The Presentation

CHAPTER VII

ROCHEFORT’S PLAN

THAT night, or, rather, early next morning, the Vicomte de Chartres was returning to his house in the Rue Malaquais and had just entered the street when, against the setting moon, he saw a form coming towards him which he thought he recognized.

It was Rochefort.

Chartres was one of the few men in Paris whom Rochefort numbered as his bosom friends. He could not believe his eyes at first, and when Rochefort spoke, Chartres scarcely believed his ears.

Rochefort, of whose flight all Paris was talking, Rochefort, the man who was supposed to be far beyond the frontier, Rochefort in the Rue Malaquais, walking along as calmly and jauntily as though nothing had happened.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rochefort as they shook hands, “what a fortunate meeting! Where have you sprung from?”

Chartres broke into a laugh.

“Where have I sprung from? You to ask that question! On the contrary, my dear fellow, it is for me to ask where you have sprung from?”

“Nowhere,” replied Rochefort, also laughing, “or at least from a place I cannot talk of here in the street. I want shelter for the night and a change of clothes; here is your house and we are both about the same size, and I know you have always half a dozen new suits that you have never worn. So, if you want my story, take me and clothe me, and let me rest for a while before I set out on my mission to hunt for M. de Choiseul.”

“To hunt for M. de Choiseul! Bon Dieu! Are not you aware that he is ransacking Paris and all France for you?”

“Then we are both on the same business, and that being so, I think it is highly probable we shall meet.”

He followed Chartres into the house, where in the library and armoury his host lit lamps and produced wine.

The clock on the mantel pointed to two o’clock.

“And now, my dear fellow,” said Chartres, “tell me all about yourself, where have you been, what have you been doing, and what is this nonsense you are saying about hunting for M. de Choiseul.”

“Well, as to what I have been doing, I can answer you simply that I have been in retirement in the country.”

“Where?”

“In the Castle of Vincennes.”

“The Castle of Vincennes!”

“Precisely. Sartines put me there to hide me from Choiseul. I would not tell you this only that I know you are entirely to be trusted. He did not want Choiseul to lay his hands on me, so he arrested me under another name, but with my consent, and popped me into Vincennes, where I have been for the last few days.”

“Yes?”

“Well, my dear Chartres, no sooner did I find myself in prison there than I found that I did not like it.”

“I can understand that.”

“And though Sartines had put me there for my own good—so he said—and to keep me from being imprisoned by Choiseul, it began to dawn on me that I had been a fool.”

“Ah, that began to dawn on you.”

“I said to myself, ‘Sartines is no doubt the best soul in the world, but the best souls are sometimes selfish.’ I said to myself, ‘Sartines has compromised himself in a way by playing this game with Choiseul, and hiding me from him.’ I said to myself, ‘Sartines, however kind he may be, is not the man to compromise himself by letting me out whilst Choiseul has any power in France.’ In fact, I felt that were I to remain passive, I would be saved from M. de Choiseul, but I would still be a prisoner, and that, perhaps, for years, so I determined to escape, to go straight to Choiseul and to tell him frankly the truth about the business for which he wished to apprehend me.”

“I have heard that you killed a man,” said Chartres.

“I did. And that man was one of Choiseul’s agents, but he was a ruffian who was molesting a girl, and whom I caught in the act. I followed him, he attacked me and I killed him in fair fight.”

“Can the girl give evidence?”

“Yes.”

“Then why on earth, my dear fellow, did you resist arrest that night when M. Camus was deputed to arrest you? I had the whole story from Monpavon.”

“I resisted arrest because I wanted to go to Paris to meet a woman who had given me an appointment.”

The Vicomte de Chartres, who was five years older than Rochefort in time, and fifty in discretion, moved in his chair uneasily.

He was fond of Rochefort, and nothing had surprised him more in the last few days than the Rochefort episode. The fact that Rochefort had killed a man was easily understandable, but that Rochefort had evaded arrest instead of facing the business was an action that he could not understand, simply because it was an action unlike Rochefort.

Here had a man gone against his true nature and placed himself in the last position, that of a murderer flying from justice—for what reason? To keep an appointment with a woman.

Unhappily the reason cleared everything up.

It was exactly—arguing from the reason—the thing that Rochefort might be expected to do.

“But did you not consider that for the sake of keeping this confounded appointment you were risking everything—losing everything. Mon Dieu! it makes me shudder. Did you not think, my dear man, did you not think?”

“Ah, think!” said the other, “a lot you would think were you in that position. Had he deputed any man for the business but Camus, it might have been different; but to be told, in effect, by Camus, a man I despise, that I was not to go to Paris, but to remain at Versailles, a prisoner of Choiseul’s, well, it was too much! No, I did not think. There is no use in saying to me what I ought to have done. I ought, of course, to have followed Camus like a lamb, faced Choiseul like a lion, and cleared the matter up. As it was, I showed the front of a lion to Camus and the tail of a fox to Choiseul. That was bad policy—but it was inevitable. It seems to me, Chartres, that the whole of this was like a play written by Fate for me to act in. Camus had been my friend. After I had rescued that girl, of whom I told you, from Choiseul’s ruffianly agent, Camus tried to assault her and I struck him in the face. That was Fate. He did not return the blow or seek a duel, he wanted revenge, and behold, when Choiseul put out his hand for someone to arrest me, whom should he employ but Camus—that also was Fate. The girl I served is the servant of the woman I spoke of, and the woman was the friend of Choiseul’s dearest enemy, the Comtesse Dubarry. That was Fate. To serve the woman I mixed myself up with the business of the Presentation, and so have given Choiseul an extra grudge against me. That was Fate. And stay—just before my row with Camus, he had imparted to me a plot which Choiseul was preparing against the Dubarry, a plot which I refused to mix myself with and the gist of which I disclosed to the Dubarry. There again was Fate.”

“Mon Dieu!” said Chartres, “what a tangle you have got yourself into. But tell me this, does Choiseul know that you disclosed this plot of his to the Dubarry?”

“He is sure to know. Camus is certain to have told him that he disclosed the business to me, and as I visited the Dubarry’s house that same night, and as I believe his agents were watching the house—there you are.”

“You visited the house of the Dubarry the same night that Camus told you of the plot—why did you do such a foolish thing?”

