of my
own, I feel there is no way of acquitting myself of the obligations you
have heaped upon me, by the fidelity with which you have executed the
various commissions entrusted to your charge, but by adopting you as one
of my own family. I am satisfied with you, yes, highly satisfied with
you, on the score of your religious principles; and as soon as the
troubles subside, and we have a little calm after them, my father-in-law
and myself will be present at the ceremony of your confirmation."

The goodness of my benefactress silenced me gratitude would not allow me
to persevere for the moment. But from what I had already seen of Her
Majesty the Queen, I was too much interested to lose sight of my
object,--not, let me be believed, from idle womanish curiosity, but from
that real, strong, personal interest which I, in common with all who ever
had the honour of being in her presence, felt for that much-injured, most
engaging sovereign.

A propitious circumstance unexpectedly occurred, which gave me an
opportunity, without any appearance of officious earnestness, to renew
the attempt to gain the end I had in view.

I was riding in the carriage with the Princesse de Lamballe, when a lady
drove by, who saluted my benefactress with marked attention and respect.
There was something in the manner of the Princess, after receiving the
salute, which impelled me, spite of myself, to ask who the lady was.

"Madame de Genlis," exclaimed Her Highness, with a shudder of disgust,
"that lamb's face with a wolf's heart, and a fog's cunning." Or, to
quote her own Italian phrase which I have here translated, "colla faccia
d'agnello, il cuore dun lupo, a la dritura della volpe."

In the course of these pages the cause of this strong feeling against
Madame de Genlis will be explained. To dwell on it now would only turn
me aside from my narrative. To pursue my story, therefore:

When we arrived at my lodgings (which were then, for private reasons, at
the Irish Convent, where Sacchini and other masters attended to further
me in the accomplishments of the fine arts), "Sing me something," said
the Princess, "'Cantate mi qualche cosa', for I never see that woman"
(meaning Madame de Genlis) "but I feel ill and out of humour. I wish it
may not be the foreboding of some great evil!"

I sang a little rondo, in which Her Highness and the Queen always
delighted, and which they would never set me free without making me sing,
though I had given