The conjuror stood beside the palanquin, its silk curtain in his hand; his chin sunk, with its long, jet-black beard, on his chest; the outer hand grasping the black wand, on which he leaned; his eyes were lowered, as before, to the ground; his face looked absolutely lifeless. Indeed, I never saw face or figure so moveless, except in death. The first question the Count put, was: "Am I married, or unmarried?" The conjuror drew back the curtain quickly, and placed his ear toward a richly-dressed Chinese, who sat in the litter; withdrew his head, and closed the curtain again; and then answered: "Yes." The same preliminary was observed each time, so that the man with the black wand presented himself, not as a prophet, but as a medium; and answered, as it seemed, in the words of a greater than himself. Two or three questions followed, the answers to which seemed to amuse the Marquis very much; but the point of which I could not see, for I knew next to nothing of the Count's peculiarities and adventures. "Does my wife love me?" asked he, playfully. "As well as you deserve." "Whom do I love best in the world?" "Self." "Oh! That I fancy is pretty much the case with everyone. But, putting myself out of the question, do I love anything on earth better than my wife?" "Her diamonds." "Oh!" said the Count. The Marquis, I could see, laughed. "Is it true," said the Count, changing the conversation peremptorily, "that there has been a battle in Naples?" "No; in France." "Indeed," said the Count, satirically, with a glance round. "And may I inquire between what powers, and on what particular quarrel?" "Between the Count and Countess de St. Alyre, and about a document they subscribed on the 25th July, 1811." The Marquis afterwards told me that this was the date of their marriage settlement. The Count stood stock-still for a minute or so; and one could fancy that they saw his face flushing through his mask. Nobody, but we two, knew that the inquirer was the Count de St. Alyre. I thought he was puzzled to find a subject for his next question; and, perhaps, repented having entangled himself in such a colloquy. If so, he was relieved; for the Marquis, touching his arms, whispered. "Look to your right, and see who is coming." I looked in the direction indicated by the Marquis, and I saw a gaunt figure stalking toward us. It was not a masque. The face was broad, scarred, and white. In a word, it was the ugly face of Colonel Gaillarde, who, in the costume of a corporal of the Imperial Guard, with his left arm so adjusted as to look like a stump, leaving the lower part of the coat-sleeve empty, and pinned up to the breast. There were strips of very real sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and temple, where my stick had left its mark, to score, hereafter, among the more honorable scars of war. Chapter XIII THE ORACLE TELLS ME WONDERS