e with fatigue."

"You are mistaken," said the duchess; "such nights rest me, and it is
long since I have passed one so good."

"Prince," said Laval, "you must be contented with the coachman whom you
wished discharged, unless you would prefer driving yourself, or going on
foot."

"No, indeed," said the prince, "I will risk it. I am a Neapolitan, and
believe in omens. If you overturn me it will be a sign that we must stay
where we are--if you conduct me safely it will be a sign that we may go
on."

"Pompadour, you must take back Monsieur d'Harmental," said the duchess.

"Willingly," said the marquis. "It is a long time since we met, and we
have a hundred things to say to each other."

"Cannot I take leave of my sprightly bat?" asked D'Harmental; "for I do
not forget that it is to her I owe the happiness of having offered my
services to your highness."

"De Launay," cried the duchess, conducting the Prince of Cellamare to
the door, "De Launay, here is Monsieur le Chevalier d'Harmental, who
says you are the greatest sorceress he has ever known."

"Well!" said she who has left us such charming memoirs, under the name
of Madame de Stael, "do you believe in my prophecies now, Monsieur le
Chevalier?"

"I believe, because I hope," replied the chevalier. "But now that I know
the fairy that sent you, it is not your predictions that astonish me the
most. How were you so well informed about the past, and, above all, of
the present?"

"Well, De Launay, be kind, and do not torment the chevalier any longer,
or he will believe us to be two witches, and be afraid of us."

"Was there not one of your friends, chevalier," asked De Launay, "who
left you this morning in the Bois de Boulogne to come and say adieu to
us."

"Valef! It is Valef!" cried D'Harmental. "I understand now."

"In the place of Oedipus you would have been devoured ten times over by
the Sphinx."

"But the mathematics; but the anatomy; but Virgil?" replied D'Harmental.

"Do you not know, chevalier," said Malezieux, mixing in the
conversation, "that we never call her anything here but our 'savante?'
with the exception of Chaulieu, however, who calls her his flirt, and
his coquette; but all as a poetical license. We let her loose the other
day on Du Vernay, our doctor, and she beat him at anatomy."

"And," said the Marquis de Pompadour, taking D'Harmental's arm to lead
him away, "the good man in his disappointment declared that there was no
other girl in