“I did not like her, in spite of her accomplishments and the charm of her conversation; she was too systematic.  She is a woman who has laid aside the flowing robes of her sex for the costume of a pedagogue.  Besides, nothing about her is natural; she is constantly in an attitude, as it were, thinking that her portrait—­physical or moral—­is being taken by someone.  One of the great follies of this masculine woman is her harp, which she carries about with her; she speaks about it when she hasn’t it—­she plays on a crust of bread and practises with a thread.  When she perceives that someone is looking at her, she rounds her arm, purses up her mouth, assumes a sentimental expression and air, and begins to move her fingers.  Gracious! what a fine thing naturalness is!...  I spent a delightful evening at the Comtesse de La Massais’s; she had hired musicians whom she paid dear; but Mme. de Genlis sat in the centre of the assembly, commanded, talked, commented, sang, and would have put the entire concert in confusion, had not the Marquise de Livry very drolly picked a quarrel with her about her harp, which she had brought to her.  Decidedly, this young D’Orleans has a singular governor.  She holds too closely to her role, and never forgets her jupons [skirts] except when she ought most to remember them.”

During her visit to England she was petted by everyone; but even in England there was a widespread prejudice against her—­a feeling which the mere sight of her immediately dissipated.  An English lady wrote about her: 

“I saw her at first with a prejudice in her disfavor, from the cruel reports I had heard; but the moment I looked at her it was removed.  There was a dignity with her sweetness and a frankness with her modesty, that convinced me, beyond all power of contrary report, of her real worth and innocence.”

During the Revolution Mme. de Genlis travelled about Switzerland, Germany, and England.  At Berlin, owing to her poverty, she supported herself by writing, making trinkets, and teaching, until she was recalled to France, under the Consulate.  In Paris she produced some of her best works—­although they were written to order.  Napoleon gave her a pension of six thousand francs and handsome apartments at the Arsenal.  To this liberal pension, the wife of his brother, Joseph Bonaparte, added three thousand francs.

From Mme. de Genlis, Napoleon received a letter fortnightly, in which epistle she communicated to him her opinions and observations upon politics and current events.  Upon the return to power of the Orleans family, she was put off with a meagre pension.  Like many other French women, she became more and more melancholy and misanthropic.  She was unable to control her wrath against the philosophers and some of the contemporary writers, such as Lamartine, Mme. de Stael, Scott, and Byron.  Her death, in 1830, was announced in these words:  “Mme. de Genlis has ceased to write—­which is to announce her death.”