of entering this secluded spot. I was again conjured to be
punctual to the appointed hour as I valued my life.

The mysterious and solemn tone of this singular epistle struck me with
terror. Madame de Mirepoix was with me at the moment I received it. This
lady had a peculiar skill in physiognomy, and the close attention
she always paid to mine was frequently extremely embarrassing and
disagreeable She seemed (as usual) on the present occasion to read all
that was passing in my mind; however, less penetrating eyes than hers
might easily have perceived, by my sudden agitation, that the paper I
held in my hand contained something more than usual.

"What ails you?" asked she, with the familiarity our close intimacy
warranted; "does that note bring you any bad news?"

"No," said I; "it tells me nothing; but it leaves me ample room for much
uneasiness and alarm: but, after all, it may be merely some hoax, some
foolish jest played off at my expense; but judge for yourself." So
saying, I handed her the letter: when she had perused it, she said,

"Upon my word, if I were in your place, I would clear up this mystery;
good advice is not so easily met with as to make it a matter of
difficulty to go as far as the Baths of Apollo to seek it. It is by no
means impossible but that, as this paper tells you, some great peril
is hanging over you. The marquise de Pompadour," continued madame de
Mirepoix, "received more than once invitations similar to this, which
she never failed to attend; and I recollect one circumstance, in which
she had no cause to regret having done so: without the kind offices of
one of these anonymous writers it is very possible that she might have
expired heart broken, and perhaps forsaken in some state prison, instead
of ending her days in the chateau of Versailles, honored even to the
tomb by the friendship and regard of the king of France."

I asked my friend to explain her last observation, and she replied as
follows:--

"One day an anonymous billet, similar to this, was left for madame
de Pompadour: it requested her to repair, at a specified hour, to
the church of the Jacobins, rue Saint Honore, in Paris, where she was
promised some highly important communications. The marchioness was
punctual to the rendezvous; and, as she entered the church, a Jacobite,
so entirely wrapped in his capuchin as to conceal his features,
approached her, took her by the hand, and conducted her to an obscure
chapel; where, r