'Madam,' said Brühl wringing his hands, 'the walls have ears.'
Frances shrugged her shoulders.
'You know,' whispered Brühl, 'that should there be even the slightest suspicion, we are both lost.'
'Especially I,' the woman rejoined, 'as I should have to remain with you en tête à tête, without any hope of consolation, and that would poison my life.--Consequently I shall be silent.'
Brühl slipped out of the room. The rooms through which he passed were still illuminated; he walked slowly and at the other end of the house entered his dressing-room. Two lackeys waited for him knowing that he would come to undress.
A morning attire lay on the table; it consisted of a gorgeous robe de chambre made of blue Lyons satin with bright flowers, snow white linen, and light silk slippers.
As orders were given to extinguish the lights, the lackey took a silver candelabra and lighted Brühl to his chamber. At the door the minister dismissed him with a nod and entered.
There was no one in the dressing-room, the door leading to the bed-chamber was locked.
Brühl looked through the window, the street was already empty. The illuminations were out; a night lamp burned at a corner; a clock in the town struck midnight. Over the black houses, standing in half shadow, the moon stood surrounded by fleecy clouds.
The night was warm, quiet.