So my stepfather took a small cottage at Chaillot, and we went there
on Saturday, spent Sunday there, and returned to Paris on Monday
morning. Good heavens, what a country! Imagine a tiny vicarage garden,
without a tree, without any shelter from the blazing sun but a little
arbour, where my stepfather had planted some beans and nasturtium,
which refused to grow. At that we only occupied a quarter of this
delightful garden, for it was divided into four by slender railings,
and the three other sections were let out to shopboys, who came
every Sunday and amused themselves by shooting at the birds. The
incessant noise threw me into a desperate state of mind, besides which
I was terribly afraid of being killed by these marksmen, so inaccurate
was their aim. I could not understand why this stupid, ugly place, the
very recollection of which makes me yawn as I write, was "the
country." At last my good angel brought to my rescue a friend of my
mother's, who one day came to dine with us at Chaillot with her
husband. Both were sorry for me in my exile, and sometimes took me out
for a charming drive.

[Illustration: MADAME VIGEE LEBRUN

Marked: "Virginia Lebrun, St. Luke's Gallery, Rome".]

We went to Marly-le-Roi, and there I found a more beautiful spot than
any I had seen in my life. On each side of the magnificent palace were
six summer-houses communicating with one another by walks embowered
with jessamine and honeysuckle. Water fell in cascades from the top of
a hill behind the castle, and formed a large channel on which a number
of swans floated. The handsome trees, the carpets of green, the
flowers, the fountains, one of which spouted up so high that it was
lost from sight--it was all grand, all regal; it all spoke of Louis
XIV. One morning I met Queen Marie Antoinette walking in the park with
several of the ladies of her court. They were all in white dresses,
and so young and pretty that for a moment I thought I was in a dream.
I was with my mother, and was turning away when the Queen was kind
enough to stop me, and invited me to continue in any direction I might
prefer. Alas! when I returned to France in 1802 I hastened to see my
noble, smiling Marly. The palace, the trees, the cascades, and the
fountains had all disappeared; scarcely a stone was left.

I found it very hard to quit those lovely gardens and go back to our
hideous Chaillot. But we at last went back to Paris, and settled there
for the winter. The time le