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.
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