“Fate. I escorted the girl I had rescued home to see her safe—and what house did she bring me to but the house of the Dubarrys. I was giving her a kiss in the passage when Jean Dubarry appeared, he invited me in, I came, the woman I spoke of was there, and at the sight of her, knowing that she was the Countess’ friend, I flung in my part with the Dubarrys and told of the plot. I was not breaking a trust, I had made no promise of secrecy, the thing had disgusted me—and I told.”

“And the name of this woman for whose sake you have got yourself into this dreadful mess?”

“Ah, now you are asking me to tell something that I would not tell to anyone but yourself—it was Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”

“Mademoiselle Fontrailles—why only yesterday——”

“Yes?”

“Well, I heard—it is said—but I don’t know how much truth there is in the story, that she is in love with Camus.”

Rochefort laughed.

“Camus again and Fate again.”

“But there may be no truth in it. Some fool told me, I forget who, Joyeuse, I think. You know how stories run about Paris.”

“It is true,” said Rochefort, “it is the only thing wanting to make the business complete. Whilst I have been tucked away at Vincennes, Monsieur Camus has improved his time. You know the way he has with women. Well, I do not care; that is to say about the girl, but I will make things even with Camus.”

“First, my dear fellow, make things right with Choiseul, that is to say, if you can. And if I were you, I would not trouble about Camus or the girl. She will be punished enough if she has anything to do with him.”

“Well, we will see,” said Rochefort. “We will see, when I have finished with Choiseul. Is he in Paris?”

“No, he is at Versailles, but he is coming to Paris to-morrow, or rather to-day, since it is now nearly three o’clock in the morning. I know he is coming, simply because he has invited me to a reception at his house in the Faubourg St. Honoré.”

“Ah, he is holding a reception. When?”

“This very day at nine o’clock in the evening.”

“Good. I will go to it.”

“You will go to it—but he will arrest you!”

“Not in his own house. I would be his guest.”

“But you have not been invited, and so you would not be his guest.”

“Well, my dear Chartres, you know how Choiseul always permits a friend of his to bring a friend to his receptions. You must take me with you.”

“Take you with me! My dear fellow, you are asking what is quite impossible.”

“Why?”

“Why—well, to be frank with you, it is necessary for me to stand well with Choiseul, and if I were to do that I would damage my position at Court.”

“What I like about you,” said Rochefort, “is your perfect frankness. Another man would have excused himself, said that he had already invited a friend, and so forth; but you state your own selfish reason, and that is precisely what I would have done in your place. Well, I can assure you that you will not damage your position in the least. First of all, I am going to make peace with Choiseul; secondly, if I fail, you can tell him that the whole fault was mine and that you understood from me that I had put myself right with him. I will bear you out in that. There is no danger to you, and think what fun it will be to see his face when I appear.”

Chartres hung on this fascinating prospect for a moment.

“All the same,” said he, “I think, in your own interests, you are wrong—the whole thing is mad.”

“So is the whole situation, my dear man. I want to get a word alone with Choiseul. I cannot reach him in any other way. If I went to see him at Versailles I would be taken by the guards and I would only see him across drawn swords. If I went to interview him at his house the concierge would pass me to the major-domo, and the major-domo would show me into a waiting-room, and Choiseul, ten to one, when he heard I had called, would order my arrest without even seeing me. No. This reception of his was arranged by Fate for me, of that I feel sure, as sure as I am that I will make things even with Camus before to-morrow.”

“You seem to count a good deal on Fate, yet it seems to me she has not treated you very kindly.”

“Ah,” said Rochefort, laughing, “that is because you do not know how she treated me in the Castle of Vincennes. I assure you, I have made entire friends with the lady——” He paused for a moment and then looked up at Chartres.

“When we talk of Fate, my friend, we always refer to our own persons and fortunes; when we receive a buffet in life we never consider that the shock may come to us, not directly from Fate, but indirectly as the result of a blow struck at some other person, just as at the Lycée Louis le Grand, one boy would strike another so that he would fall against the next, and he against the next. Well, Fate in this case is decidedly on my side, since she protected me till now at Vincennes and gave me my release on the day of Choiseul’s reception, and threw me into your arms in the Rue Malaquais. If she is with me she cannot be with the persons who are against me, that is to say, Camus and the Fontrailles, if she cares for Camus.

“Fate, my dear Chartres, seems to me to be hitting at these two, and I reckon the blows I have received, not as blows aimed directly against me, but as blows I have received indirectly and by contre coup.”

“You are becoming a philosopher,” said Chartres, laughing.

“Well, we will see,” replied Rochefort. “I believe I am on the winning side, the indications are with me—well, do you still refuse to take me with you to Choiseul’s?”

“No, my dear Rochefort, I do not refuse, simply because I cannot—and for this reason: The thing you propose is distasteful to me, but it is a matter of urgency with you, and though you may be wrong, still, if the case was reversed, I know you would do for me what I am going to do for you. I will take you to Choiseul’s.”

“Thank you,” said Rochefort. “I will never forget it to you. And now as to clothes. I am unable to go or send for anything to my place, can you dress me as well as take me to this pleasant party of Choiseul’s?”

“Without doubt. My wardrobe is at your disposal—and now, if you will have no more wine, it is time to go to bed. I will have a bed made up for you.”

He called a servant and gave instructions as to the preparation of a room. As they were going upstairs, Rochefort remembered Ferminard, with whom he had parted outside the walls of Paris.

Ferminard had refused to enter by the Porte St. Antoine, preferring to make his way round to the Maison Gambrinus and take shelter there. Rochefort had entered by the Porte St. Antoine, not on his legs, but by means of a market gardener’s cart which they had overtaken. He had given the gardener a few francs for the lift, and, pretending intoxication, had entered Paris lying on some sacks of potatoes, presumably asleep and certainly snoring.

Having been shown to his bedroom, Rochefort undressed and went to bed, where he slept as soundly as a child till Germain, Chartres’ valet, awoke him at nine o’clock.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HONOUR OF LAVENNE

THAT same morning, it will be remembered, Sartines received the visit of the Vicomte Jean, and also Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes, who came in person with the news of Rochefort’s escape.

Having dismissed Cousin, Sartines, perplexed, distracted, furious with himself, Rochefort, Choiseul, and the world in general, put aside the letters on which he had been engaged and rising from his chair began to walk up and down the room.

