was a precious
man?"

"But is he really what we want?" said Polignac.

"Oh, if your eminence had him made on purpose he could not do better,"
said Brigaud. "A true machine, who will write everything and see
nothing."

"But as a still greater precaution," said the prince, "we might put the
most important papers into Spanish."

"Then, prince," said Brigaud, "I will send him to you."

"No, no," said Cellamare; "he must not set his foot within the Spanish
embassy. It must be done through some third party."

"Yes, yes, we will arrange all that," said the duchess. "The man is
found--that is the principal thing. You answer for him, Brigaud?"

"I do, madame."

"That is all we require. And now there is nothing to keep us any
longer," continued the duchess. "Monsieur d'Harmental, give me your
arm, I beg."

The chevalier hastened to obey Madame de Maine, who seized this
opportunity to express her gratitude for the courage he had shown in the
Rue des Bons Enfants, and his skill in Brittany. At the door of the
pavilion, the Greenland envoys--now dressed simply as guests--found a
little galley waiting to take them to the shore. Madame de Maine entered
first, seated D'Harmental by her, leaving Malezieux to do the honors to
Cellamare and Richelieu. As the duchess had said, the Goddess of Night,
dressed in black gauze spangled with golden stars, was waiting on the
other side of the lake, accompanied by the twelve Hours; and, as the
duchess approached, they began to sing a cantata appropriate to the
subject. At the first notes of the solo D'Harmental started, for the
voice of the singer had so strong a resemblance to another voice, well
known to him and dear to his recollection, that he rose involuntarily to
look for the person whose accents had so singularly moved him;
unfortunately, in spite of the torches which the Hours, her subjects,
held, he could not distinguish the goddess's features, which were
covered with a long veil, similar to her dress. He could only hear that
pure, flexible, sonorous voice, and that easy and skillful execution,
which he had so much admired when he heard it for the first time in the
Rue du Temps-Perdu; and each accent of that voice, becoming more
distinct as he approached the shore, made him tremble from head to foot.
At length the solo ceased, and the chorus recommenced; but D'Harmental,
insensible to all other thoughts, continued to follow the vanished
notes.

"Well, Monsieur d'Harmental," s