
without flattery; it was impossible not to find pleasure in the
conversation of Louis XVIII., who talked on all subjects with equal
degrees of taste and understanding. However, for the sake of variety
no doubt, at some of our sittings he would sing to me, and he would
sing such common songs that I was unable to understand how these
trivial things had ever reached the court. He sang more out of tune
than any one in the whole world. "How do you think I sing?" he asked
me one day. "Like a prince, Your Highness," was my reply.
The Marquis de Montesquiou, equerry-in-chief to Monsieur, would send
me a fine carriage and six to bring me to Versailles and take me back
with my mother, who accompanied me at my request. All along the road
people stood at the windows to see me pass, and every one took their
hats off. This homage rendered to six horses and an outrider amused
me, for on returning to Paris I got into a cab, and nobody took the
slightest notice of me.
About this time I also painted the Princess de Lamballe. Without being
actually pretty, she appeared so at a little distance; she had small
features, complexion of dazzling freshness, superb blond locks, and
was generally elegant in person. The unhappy end of this unfortunate
Princess is sufficiently well known, and so is the devotion to which
she fell a victim. For in 1793, when she was at Turin, entirely out of
harm's way, she returned to France upon learning that the Queen was in
danger.