“You know, then, that I have a familiar?  You should have one, if it is true that you possess the powder of projection.”

“I have one.”

“Give me the oath of the order.”

“I dare not, and you know why.”

“Perhaps I shall be able to remove your fears by tomorrow.”

This absurd oath was none other than that of the princes of the Rosy Cross, who never pronounce it without being certain that each party is a Rosicrucian, so Madame d’Urfe was quite right in her caution, and as for me I had to pretend to be afraid myself.  The fact is I wanted to gain time, for I knew perfectly well the nature of the oath.  It may be given between men without any indecency, but a woman like Madame d’Urfe would probably not relish giving it to a man whom she saw for the first time.

“When we find this oath alluded to in the Holy Scriptures,” she said, “it is indicated by the words ’he swore to him by laying his hand on his thigh.’”

“But the thigh is not really what is meant; and consequently we never find any notice of a man taking this oath to a woman, as a woman has no ’verbum’.”

The Count de la Tour d’Auvergne came back at nine o’clock in the evening, and he skewed no little astonishment at seeing me still with his aunt.  He told us that his cousin’s fever had increased, and that small-pox had declared itself; “and I am going to take leave of you, my dear aunt, at least for a month, as I intend to shut myself up with the sick man.”

Madame d’Urfe praised his zeal, and gave him a little bag on his promising to return it to her after the cure of the prince.

“Hang it round his neck and the eruption will come out well, and he will be perfectly cured.”

He promised to do so, and having wished us good evening he went out.

“I do not know, madam, what your bag contains, but if it have aught to do with magic, I have no confidence in its efficacy, as you have neglected to observe the planetary hour.”

“It is an electrum, and magic and the observance of the hour have nothing to do with it.”

“I beg your pardon.”

She then said that she thought my desire for privacy praiseworthy, but she was sure I should not be ill pleased with her small circle, if I would but enter it.

“I will introduce you to all my friends,” said she, “by asking them one at a time, and you will then be able to enjoy the company of them all.”

I accepted her proposition.

In consequence of this arrangement I dined the next day with M. Grin and his niece, but neither of them took my fancy.  The day after, I dined with an Irishman named Macartney, a physician of the old school, who bored me terribly.  The next day the guest was a monk who talked literature, and spoke a thousand follies against Voltaire, whom I then much admired, and against the “Esprit des Lois,” a favourite work of mine, which the cowled idiot refused to attribute to Montesquieu, maintaining it had been written by a monk.  He might as well have said that a Capuchin created the heavens and the earth.