f the Temple,
to be recalled to the tragic reality of things. The King had for his
niece and daughter-in-law an affection blended with compassion and
respect. The pious and revered Princess gave to the court a character
of gravity and sanctity.

VII

MADAME

The Duchess of Angouleme and the Duchess of Berry lived on the best of
terms, showing toward each other a lively sympathy. Yet there was
little analogy between their characters, and the two Princesses might
even be said to form a complete contrast, one representing the grave
side, the other the smiling side of the court.

Born November 7, 1798, and a widow since February 14, 1820, Madame (as
the Duchess of Berry was called after the Duchess of Angouleme became
Dauphiness) was but twenty-five when her father-in-law, Charles X.,
ascended the throne. She was certainly not pretty, but there was in her
something seductive and captivating. The vivacity of her manner, her
spontaneous conversation, her ardor, her animation, her youth, gave her
charm. Educated at the court of her grandfather, Ferdinand, King of
Naples, who carried bonhomie and familiarity to exaggeration, and lived
in the company of peasants and lazzaroni, she had a horror of
pretension and conceit. Her child-like physiognomy had a certain
playful and rebellious expression; slightly indecorous speech did not
displease her. This idol of the aristocracy was simple and jovial,
mingling in her conversation Gallic salt and Neapolitan gaiety. In
contrast with so many princesses who weary their companions and are
wearied by them, she amused herself and others. Entering a family
celebrated by its legendary catastrophes, she had lost nothing of the
playfulness which was the essence of her nature. The Tuileries, the
scene of such terrible dramas, did not inspire her as it did the
Duchess of Angouleme, with sad reflections. When she heard Mass in the
Chapel of the Chateau, she did not say to herself that here had
resounded the furies of the Convention. The grand apartments, the court
of the Carrousel, the garden, could not recall to her the terrible
scenes of the 20th of June and the 10th of August. When she entered the
Pavillon de Flore, she did not reflect that there had sat the Committee
of Public Safety. The Tuileries were, to her eyes, only the abode of
power and pleasure, an agreeable and beautiful dwelling that had
brought her only happiness, since there she had given birth to the
Child of Europe,