A few minutes' rapid driving brought the carriage to the hall-door of the chateau, and its wealthy, but, perhaps, after all, not very much to be envied, master conducted his familiar imp, Blassemare, into a saloon, where supper awaited them.
"I don't myself understand these things, Blassemare, but you will be my stage-manager, and get up the spectacle in the best style."
"Why, yes. I don't see why I should not lend a hand, that is to say, if nothing happens to call me away," said Blassemare, who delighted in such affairs, but liked a little importance also.
"How soon is it to take place?"
"She said in about three weeks."
And the Count de Blassemare was instantaneously translated, in spirit, among feu d'artifice, water-works, arches, colored lamps, bands, and all the other splendors and delectations of an elaborate fête.
"I remember," said Le Prun, abruptly dispelling these happy and gorgeous visions with his harsh tones, "when I was at school, reading about Socrates and those invisible demons that were always hovering at his ears; it was devilish odd, Blassemare. But to be sure those were good-natured devils; ay, that is true, and meant him no harm."
"By my faith, I forget all about it; but what the devil connection have these demons, blue, black, or red, with your fête?"
"I sometimes think, Blassemare, you are a worse fellow than I am, for you have no qualms of conscience."