In her demeanour there is an evident assumption of dignity, which, falling short of the aim, gives an ungraceful stiffness to her appearance.  Her dress was rich but suited to her age, which I should pronounce to be about sixty.  Her manner has the formality peculiar to those conscious of occupying a higher station than their birth or education entitles them to hold; and this consciousness gives an air of constraint and reserve that curiously contrasts with the natural good-humour and naivete that are frequently perceptible in her.

If ignorant—­as is asserted—­there is no symptom of it in her language.  To be sure, she says little; but that little is expressed with propriety:  and if reserved, she is scrupulously polite.  Her dames de compagnie and chambellan treat her with profound respect, and she acknowledges their attentions with civility.  To sum up all, the impression made upon me by the Princesse Talleyrand was, that she differed in no way from any other princess I had ever met, except by a greater degree of reserve and formality than were in general evinced by them.

I could not help smiling inwardly when looking at her, as I remembered Baron Denon’s amusing story of the mistake she once made.  When the Baron’s work on Egypt was the topic of general conversation, and the hotel of the Prince Talleyrand was the rendezvous of the most distinguished persons of both sexes at Paris, Denon being engaged to dine there one day, the Prince wished the Princesse to read a few pages of the book, in order that she might be enabled to say something complimentary on it to the author.  He consequently ordered his librarian to send the work to her apartment on the morning of the day of the dinner; but, unfortunately, at the same time also commanded that a copy of Robinson Crusoe should be sent to a young lady, a protegee of hers, who resided in the hotel.  The Baron Denon’s work, through mistake, was given to Mademoiselle, and Robinson Crusoe was delivered to the Princesse, who rapidly looked through its pages.

The seat of honour at table being assigned to the Baron, the Princesse, mindful of her husband’s wishes, had no sooner eaten her soup than, smiling graciously, she thanked Denon for the pleasure which the perusal of his work had afforded her.  The author was pleased, and told her how much he felt honoured; but judge of his astonishment, and the dismay of the Prince Talleyrand, when the Princesse exclaimed.  “Yes, Monsieur le Baron, your work has delighted me; but I am longing to know what has become of your poor man Friday, about whom I feel such an interest?”

Denon used to recount this anecdote with great spirit, confessing at the same time that his amour propre as an author had been for a moment flattered by the commendation, even of a person universally known to be incompetent to pronounce on the merit of his book.  The Emperor Napoleon heard this story, and made Baron Denon repeat it to him, laughing immoderately all the time, and frequently after he would, when he saw Denon, inquire “how was poor Friday?”