“You will excuse me for saying it, my dear Rochefort, but, considering the delicate position of the Comtesseand the fact that Choiseul is in pursuit of you—it would have been wiser of you to have sought shelter elsewhere. We are quite ready to help, but it is imperative now that this affair has blown over that we should resume friendly relationship with Choiseul. Of course, we are not friends, still, you can very well understand the necessity of our keeping up an appearance of friendship with the man who is the first man in France after his Majesty. It is diplomacy—that is all.”
“Excuse me,” said Rochefort, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“In what way?”
“I did not come here to take shelter.”
“You came, then, to see me?”
Rochefort looked Dubarry up and down, then he broke into a laugh.
“No, my dear man, I did not come here to see you. I came here to see Mademoiselle Fontrailles, and to take my leave of her before I leave France or enter the Bastille.”
“To see Mademoiselle Fontrailles?”
“Precisely.”
“At this hour?”
“The matter is urgent.”
“But it is impossible. She is not up yet.”
“She will get up when she learns that I am here.”
“You think so. Well, I tell you no. Put off your visit to her, for she came back last night not well disposed towards you; you kept her waiting, it seems, and then you did not arrive.”
“I wish to explain all that.”
“Wait, then,” said Jean.
He left the room in an irritable manner, and returned in a minute or two.
“Mademoiselle Fontrailles is unable to see you; she will not be visible before noon.”
“Ah, then at noon she will not be visible to me, for at noon I must be out of Paris. You did not give her my message.”
“Oh,ma foi!” cried Jean, swelling like a turkey-cock. “You say that to my face! You give me the lie direct!”
“I give you nothing. I say you did not explain to her fully my position.”
“Explain to her your position?Mon Dieu!I explained it as well as I could, shouting through her closed bedroom door, and her reply was, ‘Tell Monsieur Rochefort I am unable to see him, and in any event I will not come down till noon.’ So you see, she did not even say she would see you at noon.”
“The devil!” said Rochefort. “I don’t know what to make of you all. I say nothing about any help I have given you, but I will say this, the man I have pitted myself against, Monsieur de Choiseul, is at least a gentleman who looks after the interests of his friends. Good-day.”
He turned to the door.
“Where are you going to?” asked Jean.
“I am going to breakfast at the Café de Régence.”
“In your position?”
“Precisely. What do I care? I will leave Paris at my own time, and in my own way.”
“But, my dear Rochefort,” cried Jean, now very eager and friendly, “if you are pursued by Choiseul, and if you do not leave Paris at once, you will be simplyplaying into his hands; you will be caught, imprisoned, they may even torture you to make you tell.”
“About the presentation?”
“About anything—everything. You know Choiseul, he is pitiless.”
“Make your mind easy,” said Rochefort, “I will tell without letting them torture me. What are you all to me that I should care? Now you have used me, you have done with me, and you are anxious that I should escape, not because you care adenierfor my safety, but because you fear that they may extract the story of Ferminard from me——. That is what I think of you, Monsieur le Vicomte, what I think of Madame la Comtesse, what I think of Mademoiselle Fontrailles; you can tell them so with my regards.”
He turned on his heel, pushed the door open and walked out.
He was furious. Certain that Jean had told him the truth as to Camille’s message—for Jean had indeed told the truth, and his sincerity was patent—he could have pulled the house of Dubarry down on the heads of its inmates.
Instead, however, of making such an attempt, he walked into the street and strode off without looking back.
Jean, left alone, rushed back to the room where the gamblers were still playing, drank off a glass of wine, excused himself, and then went to the servants’ quarters, ordered a carriage to be brought at once to the door, rushed upstairs, changed his clothes, and the carriage being ready, drove to the Hôtel de Sartines.
THE Hôtel de Sartines was situated in the Faubourg St. Germain. Jean Dubarry’s carriage drove into the courtyard as half-past eight was striking, he descended, went up the steps, and entered the great hall, where already the bustle and the business of the day was in full swing.
