tted for
the place than any other who could be found,--his honorable friend, M.
Poinsinet, was the individual to whom he alluded.

"Good heavens!" cried the Count, "is it possible that the celebrated
Poinsinet would take such a place? I would give the world to see
him?" And you may fancy how Poinsinet simpered and blushed when the
introduction immediately took place.

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know him;
and added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that our little
friend was a vaudeville-maker by trade) had been acted seven-and-twenty
times at the theatre at Potsdam. His Excellency then detailed to him all
the honors and privileges which the governor of the Prince Royal might
expect; and all the guests encouraged the little man's vanity, by asking
him for his protection and favor. In a short time our hero grew
so inflated with pride and vanity, that he was for patronizing the
chamberlain himself, who proceeded to inform him that he was furnished
with all the necessary powers by his sovereign, who had specially
enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the royal
order of the Black Eagle.

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down; and the Count produced
a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his shoulder, and which was,
he declared, the grand cordon of the order. You must fancy Poinsinet's
face, and excessive delight at this; for as for describing them, nobody
can. For four-and-twenty hours the happy chevalier paraded through Paris
with this flaring yellow ribbon; and he was not undeceived until his
friends had another trick in store for him.

He dined one day in the company of a man who understood a little of the
noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the cards.
Poinsinet's organ of wonder was enormous; he looked on with the gravity
and awe of a child, and thought the man's tricks sheer miracles. It
wanted no more to set his companions to work.

"Who is this wonderful man?" said he to his neighbor.

"Why," said the other, mysteriously, "one hardly knows who he is; or,
at least, one does not like to say to such an indiscreet fellow as
you are." Poinsinet at once swore to be secret. "Well, then," said his
friend, "you will hear that man--that wonderful man--called by a name
which is not his: his real name is Acosta: he is a Portuguese Jew, a
Rosicrucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled to leave
Lisbon for fear