I had been trying to see the person who sat in the palanquin. I had only once an opportunity of a tolerably steady peep. What I saw was singular. The oracle was dressed, as I have said, very richly, in the Chinese fashion. He was a figure altogether on a larger scale than the interpreter, who stood outside. The features seemed to me large and heavy, and the head was carried with a downward inclination! the eyes were closed, and the chin rested on the breast of his embroidered pelisse. The face seemed fixed, and the very image of apathy. Its character and _pose_ seemed an exaggerated repetition of the immobility of the figure who communicated with the noisy outer world. This face looked blood-red; but that was caused, I concluded, by the light entering through the red silk curtains. All this struck me almost at a glance; I had not many seconds in which to make my observation. The ground was now clear, and the Marquis said, "Go forward, my friend." I did so. When I reached the magician, as we called the man with the black wand, I glanced over my shoulder to see whether the Count was near. No, he was some yards behind; and he and the Marquis, whose curiosity seemed to be, by this time, satisfied, were now conversing generally upon some subject of course quite different. I was relieved, for the sage seemed to blurt out secrets in an unexpected way; and some of mine might not have amused the Count. I thought for a moment. I wished to test the prophet. A Church-of-England man was a _rara avis_ in Paris. "What is my religion?" I asked. "A beautiful heresy," answered the oracle instantly. "A heresy?--and pray how is it named?" "Love." "Oh! Then I suppose I am a polytheist, and love a great many?" "One." "But, seriously," I asked, intending to turn the course of our colloquy a little out of an embarrassing channel, "have I ever learned any words of devotion by heart?" "Yes." "Can you repeat them?" "Approach." I did, and lowered my ear. The man with the black wand closed the curtains, and whispered, slowly and distinctly, these words, which, I need scarcely tell you, I instantly recognized: _I may never see you more; and, oh! that I could forget you! go--farewell--for God's sake, go!_ I started as I heard them. They were, you know, the last words whispered to me by the Countess. Good Heaven! How miraculous! Words heard, most assuredly, by no ear on earth but my own and the lady's who uttered them, till now! I looked at the impassive face of the spokesman with the wand. There was no trace of meaning, or even of a consciousness that the words he had uttered could possibly interest me. "What do I most long for?" I asked, scarcely knowing what I said. "Paradise." "And what prevents my reaching it?" "A black veil."