The door was guarded by soldiers, a Suisse stood as sentry at the foot of the great staircase, and soldiers sat about on the benches, whilst crossing the hall from department to department went clerks, and men with papers in their hands, messengers and agents.
Dubarry gave his name to the usher on duty, and asked him to take it to the Comte de Sartines, with a message that his business was urgent. In less than five minutes, the man reappeared and asked the visitor to follow him.
He led the way up the broad staircase to the first floor, past the entrance of the famous octagon chamber, down a corridor to the bedroom of his Excellency, who was at that moment being finished off by his valet, Gaussard, the same who, though a valet, claimed the right to wear a sword by virtue of the fact that he was also a hairdresser.
Sartines, released from the valet’s hands, was in theact of rising from his chair, when Dubarry was announced.
The Minister of Police was in an ill temper that morning, and as the cause of his bad humour has an important bearing on our story, we will refer to it.
Briefly, then, some days ago a tragedy had occurred at Luciennes. Atalanta, the King’s favourite hound, had been poisoned. Louis XV., to give him his due, had a not unkindly feeling for animals. He tolerated Mizapouff, the little dog of Madame Dubarry, that cut such quaint capers at a celebrated dinner-party, he fed the carp in the pond at Luciennes with his own royal hand—when he could find no better amusement, and he was fond of Atalanta. Besides, she was his dog, the only dog of all the dogs in France who had the entrée of his private apartments. She was on a footing with the Duc de la Vrillière, her coat had the royal arms embroidered on it, and she knew it; she was fed with minced chicken, and she had her own personal attendant.
Some days ago, this aristocrat had been found in the courtyard at Luciennes, stiff and stark, poisoned by some miscreant or some mischance. The King was furious. He took it as a personal matter. Sartines was fetched over from Versailles, where he was on a visit of inspection, and Sartines had the unpleasant task of inspecting the corpse and questioning the cooks, the scullions, the chambermaids, the grooms, the gardeners—everyone, in short, who might have had a hand in the business, or who might have been able to cast some light on the affair. The result was absolute darkness and much worry for the unfortunate Sartines. The matter had become a joke at Court, andSartines might have measured the extent to which he was hated by the way in which he was tormented.
Everyone asked him about the dog, and whether he had made any further advance into the mystery; a ballad was written about it, and he received a copy. The whole business gave him more worry and caused him more irritation than any other of the numerous affairs that were always annoying and irritating him, and, to cap the business, he had received this morning a neat little parcel containing a pair of spectacles. Nothing more.
The Vicomte bowed to Sartines and then, when the valet had taken his departure, plunged into the business at hand:
“My dear Sartines, that fool of a Rochefort has complicated matters in the most vile way; he called an hour ago and knocked me up to tell me the pleasant news that Choiseul is in pursuit of him. More than that, he has taken a grudge against us. He is in love with the Fontrailles, she refused to see him. I advised him to leave Paris at once, and all I got for my advice was an accusation of ingratitude. He is against us now; he knows all about the Ferminard affair, and he frankly threatened me that, were Choiseul to capture him and question him in any unpleasant way, he would tell all he knew. Even were Choiseul simply to imprison him, he would most likely tell, just from spite against us and to obtain his release.”
“The devil!” said Sartines. “Things seem to have a habit of going wrong these days—but he would not tell. I have great faith in Rochefort, though I am not given to having faith in people. He is a very proud man. He would not betray us.”
“Has he promised secrecy?”
“No, he has promised nothing.”
“There you are. He may be a proud man, an honourable man—what you will, but he fancies we have used him and cast him away. There is the Fontrailles business as well. He is angry, and I tell you, when Rochefort is like that, he cares for nothing. He said Choiseul was at least a gentleman who could look after his friends. He will join arms with Choiseul.”
“Well, suppose he does?”
“Then Choiseul will be in power for ever. Once he gets hold of the true tale of the Ferminard business, he will flatten us out. I will be exiled, for one, his Majesty could never allow such an affront to the Monarchy to go unpunished; and you, Sartines, what will become of you? Who originated the whole idea but you, yourself?”