Everything now depended on what Rochefort would do. With Rochefort and Ferminard safe in Vincennes, Sartines felt safe. He knew instinctively that Choiseul was deeply suspicious about the affair of the Presentation. He knew for a fact that Choiseul had, through an agent, questioned the Comtesse de Béarn before she left Paris, and that the Comtesse, like the firm old woman she was, had refused to say a single word on the matter. She had, in fact, refused for two reasons. First: she had the two hundred thousand francs which the Dubarrys had paid her tight clutched in her hand. Secondly: she was too proud to acknowledge to the world how she had been tricked. Such a scandal would become historical, but not if she could help it with a de Béarn in the chief part.

There was no one to talk, then, but Rochefort and Ferminard, the chief actor—and they who had been in safe keeping were now loose.

In the midst of his meditations, a knock came to the door and the usher announced that Lavenne had arrived and wished to speak to the Minister. Sartines ordered him to be sent up at once. No visitor would be more welcome. The absence of Lavenne had been disturbing him for the last few days, for this man so fruitful in advice and expedient had become as the right hand of the Minister. Of all the clever people about him, Lavenne was the man whom he felt to be absolutely essential.

“Mordieu!” cried de Sartines, when Lavenne entered. “What has happened to you?”

He drew back a step.

The man before him looked ten years older than when he had seen him last, his face was white and pinched, his eyes were bloodshot, and the pupils seemed unnaturally dilated.

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, resting his hand on a chair-back as if for support, “I have had a bad time, but I will soon get over it. Meanwhile, I have an important report to make.”

“Sit down,” said de Sartines.

He rang the bell and ordered some wine to be sent up immediately. “And now,” said he, when the other had set down his glass, “tell me first where have you come from?”

“I have come from the Catacombs of Paris, monsieur, where I have been trapped and wandering since I don’t know when.”

“From the Catacombs?”

“Yes, monsieur, or rather from the plain of Mont Souris to which the gallery which I pursued led me.”

“But what were you doing in the Catacombs?”

“Trying to escape, monsieur, and I can only say this, that I hope never to have a similar experience.”

Then rapidly he began to tell of his visit to Camus’ house, of the laboratory, of what he had seen, and of his escape.

“I had to choose between three corridors, monsieur, and the one I chose led me to a blank wall. I had to come back, which took me a day. I had to go most of the time in darkness to husband the candles I had with me.

“The new corridor I chose led me right at last, but the last was a long time coming. Several times I fell asleep and must have slept many hours. I would have died of exhaustion had I not found water. At several places I found water trickling through crevices of the rock and I had to cross one fairly big pool. I had to walk always, feeling my way with one foot. My progress was slow. At last I came to the old grating which guards the entrance to the Catacombs on the plain of Mont Souris. There I might have died had not my cries attracted the attention of a man, who, obtaining assistance, broke down the bars and freed me. That was yesterday evening. He took me to his cottage, and then after I had taken some food I fell into a sleep that lasted till late this morning.”

Lavenne’s story filled Sartines with such astonishment that he forgot for a moment the main business in hand, that is to say, Rochefort. It was Lavenne who recalled him to it.

“And now that I have told you my story, monsieur,” said he, “let us forget it, for there are matters of much more importance to be considered. I have been out of the world practically for four days. Is Count Camus still alive?”

He had told Sartines about the poisoning of the silver dagger, but he had not told him all.

“Alive,” said the Minister, “oh, yes, he is very much alive, or was so late last night. Why do you ask?”

“Because, monsieur, before leaving the room I told you of, I drew that dagger from its sheath and inserted it again, but I took particular care to insert it the other way about.”

“The other way about?”

“Yes, monsieur. It fitted the sheath either way.”

“So that if Camus uses it,” cried Sartines, starting from his chair, “if the gentleman of the Italian school uses his fruit knife in the way that the poisoning of the blade suggests, it is he himself who will suffer?”

“Precisely, monsieur; I had only a moment to think in. I said to myself, this wicked blade has been prepared for the slaying of an innocent woman, he has already tried to kill her with a prepared rose, he failed, he killed Atalanta instead, the death of his Majesty’s favourite dog drew me into the business, and now I am made by God his judge. I said to myself—There is no use at all trying to bring this gentleman to justice by ordinary means, he is too clever, his poisons are too artfully prepared, he will surely give us the slip. Let his own hand deal him justice, and I reversed the dagger in its sheath.”

“Mordieu!” said de Sartines, “that was at least a quick road. But the handle of the dagger, will he not notice that it has been reversed?”

“No, monsieur, for the pattern of the handle was the same on both sides, whereas the patterns on the sides of the sheath were widely different.”

Sartines sat down again; for a moment he said nothing; he seemed plunged in thought.

“That was four days ago,” said he at last, “yet nothing has happened. Both Camus and his wife are alive and very much in evidence.”

“Have they met much, monsieur?”

“As far as I can say, no, for Madame Camus has been at Versailles for the last couple of days.”

“When I asked had they met much, monsieur, I should have asked, have they met at any public entertainment or banquet, for it is then that the deed will be done, openly and before witnesses. For that is the essence of the whole business. It would be quite easy for Count Camus to poison his wife at home and in secret, but it is necessary for him to say, ‘I only met her once in the last so many days, we were quite good friends, so much so, that we shared an apple together. Do you suggest that I poisoned the apple? Well, considering that I ate half of it and that I did not touch it beyond taking it from the dish and cutting it in two such a suggestion is absurd.—And here is the knife itself. I always use it for cutting fruit, see, the blade is silvered on purpose, take it, test it for poison——’ So, monsieur, you see my drift. The deed will be done at some public entertainment, and I ask you, have they met at such an entertainment where the thing would be feasible?”

“No,” said Sartines, speaking slowly and raising his eyes from the floor where they had been resting. “But they will to-night.”

“To-night?”

“I believe so. M. de Choiseul is holding a reception at his house in the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré. Camus, who is in love with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, will surely be there, and the girl will surely be there, since the Dubarrys are now friends with Choiseul—for the moment—and since Madame Camus is a friend of Madame de Choiseul, she will be there.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I will not give a denier for M. Camus’ life after midnight to-night.”

“He will save the hangman some trouble,” said Sartines, taking a pinch of snuff. “And it will be interesting to watch—yes—very interesting to watch.” Then suddenly his face changed in expression. “Dame! I forgot, all this put it out of my head. Rochefort has left Vincennes.”

“M. de Rochefort left Vincennes!” cried Lavenne. “Since when, monsieur?”

“He escaped last night.”

“But—but,” said Lavenne. “He had agreed to stay. He quite understood his danger. This is strange news, monsieur.”

