persons received.  How many times I have hinted to her to speak to some devoted man, who regarded a word from the Princess as a signal favor, to yield to requests, perhaps untimely, to visit some establishment, to receive the humble petitions of a mayor, a cure, or a municipal council.  I will not deny that she had a sort of brusqueness, partly due to an exceedingly high voice, and moments of ill humor, transient no doubt, but which nevertheless left a painful impression on those who were subjected to them.  Madame the Dauphiness made no mistake as to the state of France; she was not the dupe of the obsequiousness of certain men of the court, and merit was certain to obtain her support whether it had been manifested under the old or the new regime; but she had not the influence she was supposed to have, and I doubt if she tried to acquire it.”

One day the Princess was talking to the Prefect of the Oise about the great noblemen who had possessions in the Department.

“Have they any influence over the people?” she asked him.

“No, Madame, and it is their own fault.  M. de La Rochefoucauld is the only one who is popular, but his influence is against you.  As to the others, greedy of the benefits of the court, they come to their estates only to save money, to regulate their accounts with their managers, and the people, receiving no mark of their interest, acknowledge no obligation to them.”

“You are perfectly right,” replied the Dauphiness, “that is not the way with the English aristocracy.”

“She saw with pain,” adds M. de Puymaigre, “the marriages for money made by certain men of the court, but not when they allied themselves with an honorable plebeian family; her indignation was justly shown toward those who took their wives in families whose coveted riches came from an impure source.”

The extraordinary catastrophes that had fallen on the daughter of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette had been a great experience for her, and she was not surprised at the recantations of the courtiers.  The Hundred Days had, perhaps, suggested even more reflections to her than her captivity in the Temple or her early exile.  She could not forget how, in 1815, she had been abandoned by officers who, but the day before, had offered her such protestations and such vows.  In the midst of present prosperity she had a sort of instinct of future adversity.  Something told her that she was not done with sorrow, and that the cup of bitterness was not drained to the dregs.  While every one about her contemplated the future with serene confidence, she reflected on the extreme mobility of the French character, and still distrusted inconstant fortune.  The morrow of the birth of the Duke of Bordeaux one of her household said to her:—­

“Your Highness was very happy yesterday.”

“Yes, very happy yesterday,” responded the daughter of Louis XVI., “but to-day I am reflecting on the destiny of this child.”