“For my own part,” said the prince de Soubise, “I shall not think of separating from so agreeable a party till daylight warns me hence.” “The first beams of morn will soon shine through these windows,” replied M. d’Aiguillon. “We can already perceive the brightest rays of Aurora reflected in the sparkling eyes around us,” exclaimed M. de Cossé. “A truce with your gallantry, gentlemen,” replied madame de Mirepoix, “at my age I can only believe myself capable of reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.” “Hush!” interrupted madame de Forcalquier, “you forget we are at Versailles, where age is never thought of, but where, like our gracious sovereign, all are young.” “Come, ladies,” said madame de Flaracourt, “let us retire; I for one, plead guilty of being in need of repose.” “No, no!” replied the duc de Richelieu, “let us employ the remaining hours in pleasing and social converse,” and with a tremulous voice he began that charming trio in “Selina and Azor,” “_Veillons mes soeurs_.” We joined chorus with him, and the echoes of the palace of Louis XV resounded with the mirthful strain. This burst of noisy mirth did not last long, and we relapsed into increased taciturnity, spite of our endeavours to keep up a general conversation. We were all fatigued, though none but madame de Flaracourt would confess the fact. Tired nature called loudly for repose, and we were each compelled to seek it in the different apartments assigned us. The duc d’Aiguillon alone was compelled, by the duties of his office, to return to Versailles. Upon entering my chamber I found my brother-in-law there, in the most violent fit of ill humour, that the king (who was in fact ignorant of his being at Trianon) had not invited him to supper. As I have before told you, comte Jean was no favourite with his majesty, and as I had displayed no wish for his company, Louis XV had gladly profited by my indifference to omit him upon the present occasion. I endeavoured to justify the king, without succeeding, however, in appeasing comte Jean, who very unceremoniously consigned us all to the care and company of a certain old gentleman, whose territory is supposed to lie beneath “the round globe which we inhabit.” “I have to thank you,” replied I, “for a very flattering mode of saying ‘good night.’” “Perhaps,” answered comte Jean roughly, “you would prefer--” “Nothing from your lips if you please, my polite brother,” cried I, interrupting him, “nothing you will say in your present humour can be at all to my taste.”