“He must have got tired of prison,” said Sartines. “That devil of a man never could be easy anywhere, and not only that, he has let out Ferminard.”

“But how did they escape, monsieur?”

“How, by means of a rope which M. de Rochefort must have woven out of nothing in three days, by means of a file which he must have invented out of nothing for the purpose of cutting his window-bar, by half strangling the gaoler and leaving him tied up on the floor—I do not know, the thing was a miracle, but it was done.”

“And you have heard nothing of him this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“Now,” said Lavenne, talking as if to himself, “I wonder what his motive was in doing that? I explained to him and he understood——”

“He had no motive, he is a man who acts on impulse.”

“Has he been visited in prison, monsieur?”

“No. I was sending Captain Beauregard to see him this morning, but it was too late.”

“Has he been treated well?”

“Excellently. Captain Pierre Cousin, who came to me with the news this morning, vouched for his good treatment.”

“Did he say anything to Captain Cousin that might give a clue to his motive?”

“No, Captain Cousin never saw him.”

“Never saw him?”

“Well, it seems that he has been very busy with the half-yearly reports and accounts of Vincennes, and the governor in any case does not visit new prisoners as a matter of routine.”

“Ah,” said Lavenne. “One can fancy M. de Rochefort imagining himself neglected and getting restive, but I cannot imagine where he could have got the means of escape.”

“Nor can anyone else,” replied de Sartines.

He looked up. The usher had knocked at the door and was entering the room, a letter in his hand.

“Who brought it?” asked Sartines, taking the letter.

“I don’t know, monsieur, a man left it and went away saying that there was no answer.”

He withdrew and the Minister opened the letter.

He cast his eyes over the contents and then handed it to Lavenne.

“Well, monsieur,” said Lavenne, returning the letter, which he had read with astonishment, but without the slightest alteration of expression, “we have now, at least, a clue to M. de Rochefort’s plans.”

Sartines was white with anger.

“A clue to M. de Rochefort’s plans. Is the Hôtel de Sartines to sit down, then, and wait for M. de Rochefort to develop his plans?” He had taken his seat, but he rose again and began to walk up and down a few steps, his hands behind his back, his fingers twitching at his ruffles. “M. de Rochefort finds the Château de Vincennes too dull, he leaves it just as I would leave this room, he comes to Paris to amuse himself and he sends me a note that he hopes to meet me at M. de Choiseul’s. Delightful. But since it is my wish that he should not have left the Château de Vincennes, that he should not be in Paris, that instead of visiting the Duc de Choiseul, he should be ten thousand leagues away from the Duc de Choiseul—it seems to me, considering all these things, that I have been ill-served by my servants, by my agents, and by the police who have the safe keeping of the order of his Majesty’s city of Paris.”

Lavenne looked on and listened. When Sartines was taken with anger in this particular way, he literally stood on his dignity, and seemed to be addressing the Parliament.

“What, then, has happened to us?” went on the Minister. “We have lost touch with our genius, it seems. Are we the Hôtel de Sartines or the Hospital of the Quinze-Vingts?” Then, blazing out, “By my name and the God above me, I will dismiss every man who has touched this business, from the gaoler at Vincennes to the man who received that letter and allowed the bearer to take his departure.”

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “it is less the fault of your servants than of events. M. de Rochefort is free, but you need have no fear of the consequences.”

“Do you not understand,” said Sartines, in an icy voice, speaking slowly, as though to let each word sink home to the mind of the listener, “that if M. le Duc de Choiseul takes this Rochefort in his net he will not be satisfied with imprisoning him. ‘For the good of the State,’ that will be his excuse—he will question him by means of the Rack and the Question by Water. Or rather, he will only have to mention their names and Rochefort will tell all. Why should he shelter the Dubarrys whom he hates? And once he tells, we are all lost. His Majesty would never forgive the affair of the Presentation—never—and now we have this precious Rochefort walking right into M. de Choiseul’s arms.”

“There is nothing to fear, monsieur, I have in my pocket something that will act on M. de Choiseul as a powerful bit acts on a restive horse. It is no less than a letter which M. de Choiseul wrote on the night of the Presentation.”

He took Choiseul’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Sartines.

“Where did you get this from?” asked Sartines when he had finished reading it.

Lavenne told.

“Ah,” said the other. “Well, this simplifies everything indeed. This is the bowstring. Mon Dieu! was the man mad to write this? At once I shall take this to his Majesty and lay it before him with my own hands.”

“No, monsieur,” said Lavenne.

“Ah! What did you say?”

“I said no, monsieur. The letter is not mine, or at least only mine to hold as a means for the protection of M. de Rochefort. I promised the girl I told you of to keep it for that purpose.”

“Why, Mon Dieu!” cried Sartines, “I believe you are dictating to me what course of action I should take!”

“No, monsieur, or only as regards that letter and—a thing which is very precious to me—my honour.”

“Your honour. My faith! An agent of mine coming to me and talking of his honour where a business of State is concerned.” Then, flying out, “What has that to do with me?”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Lavenne coldly, and in a voice perfectly unshaken, “have you lived all these years in the world, and have you faced Paris and the Court so long in your capacity as Minister of Police that you set such a light price on honour. You value the keen sword of Verpellieux, the acuteness of Fremin, the cleverness of Jumeau, but what would all these men be worth to you if they could be bought? I have never spoken to you of the many times I could have accepted bribes in small matters, but the fact remains that without hurting you I could have accumulated fair sums of money. I did not, simply because something in me refused absolutely to play a double part. You know yourself how often I could have enriched myself by selling important secrets to your enemies. Where would you have been then? And the thing that saved you was not Lavenne, but the something that prevented Lavenne from betraying you. I call that something Honour. If it has another name it does not matter. The thing is the same. Well, I have pledged that something with regard to this letter, and if I do not redeem the pledge I will be no longer Lavenne, but a secret service agent of very little use to you, monsieur. That is all I wish to say.”

De Sartines took a few turns up and down. Then he folded up the letter and handed it back to Lavenne. From de Sartines’ point of view the word Honour belonged entirely to his own class. It was the name of a thing used among gentlemen, a thing appertaining to the higher orders. He had never considered it in relation to the Rafataille, had he done so he would have considered the relationship absurd.

According to his view of it, Honour, even amongst the nobility, was a very lean figure. Splendidly dressed, but very lean and capable of being doubled up and packed away without any injury to it.