Sartines produced his snuff-box and took a pinch. Then he turned to the window and looked out on the courtyard.
He felt himself badly placed.
He had guarded against everything but this—Rochefort turned an enemy.
He knew quite well that the Dubarrys had used Rochefort just as they had used the old Comtesse de Béarn, for their own ends, and would throw him away when used; what angered him was the fact that this fool of a Vicomte Jean had clearly let Rochefort perceive this; there was the business of the girl, too. Rochefort had promised no secrecy.
“Before we talk of Rochefort,” said he, “how about Madame de Béarn?”
“We have nothing to fear from her,” said Jean. “She was furious, but the thing is over, and were she to make a fuss, she would gain nothing and lose agood deal. She has come in, and her price, between you and me, was not a low price. She has cost us two hundred thousand francs. By the way, I suppose Ferminard is safe?”
“Yes; when his work was done, he was driven to Vincennes very securely guarded. When Choiseul is gone from the Ministry, we will let him out. Now, as to Rochefort, we must deal with that gentleman in a drastic way. That is to say, we must save him from Choiseul. For, if Choiseul once takes him into his hands, we are lost.”
“How do you propose to act?”
“Very simply. I shall arrest him and hide him in Vincennes.”
“And Choiseul, when he hears the news, will visit him in Vincennes.”
“Choiseul will not hear the news. We will pretend he has escaped. Early this morning I had a letter from Choiseul, asking me to drag Paris with a seine net for Rochefort. He is accused of having killed a man. Well, I will drag Paris with a seine net, imprison Rochefort, under the name of Bonhomme, or any name you please, and once we have him tightly tucked away in Vincennes, all will be smooth. Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes, is entirely mine.”
“It is a good idea,” said Jean; “and really, seeing how Rochefort is placed as regards Choiseul, it would be the best act we could do for him.”
“It’s the best we can do for ourselves,” said Sartines. “Has Rochefort gone back to his rooms, do you think?”
“I don’t know. He told me he would go to the Café de Régence for breakfast.”
“If he said that, he will be there, it’s just like his bravado, and there I shall arrest him.”
“He will resist, and he will be surrounded by friends.”
“Dubarry,” said Sartines, “you talk as though you were talking to a police agent. If you had been with me the other night, you would have heard me giving Rochefort a little lecture on my ways and methods; you would have heard me say, amongst other things, that I hold my position not by cleverness—though, indeed, perhaps I am not a fool—but by my knowledge of men and how they reason and think and act. Of course, if I were to arrest Rochefort in the ordinary way, he would resist; his friends would help him, blood would be spilt, and the Parisians would cry out, ‘Ah! there is that cursed de Sartines again.’ Rochefort is a popular figure, and a popular figure only requires to be arrested to make it a popular idol. I do not intend to make an idol of Rochefort.”
He went to the table by the window, and struck a bell.
“Send Lavenne to me,” said he, when the servant answered the summons. “Has he arrived yet?”
“Yes, monsieur, he is here.”
“Then send him up.”
ROCHEFORT, when he left the Hôtel Dubarry, reached the Rue St. Honoré and walked up it, past the Hôtel de Noailles, and in the direction of the Palais Royal.
The Rue St. Honoré is the old main artery of the business and social world of Paris on the right bank of the Seine. In one direction, it led to the palaces of the Faubourg St. Honoré, in the other to the Bastille. In the eighteenth century it was as bustling and alive with business as it is now, and its side streets led even to more important places. Walking up it from the Faubourg St. Honoré, you had the Place Vendôme opening from it on the left, beyond the Place Vendôme the great door giving entrance to the Jacobins, beyond that, as you advanced, the Rue de l’Échelle, on the right, leading to the Place de Carrousel and the Tuileries; on the left, further along, the Rue de Richelieu, and on the right three streets leading directly to the Louvre. Beyond that the Rue de Poulies leading to St. Germain l’Auxerrois, and much further on, the Halles to the left. The river was much less accessible from the Rue St. Honoré than it is to-day, being barred off by the Tuileries, the buildings on the Quai des Galeries du Louvre, and the Louvre itself. Nothingwas more remarkable in this old Paris than the way in which public convenience was sacrificed to the convenience of the King, the nobles and the religious orders. You entered a street and found yourself face to face with a barrier—as in that street where Rochefort encountered and killed de Choiseul’s agent; a way that ought to have led you to the river, brought you to the back door of a monastery; a road that ought to have been a short cut, such as the Court St. Vincent, landed you to the gateway of Le Manége. Streets like the Rue du Brave led you into culs-de-sac like the Foire St. Germain.
