The amiable and intelligent octogenarian had no need of indulgence.  Her Memoirs possess irresistible attraction, grace, exquisite naturalness, and we are convinced that when they are published—­as they must be sooner or later—­they will excite universal interest.

Born at Paris in 1773, the Duchess of Gontaut was the daughter of Count Montault-Navailles and of the Countess, nee Coulommiers.  All her memories of childhood and early youth were connected with the old court.  She had seen Marie Antoinette in all her splendor, Versailles when it was most dazzling, and she was, formed in the elegant manners of that charm ing world whose social prestige was so great.  At seven she was held at the baptismal font by the Count of Provence (the future Louis XVIII.) and by the wife of this Prince.

“I had for this ceremony,” she says, “a grand habit and a grand Panier.  I was so proud of them that I caused much amusement at the Queen’s, whither my mother took me after the baptism.  Being connected with the Duchess of Polignac, she often took me to Versailles; there I saw Madame Royale, younger than I, and the poor, little, handsome, delightful Dauphin.  The Queen, wishing to give them a little fete, organized a children’s spectacle, in which I was entrusted with a part.  The piece chosen was Iphigenie en Aulide.  Mademoiselle de Sabran and her brother, as well as a young Strogonoff, were, it is said, perfect actors.  Armand de Polignac had a little part.  Tragedy was not my forte.  But in the second piece I achieved a little success, which the Chevalier de Boufflers was kind enough to celebrate in a very bright couplet, sung at the close.  He gave me the name of the Little White Mouse.  After that the Queen called me her little white mouse, and showed me a thousand kindnesses.  After the play there was a children’s supper; the princes waited on, us and were much diverted by our enjoyment; Louis XVI. stood behind my chair for a moment, and even gave me a plate.  The Queen sent me home in her sedan chair; footmen carried great torches; the body-guard presented arms to us.  So much honor would, perhaps, have turned my head, but for my prudent mother who knew how to calm it.”

The sorrows of exile followed rapidly on the first enchantments of life.  It was in England, during the Emigration, that the future Governess of the Children of France married M. de Saint-Blanchard, Viscount de Gontaut-Biron.  She was then residing at Epsom, where she lived on the proceeds of little pictures which she painted.  She gave birth to twin daughters October 9th, 1796.  “I nursed them both,” she says, “our means not permitting us to have two nurses in one little household, and I felt strong enough for this double task.  Brought into the world at seven and one-half months, their frail existence required my care night and day.”  In 1797, Madame de Gontaut visited Paris under a false name, and after this journey, on which she ran many risks, she returned to England, where she was the companion in exile of the princes.  Monsieur, the Count d’Artois, the future Charles X., was then pursued by his creditors.  The Castle of Holyrood, privileged by law, sheltered its occupants from all legal process.  That is why the Prince Regent offered its hospitality to the brother of Louis XVIII., seeking in every way to soften the severity of the old palace.