A man must resent an insult sword in hand.

A man must not cheat at cards—or be caught cheating at cards.

A man may lie as much as he pleases, but he must kill another man who calls him a liar.

These were the chief articles in his code.

Sartines himself was almost destitute of the principles of Honour as we know it, just as he was almost wanting in the principles of Mercy as we know it. Witness that relative of his whom he had kept imprisoned in the Bastille for private ends and who was only released by the Revolutionaries of July.

Still, he had his code, and he talked of Honour and he considered it as an attribute of his station in life.

Lavenne just now had shown him a new side of the question, shown him in a flash that what he had always called the Fidelity of his subordinates was in reality a principle. He had always taken it as a personal tribute. He saw now that in the case of Lavenne, at least, it had to do with Lavenne himself, and secondarily only with de Sartines. And it was a principle that must not be tampered with, for on its integrity depended M. de Sartines’ safety and welfare.

He knew, besides, that the letter was in safe hands and that the wise Lavenne, in using it for the protection of Rochefort, would use it also for the protection of de Sartines. And away at the back of his mind there was the ghost of an idea that this terrible letter was safest for all parties in the hands of Lavenne.

Therefore he returned it.

“What you say is just, here is the letter. I will trust you to use it not only for the protection of M. de Rochefort, but in my interests if necessary. That is to say, of course, the interest of the State.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” replied the other, rising from his chair. “And now I must find M. de Rochefort if possible—though I have very little hope of doing so before to-night.”

CHAPTER IX

THE GATHERING STORM

LAVENNE, when he left the Hôtel de Sartines, made straight for the Rue St. Dominic. He wanted to find Rochefort and he fancied that Javotte might know of the Count’s whereabouts.

He stopped at the door of the house where Camille Fontrailles’ apartments were, rang and was admitted by the concierge.

Scarcely had he made the inquiry as to whether Mademoiselle Javotte were at home when Javotte herself appeared descending the stairs and ready dressed for the street.

“Why, monsieur,” said Javotte, “it is strange that you have called at this moment, for in a very short time you would not have found me. I am leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes, monsieur, and at this moment I am going to call a fiacre to remove my things to a room I have taken in the Rue Jussac close to here.”

He accompanied her into the street.

“And why are you leaving?” asked Lavenne. “Have you quarrelled with your mistress?”

“No, monsieur, she quarrelled with me.”

“Well, well,” said Lavenne, “these things will happen. I called to ask, did you know of the whereabouts of M. de Rochefort?”

“No, monsieur, I do not, and strangely enough, it was concerning M. de Rochefort that my quarrel arose with Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”

“Aha! that is strange. Tell me about it.”

“It was this way, monsieur. That night when M. de Rochefort had the dispute with M. de Choiseul, he took shelter here. He came to see Mademoiselle Fontrailles, she was not here, he asked for shelter and I gave it to him. He slept in my room, whilst I took the room of my mistress. Well, it appeared that the concierge talked, and yesterday Mademoiselle Fontrailles asked me what I meant by harbouring a man here for the night. I was furious; before I could reply two gentlemen were announced, M. Dubarry and Count Camus.

“Count Camus was the man who insulted me that night when M. de Rochefort rescued me, and when the gentlemen were gone I said to Mademoiselle, ‘I would sooner harbour a gentleman here for the night than allow a ruffian to kiss my hand.’

“She asked me what I meant. I told her, and I told her that M. de Rochefort had smacked Comte Camus’ face.

“Her face fired up so that I knew the truth at once. She is in love with him, monsieur, and I was so furious at the false charge she had made about me that I lost all discretion. I said, ‘It is easy to see your feelings for that man; as for me, though I am only a poor girl, I would choose for a lover, if not a gentleman, at least not a cur-dog who snaps at women’s dresses and who runs away when kicked by a man.’”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She boxed my ears, monsieur. She is infatuated. Ah, monsieur, what is it that she can see in a man so horrible to look at, so evil, and so cruel; for he is cruel, and I swear to you the sight of him makes me shudder, and would make me shudder even if I had not personally experienced his baseness.”

“I do not know,” replied Lavenne; “nor can I possibly say why this man should affect two persons so differently. He is, as you say, a terrible man, and your innocence, or what is kindly in your nature, is revolted by him; as for your late mistress, why, we must suppose there is something in her nature that is attracted by him. But she is treading on dangerous ground, for should Madame Camus die and should she marry him, she would find herself under the thumb of a very strange master. Now, listen to me, Mademoiselle Javotte. I have still in my pocket that letter which you gave me, and I hope to make it useful to M. de Rochefort. What is the number of the house in the Rue Jussac which will be your new abode?”

“No. 3, monsieur.”

“Well, it is important for me to know your address as I may want you. I may even want you to-night, so be at home.”

“I will, monsieur—and M. de Rochefort?”

Lavenne smiled.

“Set your mind at rest. He is in danger, very great danger, but I hope to save him.”

“In danger?”

“Yes, but I hope to save him. He is in Paris, I do not know his address, but I shall see him to-night.”

“Ah—in danger—” said Javotte. “I shall not rest till I hear that he is safe.”

“You care for him so much as that?”

“Oh, monsieur, I care for him much more.”

Lavenne left her. “Now there is a faithful heart,” said he. “Ah, if M. de Rochefort had only the genius to see that friend of all friends, the woman who loves him!—And why not. Madame la Comtesse Dubarry was a shop-girl. She had only a pretty face. And here we have the pretty face, but so much more also.”

He dismissed Javotte from his mind, concentrating his attention on the events of the forthcoming evening, on the Duc de Choiseul’s reception, which he felt to be the point towards which all these diverse fortunes were tending. Lavenne half divined the truth that the life of society is really the agglutination of a thousand stories, each story containing so many characters working out a definite plot towards a definite, and sometimes to an indefinite, dénouement. He felt that in this especial business in which he was engaged the story, beginning with the Presentation of the Comtesse Dubarry, was about to find its dénouement at the reception of the Duc de Choiseul, and he could not help contemplating all the complex interests involved, their reaction one on the other and the manner in which they were being drawn together towards one definite point. Sartines’ fortune was at stake, Rochefort’s liberty, Camus’ life, Camille Fontrailles’ future, Javotte’s love and Choiseul’s position as a Minister.

The thing seemed to have been arranged by some dramatist—or shall we say some chemist, who had slowly brought together, one by one, all these diverse elements that wanted now only the last touch, the last drop of acid or spark of fire to produce the culminating explosion.

