He walked rapidly, his spirits rising with the solitude. He had soon passed the garlands of rich lights swung from tree to tree, the couples walking slowly with swish of silk, soon completely lost sight of the wonderful palace raised up luminous against the spring sky, and distanced the fine strains of music from the violins and hautboys. He reached a beautiful glade across which deer were wandering; the silence was so marvellous that he caught his breath. Regardless of where he was, of Ministers, of M. de Biron, he continued his way through the spring night. The trees were almost in full leaf, and not a tremble disturbed their dignity. Luc crossed the glade and came into a little grove of elms, beyond which a small lake lay argent and motionless. A sudden gust of perfume made him shiver with pleasure. All round the water were planted thick rose bushes full in flower; the long trails of foliage and blossom fell over and touched the smooth surface of the lake. A little bridge of twisted rustic wood led to a pavilion that shone, shaded with delicate trees, from a tiny island on the bosom of the water. A peach-coloured light issued from the windows and open door of this pavilion and fell in long, still reflections across the water. In a thicket of white thorn beyond a nightingale was singing, and there were clouds of a pearl-blue colour lying softly about the moon. Luc paused by the bridge; the exquisite enchantment of the place and hour captivated his senses. He drew a sigh and bent over the roses; their perfume came and went like the drawing of a breath. The nightingale halted in his importunate song and was still. Luc could not stay his feet; he softly crossed the little bridge and approached the door of the pavilion that seemed the centre of this magic spot. The flood of tremulous pink-gold light showed more roses clustering close about the doorstep: white roses these, turned now to all hues of soft amber and ivory and shimmering away into the luminous shadow that concealed the walls of the pavilion. Luc supposed that this was but one of the lavish festal arrangements; he had seen several pavilions in the park, though none as remote as this. As there was not a sign of movement nor any whisper of voices he thought the place empty. With his usual light step unconsciously still further subdued he entered the pavilion. It was one room, oval shaped, with white walls and ceiling and four windows shaded with peach-tinted silk and open on the lake. On the panels between the windows hung delicate drawings in pastel framed by gilt ribbons, and in front of one window was a small table of kingswood, which bore some tall Venetian wineglasses and a blue enamel dish of bonbons. The furniture consisted of a low couch covered with pale rich satin cushions all embroidered with garlands and coronals of flowers, several chairs of the most delicate shape and make, and a gold clavichord and harp, both wreathed with natural white roses.