On the evening of the next day a traveling-carriage passed through the Barrière d’Enfer, so covered with dust and scratches that no one could discern the arms. The four horses that drew it went at a rapid pace, until it arrived before an hotel of handsome appearance, in the Rue¹ de la Jussienne, at the door of which two men, one of whom was in full dress, were waiting. The carriage entered the courtyard of the hotel, and one of the persons waiting approached the door, and commenced speaking in bad Portuguese².  
“Who are you?” said a voice from the inside, speaking the language perfectly³.
 
“The unworthy chancellor⁴ of the embassy, your excellency.”
 
“Very well. Mon Dieu! how badly you speak our language, my dear chancellor! But where are we to go?”
 
“This way, monseigneur.”
 
“This is a poor reception,” said Don Manoël, as he got out of the carriage, leaning on the arms of his secretary and valet.
 
“Your excellency must pardon me,” said the chancellor, “but the courier announcing your arrival only reached the hotel at two o’clock to-day. I was absent on some business, and when I returned, found your excellency’s letter; I have only had time to have the rooms opened and lighted.”
 
“Very good.”
 
“It gives me great pleasure to see the illustrious person of our ambassador.”
 
“We desire to keep as quiet as possible,” said Don Manoël, “until we receive further orders, from Lisbon. But pray show me to my room, for I am dying with fatigue⁵; my secretary will give you all necessary directions.”
 
The chancellor bowed respectfully to Beausire, who returned it, and then said, “We will speak French, sir; I think it will be better for both of us.”
 
“Yes,” murmured the chancellor, “I shall be more at my ease; for I confess that my pronunciation——”
 
“So I hear,” interrupted Beausire.
 
“I will take the liberty to say to you, sir, as you seem so amiable⁶, that I trust M. de Souza will not be annoyed at my speaking such bad Portuguese.”
 
“Oh, not at all, as you speak French.”
 
“French!” cried the chancellor; “I was born in the Rue St. Honoré.”
 
“Oh, that will do,” said Beausire. “Your name is Ducorneau, is it not?”
 
“Yes, monsieur; rather a lucky one, as it has a Spanish termination. It is very flattering to me that monsieur knew my name.”
 
“Oh, you are well known; so well that we did not bring a chancellor from Lisbon with us.”
 
“I am very grateful, monsieur; but I think M. de Souza is ringing.”
 
“Let us go and see.”
 
They found Manoël attired⁷ in a magnificent dressing-gown. Several boxes and dressing-cases, of rich appearance, were already unpacked⁸ and lying about.
 
“Enter,” said he to the chancellor.
 
“Will his excellency be angry if I answer in French?” said Ducorneau, in a low voice, to Beausire.
 
“Oh, no; I am sure of it.”
 
M. Ducorneau, therefore, paid the compliments in French.
 
“Oh, it is very convenient that you speak French so well, M. Ducorno,” said the ambassador.
 
“He takes me for a Portuguese,” thought the chancellor, with joy.
 
“Now,” said Manoël, “can I have supper?”
 
“Certainly, your excellency. The Palais Royal is only two steps from here, and I know an excellent restaurant, from which your excellency can have a good supper in a very short time.”
 
“Order it in your own name, if you please, M. Ducorno.”
 
“And if your excellency will permit me, I will add to it some bottles of capital wine.”
 
“Oh, our chancellor keeps a good cellar, then?” said Beausire, jokingly.
 
“It is my only luxury,” replied he. And now, by the wax-lights, they could remark his rather red nose and

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