CHAPTER X

THE DUC DE CHOISEUL’S RECEPTION

CHOISEUL’S position in the world was a doubly difficult one. He was continually fighting for his life, and he had to conduct the battle in a silk coat that must never be creased and ruffles that must ever be immaculate. He had to parry dagger thrusts with a smile, kiss hands whose owners he hated, laugh when most severely smitten and turn defeats into epigrams.

The Comte de Stainville, now Duc de Choiseul, was well qualified, however, by nature and by training for the difficult position that he held.

The genius that had prompted him, when Comte de Stainville, to make an ally of his enemy the Pompadour, did not desert him when, under the title of Duc de Choiseul, he was created Prime Minister in 1758.

Choiseul was the man who almost averted the French Revolution. He was the first of the real friends of Liberty not dressed as a Philosopher, and the greatest Minister after Colbert. He had his littlenesses, his weaknesses; he made great mistakes, allowed impulse to sway him occasionally, and could be extremely pitiless on occasion. He did not disdain to use the meanest weapons, yet he was great and far more human than the majority of the men of his time, than Terray, or de Maupeou, or de Sartines, or d’Aiguillon, or d’Argeson, more human even than the men who were beginning to babble about Humanity. He did not write “The Social Contract,” but he destroyed the tyranny of the Jesuits in France. He did not profess to love his own family, but at least he did not desert his own children after the fashion of M. Jean Jacques.

To-night, as he stood to receive his guests, he looked precisely the same as on the last occasion, less than a week ago, when, standing in his own house, he had received his guests with the certainty in his mind that the Presentation would not take place. But he showed nothing of his defeat.

De Sartines was among the first to arrive. As Minister of Police it was his duty to guard the safety of the Prime Minister of France on all occasions, and more especially at State functions, balls, and receptions, even when these receptions, functions or balls took place at the Minister’s own house.

There were always dangerous people ready for mischief—Damiens was an example of that—lunatics and fanatics, and to-night, as usual, several agents of the Hôtel de Sartines were among the servants of Choiseul and indistinguishable from them. But to-night, for certain reasons, the occasion was so especial that Lavenne was present, watchful, seeing all things, but unseen, or rather unnoticed, by everyone.

Sartines passed with the first of the crowd into the great salon where Madame de Choiseul was receiving. Here, when he had made his bow, he found himself buttonholed by M. de Duras, the old gentleman who knew everything about everyone and their affairs. The same, it will be remembered, who had explained Camille Fontrailles to Camus on that night of the ball.

“Ah, M. le Comte,” cried this purveyor of news,

“I thought I was too early, but now that I see you, I feel my position more regular. I came here chiefly to-night to make sure that Madame la Princesse de Guemenée was not present. You have heard the news? No? Well, there has been a great quarrel. It is entirely between ourselves, but the Princesse de Guemenée and Madame de Choiseul have quarrelled, so much so that the Princesse has not been invited.”

“Indeed!” said de Sartines, “I have heard nothing of it.”

“All the same, it is a fact—and the fact is rather scandalous. It was this way——”

“Madame la Princesse de Guemenée,” came the voice of the usher as the Princesse, smiling, entered and made her bow to Madame de Choiseul.

“Yes,” said Sartines, “you were going to say?”

“Why, that is the lady herself. Yet the facts were given to me on unimpeachable authority. They must have made the matter up between them. Ma foi! women are adaptable creatures. One can never count on them—as, for instance, the Dubarry. She is hand in glove with the Choiseuls now, and that great fat Jean Dubarry swears by his friend Choiseul; one might fancy them brothers to hear Jean talking, but I would like to hear Choiseul’s view of the matter. Ah, there is Count Camus, he seems quite recovered from the blow that M. de Rochefort gave him—what an affair!—a fine, open-hearted man, Camus, and only for that vile smallpox he would not be bad-looking, but beauty is only skin deep and it is the man who counts after all. Have you heard the news about Rochefort?”

“No,” said Sartines with a little start. “Have you heard anything fresh?”

“Oh, ma foi! yes. He is in Germany. Managed to make his escape, fool. I always said he would make a mess of his affairs, but I never thought he would have gone the length he did.”

“Oh, in Germany, is he?” said Sartines, wishing sincerely that the news was true.

“Yes. He made his escape from France in the disguise of a pedlar. I had the news only yesterday. Ah, there is Mademoiselle Fontrailles, with Mademoiselle Chon Dubarry and the Vicomte Jean. What did I tell you? Hand in glove, hand in glove. She looks well, the Fontrailles. Cold as an icicle, but beautiful. And they say she has a fortune of a million francs. Why, there is Madame Camus, she has come with Madame de Courcelles; and look at Camus, he seems to have no eyes but for his wife.”

Sartines gazed in the direction of a group consisting of Camus, his wife, Camille Fontrailles and Jean Dubarry. They were all laughing and talking, and now, apropos of some remark, Camus, with a little bow, took his wife’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. The others laughed at the joke, whatever it was.

“Look,” said de Sartines, “what a charming husband. And yet it seemed to me, for I have been watching them all since they came in, that this charming husband slipped a little note behind his back to the Fontrailles, and that she took it quite in the orthodox way—that is to say, without being seen.”

“Except by you.”

“Except by me, but then, you see, I am the Minister of Police, and I am supposed to see what other people do not see, and know what other people do not know.” De Sartines, as he finished speaking, turned again towards the group and contemplated them with a brooding eye, his hands behind his back, and his lips slightly thrust out.

“But she can have no hopes, since Madame Camus is alive and, despite her lameness, evidently in the best of health,” said M. de Duras.

“My dear fellow,” said de Sartines, “that is not a girl to build on hopes. If she cares for Camus, as I believe she does, he has only to wink and she will follow him. She is of that type. The type of the perverse prude. The creature who would refuse herself to an honest man, and yet is quite ready to roll in the gutter if the gutter pleases her. Here has this one refused a man whom she might have made something of—that is to say, Rochefort, and who has welcomed the advances of a speckled toad—that is to say, Camus. You say Camus is an open-hearted man, at least I fancy you made some curious remark of that sort; you are wrong, just as wrong as when you said Madame de Guemenée had quarrelled with Madame de Choiseul; just as wrong as when you said de Rochefort was in Germany. M. de Rochefort is in Paris—and there he is in the flesh.”

