“‘Where does your friend reside?’ inquired I. D’Aiguillon put his finger to his nose, winked and looked cunning, but said nothing. Ruel, Nanterre, Bougival, all were passed, and still we paused not.
“‘We are evidently going to St. Germain,’ thought I. ‘Well, ’tis of no consequence; the mischief is done, and nothing can save me now from the minister’s wrath and my poor uncle’s displeasure.’ But no—I was wrong. When we came to the bottom of the hill upon which is situated St. Germain, the carriage turned suddenly off the road to the left, and entered a fine avenue of chestnut trees, at the end of which I could perceive a pair of lofty iron gates, and, just peering above the trees, the numerous chimneys and shining slates, of what appeared, at the distance, a tolerably-sized château. The adventure now assumed a different aspect; and I began to fear that, so far from the joyous party I had before anticipated, we were destined to swell the number of _convives_ at the table of some rich old dowager _en retraite_, and that the treacherous kidnapping of d’Aiguillon was but a wily invention to diminish his own _ennui_ by making me share in it.
“‘But the reproaches which I addressed to d’Aiguillon were unheard by him; for, having exhausted his stock of scandal, and being himself exhausted by the sleepless night he had passed, he had quietly folded his arms, and sunk back into a sound and heavy slumber; and, proceeding at the same rapid pace with which we had set out, up the avenue within the iron gates, we were soon before the _perron_. As the carriage stopped, I rubbed my eyes, scarcely able to believe my senses. Was I in a dream? Every object which presented itself to my astonished, horror-stricken gaze seemed familiar to my memory. The marble steps—the hedge of geraniums—the open vestibule with the porphyry columns—and now the doubt becomes certainty! The footman who comes with such agility down the steps to assist us in alighting from the carriage, wears the livery of—I was in a perspiration from head to foot—of Madame Dubarri! Yes—the detestable _plaisanterie_ of d’Aiguillon was now evident. He had brought me to Luciennes, and we were standing, four years too late, before the Pavillon. The trees had grown since I was there last, therefore I had not at first recognised the place.