times, when I am painting, I refuse to
see any one in the world but my model, which more than once has made
me rude to people coming to disturb me at my work. One morning, when I
was occupied with finishing a portrait, the King of Poland came to see
me. Having heard the noise of horses at my door, I fully suspected it
was he who was paying me a call, but I was so absorbed in my task that
I lost my temper so far as to cry out, at the moment he opened my
door, "I am not at home!" The King, without a word, put on his cloak
again and went away. When I had laid down my palette and recalled in
cold blood what I had done, I reproached myself so strongly that the
same evening I went to the King of Poland for the purpose of
proffering my excuses and asking pardon. "What a reception you gave me
this morning!" he said as soon as he set eyes on me. He then
immediately went on: "I quite understand how a very busy artist
becomes impatient if disturbed, and so you may believe that I am not
at all angry with you." He obliged me to remain to supper, and there
was no further mention of my delinquency.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS

Painted for the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, where the Picture Now
Hangs.]

I rarely missed the little suppers of the King of Poland. Lord
Witworth, the English Ambassador to Russia, and the Marquis de Riviere
were likewise faithful attendants. We all three preferred these
intimate gatherings to the large mobs, because after supper there was
always a delightful round of chat, enlivened especially by the King,
who knew a host of interesting anecdotes. One evening, when I had
followed the usual invitation, I was struck by the singular change I
observed in our dear Prince's appearance; his left eye particularly
looked so dull that I was frightened. At leaving, I said on the
staircase to Lord Witworth and to the Marquis de Riviere, on whose arm
I was, "Do you know, I am very anxious about the King?" "Why so?" they
asked. "He seemed remarkably well; he talked as he always does." "I
have the misfortune to be a good soothsayer," I replied. "I read
uncommon trouble in his eyes. The King will soon die." Alas! I had
only prophesied too well, for the next day the King went down with an
attack of apoplexy, and a few days later was buried in the citadel
close to Catherine. I did not learn of his death without feeling a
very real sorrow, which was shared by all who had known the King of
Poland. I am rarely mi