“Monsieur le Vicomte de Chartres. Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort,” came the usher’s voice.

An earthquake would not have shaken de Choiseul more than that announcement, and just as he would have remained unmoved after the first shock of the earthquake, so did he now after the first shock of the announcement.

Rochefort, accompanying Chartres, advanced a hair’s-breadth behind the Vicomte, and with that half-smiling, easy grace which was one of his attractions. He was beautifully dressed in a suit of Chartres’ which a tailor had been half a day altering to suit his fastidious tastes. He bowed to his hostess and host.

Had de Choiseul changed colour or expression, Rochefort would have been far better pleased; but the Minister received him with absolute courtesy, as though they had parted in friendship but a few hours ago, and as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a man against whom he had issued a warrant, and for whom he was hunting throughout France, to appear as his guest. The appalling sang-froid of de Choiseul, who would have suffered anything rather than that a scene should be created in his house, disconcerted Rochefort. The idea clutched his mind that he had taken another false step. He had come to meet a man, he found himself face to face with etiquette. He had hoped, by an explosion, to create the warmth that would lead to a mutual understanding; he found no materials for an explosion—nothing but ice.

Against the faultless reception of de Choiseul, his intrusion now seemed bad taste.

All this passed through his mind, leaving no trace, however, on his manner or expression as he turned from his host and hostess and calmly surveyed the people in his immediate neighbourhood.

Not a person present that was not filled with astonishment, yet not a person betrayed his or her feelings. Rochefort had, then, made his position good again, and Choiseul had invited him to his reception. How had Rochefort worked this miracle? Impossible to say, yet there was the fact, and if Choiseul was satisfied it was nobody’s business to grumble.

Camus was the most astonished of all, yet he said nothing, only turning to the Vicomte Jean Dubarry with eyebrows lifted as though to say, “Well, what do you think of that?”

Sartines alone knew the truth of the whole business and Sartines wished himself well away, for he knew that Rochefort would come and speak to him, Sartines—the man who ought to take M. de Rochefort by the arm and lead him out to arrest, an action that would have pleased his vexed soul, and which he would promptly have taken were it not impossible.

To arrest Rochefort now would mean simply to hand him over to the agents of Choiseul, to be questioned and to reveal to them everything he knew. He would sacrifice the Dubarrys most certainly rather than suffer for them, that was patently apparent now, for Rochefort, passing the Dubarry group, turned on Mademoiselle Fontrailles, on Chon, on Jean Dubarry and on Camus, a glance in which hatred was half veiled and contempt clearly manifested.

And the group did not fail to respond.

On the way towards Sartines, Rochefort was stopped by M. de Duras.

“Why, M. de Rochefort,” said the old gentleman, “this is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Which, monsieur?”

“Why, to meet you here to-night.”

“Well, M. de Duras, unexpected pleasures are always the sweetest; but why should the pleasure be unexpected?”

“Why——?” stammered the old fellow—“Well, monsieur, it was rumoured that you were in Germany.”

“Ah! it was rumoured that I was in Germany—well, Rumour has told a lie for the first time. Ah, Sartines, you see I have kept my promise; how are you this evening—charmingly, I hope?”

Rochefort had recovered his spirits. The sight of Camus, the Fontrailles, Chon, and Jean Dubarry all in one group laughing and talking together, had clinched the business with him and given the last blow to his half-dead passion for Camille Fontrailles. But a dead passion makes fine combustible material when it is bound together with wounded pride. This dead passion of Rochefort’s burst into flame like a lit tar-barrel, and his anger against the Dubarry group became furiously alive and the next worse thing to hatred.

“Hush, my dear fellow,” said de Sartines, drawing him aside. “I do not know what has driven you to this mad act, but at least remember that I am your friend. You have kept no promise to me. I could not help receiving your letter; had I been in communication with you, I would have been the first to warn you against what you have done.”

“And you know perfectly well,” replied Rochefort, “that I have never taken warnings—or at least only once, when I was foolish enough to take a cell in that rat-haunted old barrack of Vincennes at your advice, instead of facing Choiseul like a man.”

“Facing Choiseul like a man! And what do you expect from that?”

“I expect that he will listen to reason, hear my story, which I would have told him had he not tried to arrest me as I was just starting to Paris to keep an appointment, and release me.”

“You do not know Choiseul.”

“Excuse me, but I believe I do. He is a gentleman, he knows that I am a gentleman and he will take my word.”

“Choiseul will have you arrested the instant you leave this hôtel. He would arrest you now only he does not wish to make a scene.”

“I am going to explain to him.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“And how are you going to obtain an interview with him?”

“You must do that for me.”

“I?”

“Yes, you are the proper person. Go to him and say, ‘Rochefort wishes to speak to you on a matter of great importance.’ You can say to him also if you like, ‘He asked me to say that he came here to-night not as your guest, but as a gentleman who has been lied against and misunderstood and who wishes to lay his case before the first gentleman in France, after his Majesty.’”

“Words, words,” said Sartines. “He will crumple them up and fling them in your face.”

“He will not. Choiseul is a gentleman and will listen to me.”

“Ay, he will listen to you—you are like a child with your talk of ‘gentleman—gentleman.’ However, you are not quite lost. You had a letter of Choiseul’s.”

“I?”

“Yes, you took it from the saddle-bag of a horse.”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes. Well, I have that letter in my pocket.”

“How did you get it?”

“You gave it to a girl—like a fool—to send back to Choiseul, and the girl, who seems to have cared for you a lot, opened it.”

“Ah, Javotte! Little meddler——”

“Read it.”

“Yes—yes!”

“And found that it was a—what shall I say?—a revelation of how Choiseul had plotted against the Dubarry and a libel on his Majesty. It was written in a moment of anger, it was one of the false steps men make who have not control of their temper. With this letter in your hand you are safe from Choiseul. He, of course, knows that the thing was taken from the saddle-bag of the horse, but I doubt if he suspects you as having taken it, simply because in the ordinary course you would have used it against him before this.”

“How did you get this letter?”

“The girl gave it to my agent, Lavenne, making him promise that it was to be used only for your protection. Now we have some honour amongst us at the Hôtel de Sartines, otherwise this—um—treasonable document would have been laid by this before his Majesty for the good of the State. Lavenne, to-night, knowing that you would be here, gave it to me to give to you.”

“Let me have it.”

“Come into this corridor, then.”

Sartines led the way between two curtains into a corridor giving entrance to the salon where to-night refreshments were being served.

