When it was decided that we should ask the Orleans princes to our party, I thought I would go to see the Duc Decazes, the foreign minister, a charming man and charming colleague, to get some precise information about my part of the entertainment.  He couldn’t think what I wanted when I invaded his cabinet, and was much amused when I stated my case.

“There is nothing unusual in receiving the princes at a ministry.  You must do as you have always done.”

“But that is just the question, I have never done.  I have never in my life exchanged a word with a royal personage.”

“It is not possible!”

“It is absolutely true; I have never lived anywhere where there was a court.”

When he saw that I was in earnest he was as nice as possible, told me exactly what I wanted to know,—­that I need not say “Altesse royale” every time I spoke, merely occasionally, as they all like it,—­that I must speak in the third person, “Madame veut-elle,” “Monseigneur veut-il me permettre,” etc., also that I must always be at the door when a princess arrived and conduct her myself to her seat.

“But if I am at one end of the long enfilade of rooms taking the Comtesse de Paris to her seat and another princess (Joinville or Chartres) should arrive; what has to be done?”

“Your husband must always be at the door with his chef de cabinet, who will replace him while he takes the princess to her place.”

The Marquise de L., a charming old lady with white hair, beautiful blue eyes, and pink cheeks, a great friend of the Orleans family, went with me when I made my round of visits to thank the royal ladies for accepting our invitation.  We found no one but the Princesse Marguerite, daughter of the Duc de Nemours, who was living at Neuilly.  I had all my instructions from the marquise, how many courtesies to make, how to address her, and above all not to speak until the princess spoke to me.  We were shown into a pretty drawing-room, opening on a garden, where the princess was waiting, standing at one end of the room.  Madame de L. named me, I made my courtesies, the princess shook hands, and then we remained standing, facing each other.  She didn’t say anything.  I stood perfectly straight and quiet, waiting.  She changed colour, moved her hands nervously, was evidently overcome with shyness, but didn’t utter a sound.  It seemed very long, was really only a few seconds, but I was getting rather nervous when suddenly a child ran across the garden.  That broke the ice and she asked me the classic royal question, “Avez-vous des enfants, madame?” I had only one, and he was rather small, but still his nurse, his teeth, and his food carried me on for a little while and after that we had some general conversation, but I can’t say the visit was really interesting.  As long as I was in public life I regretted that I had but the one child,—­children and nurseries and schoolrooms were always an unfailing topic of