He handed the letter to Rochefort, who hastily put it in his pocket.

“Thanks,” said Rochefort. “This will make the matter easier for me. Or at least it will serve as an introduction to our business. And now, like a good fellow, obtain for me my interview with Choiseul.”

They went back against a tide of people setting in the direction of the room where the buffet was laid out and where little tables were set about for the guests.

Rochefort waited in a corridor whilst Sartines advanced towards Choiseul and buttonholed him.

CHAPTER XI

ROCHEFORT AND CHOISEUL

ROCHEFORT watched the two men. One could make out absolutely nothing from their expressions or movements. Then they turned slowly and walked towards a door on the left of the salon.

Choiseul, with his hand on the door-handle, nodded slightly to his companion, passed through the door, shut it, and Sartines came hurrying towards Rochefort.

“Your interview has been granted. Remember that the letter in your pocket stands between you and social and bodily destruction. Mordieu! remember also your friends, Rochefort, for I will not hide it from you, that, should you fall into Choiseul’s hands, things will go badly with us.”

“Do not worry me with directions, my dear fellow,” said Rochefort. “If I am to do this thing, I must do it in my own way—come.”

He led the way through the door and into a passage leading to a room the door of which was ajar.

Rochefort knocked at this door and entered the room, followed by Sartines.

It was a small but beautifully furnished writing-room. Choiseul was standing before the fireplace, with his hands behind his back. He seemed in meditation, and raising his head, bowed slightly to the Count whilst Sartines closed the door and took a position on the right.

Sartines, as he came to a halt, produced his snuff-box, tapped it, opened it, and took a pinch.

“Well, Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Choiseul, “you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, “I wish to make an explanation. Some days ago, at his Majesty’s palace of Versailles, you in your discretion, and acting under your powers, thought fit to issue a warrant for the arrest of my person, and you entrusted this business to two of your gentlemen, M. le Comte Camus and M. d’Estouteville.”

Choiseul nodded slightly.

“I resisted that arrest, monsieur, not because I was conscious of having done any wrong and not because I dreaded any consequences that might arise from false information given against me. I resisted arrest simply because I was going to Paris on important business and did not wish to be stopped.”

“Oh!” said Choiseul, “you were going to Paris on important business and did not wish to be stopped. Indeed! And you have come here to tell me that you resisted an order of the State because you were going to Paris and did not wish to be stopped!”

Choiseul’s voice would have frozen an ordinary man, and few men in Rochefort’s position could have stood under the gaze of his cold grey eyes unmoved.

“I came to tell you absolutely the truth, monsieur. Yes, I resisted the order of the State for private reasons, but I will add this, my reasons were not entirely personal. I had to meet a lady——”

“Go on,” said Choiseul, “I do not wish to pry into your personal affairs. Have you anything more to say?”

“Yes, monsieur. To make my escape, I had to take a horse that was standing in waiting. On it I reached Paris. In the saddle-bag I found a letter addressed by you to a lady—I have forgotten the name—I do not wish to pry into your private affairs.”

Choiseul’s face had changed slightly in colour, but otherwise he betrayed none of the emotion that filled him, except, Sartines noticed, by a slight twitching of his left shoulder.

“Ah!” said he, “you found a letter of mine!”

“Yes, monsieur, I entrusted it to a person, who is my very faithful servant, to take to the address upon it. Now, this person—knowing that I was in trouble with M. de Choiseul—thought fit to open the letter, an action most discreditable and only excusable inasmuch as it was prompted by an humble mind, blinded by devotion to my interests.

“The letter was put into my hands with a strong suggestion that the contents might be useful to me.”

“Now, M. le Duc, you will at once understand that, so far from making use of this letter, I did not even read it. It is in my pocket now, perfectly safe, and I have the honour of returning it to you.”

To Sartines’ horror, Rochefort put his hand in his pocket, took out the letter and gave it to Choiseul, who opened it, glanced at the contents and placed it on the mantelpiece as though it were of no importance.

“I have only to add, monsieur,” continued Rochefort, “that in Paris, instead of taking the wise course of returning to Versailles to seek re-arrest, I said to myself, ‘M. Choiseul is against me. I had better make my escape or at least keep concealed until the storm blows over.’ That was very foolish, but I was enraged about other matters and I did not think clearly, and now, monsieur, what is the charge against me?”

“You are charged, Monsieur de Rochefort, with the killing of a man in the streets of Paris on the very night upon which you were here as my guest last.”

“The charge is perfectly correct, monsieur, but your informant did not tell all.”

“Walking home with Comte Camus I rescued a woman from two men who were maltreating her. I pursued one of the men, he attacked me and I killed him. I returned only to find the unfortunate woman whom I had rescued being assaulted by Count Camus. I struck him in the face and rolled him in the gutter, and he has never yet sought redress for that assault which I made upon him.”

“What is this you say?” asked Choiseul.

“The truth, monsieur,” replied Rochefort proudly.

Now Lavenne that evening, on taking over the police arrangements for Choiseul’s reception, had given special instructions to Vallone, one of his subordinates who had nothing to do with the policing of the reception, who, as a matter of fact, was a spy of the Hôtel de Sartines engaged in the service of Choiseul. It was Vallone, in fact, who had given Sartines the information that Choiseul had sent the note which the Comtesse de Béarn had received in the basket of flowers.

Lavenne had given the man instructions to watch Count Camus as a cat watches a mouse, and Lavenne, just at this moment, was standing unobserved watching the throng passing in and out of the salon where refreshments were served. He saw Vallone leave the salon. Vallone glanced about, saw Lavenne and came rapidly towards him.

“Well,” said Lavenne, “what is it?”

“Monsieur, you told me to watch Count Camus, and more especially should he use a dagger to cut fruit with.”

“Yes—yes?”

“He is seated at a small table with Madame Camus, Mademoiselle Fontrailles, and M. le Vicomte Jean Dubarry.”

“Yes—yes?”

“He has just taken a peach from a dish of fruit handed to him by a servant, and producing a knife like that which you spoke of, he cut the peach in two.”

“Quick—go on!”

“He handed one half of the peach to Madame Camus.”

“Yes—and the other half he ate himself?”

“No, monsieur. The other half he handed on his plate to Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”

“Did she eat it?”

“Yes, monsieur, she ate it, looking all the time at Monsieur Camus with a smile, and between you and me, monsieur, she seems to favour the Count more than a little.”