The religious orders showed large over the city. One might say that it was a city of churches, monasteries, convents and religious houses, palaces and royal residences. If every religious house had offered sanctuary to the unfortunates pursued by the King or the nobles, then Paris would have been the best city in the world for a man who was trying to escape; this not being so, it was the worst, as Rochefort would have found to his cost had he been on that business. But M. de Rochefort was not making his escape. He was going to breakfast at the Café de Régence, despite Choiseul and the world, or rather because of them.
Anger had worked him up into a mood of absolute recklessness. He had never been famed for carefulness; wine made him mad—reckless; but anger and thwarted desire were to prove themselves even more potent than wine. As he went on his way, he expected arrest at each street corner, or rather attempted arrest; for, in his present temper, he would have resisted all of Choiseul’s agents and all de Sartines’ guards, even had they been led by Choiseul and Sartines in person.
He wanted to hit the Dubarrys, he wanted to strike at Camille Fontrailles; failing them, it would content him to hit Choiseul or his creatures should he come across them, or Sartines—or even his best friend.
Of course, the whole centre of this passionate fury was Camille Fontrailles. She would not see him; very well, he would see what he would not do.
As he walked along the Rue St. Honoré, he glanced from right to left, after the manner of a man who seeks to pick a quarrel even if he has to pick it with a stranger. But at that comparatively early hour, the Rue St. Honoré was not the place for a bully’s business. People were too busy to give cause for offence, and too lowly to take it with a nobleman, and Rochefort, if the matter had been an absolute necessity with him, would have been condemned to skewer a shopboy, a market porter, or a water-carrier.
But at the Café de Régence, when he reached it, he found what he imagined to be thehors-d’œuvrefor a regular banquet.
The Café de Régence, at that period, was the meeting-place of the intellectuals, and at the same time the meeting-place of the bloods. Rousseau might have been seen there of an evening, Jean Dubarry took breakfast there sometimes, Rochefort, and many others like him, frequented the place. At this hour, that is to say about ten o’clock, Rochefort found a couple of bald-headed men and several rather seedy ones sipping coffee and discussing the news of the day. They were Philosophers—Intellectuals, and like all Philosophers and Intellectuals of all ages, untidy, shabby, and making a great noise.
Rochefort, drinking the wine he had ordered and talking to the waiter who had served it, spoke in so loud a voice and made such free remarks about things in general, and the habitués of the café in particular, that faces were turned to him from the surrounding tables and then turned away again. No one wished to pick a quarrel with M. de Rochefort, his character was too well known, and his tongue.
He ordereddéjeunerfor half-past eleven, and then he sat drinking his wine, his virulence, like a sheathed sword, only waiting to be drawn. But no one came to draw it. People entered and spoke to him, but they were all Amiables. There was M. de Duras, rubicund and portly, with whom one could no more quarrel than with a cask of port; there was M. de Jussieu, the botanist and friend of Rousseau, beautifully dressed and carrying a book, his head full of flowers and roots, long Latin terms and platitudes; there was M. de Champfleuri, eighty years old, yet with all his teeth, dressed like a May morning, and fragile-looking as a Dresden china figure. He would damn your soul for the least trifle, but you could not quarrel with him for fear of breaking him. There was Monsieur Müller, who was finding his way in Paris as an exponent—by means of a translator—of the theories of Mesmer. You could not quarrel with him, as he only knew three words of French. There were others equally impossible. Ah! if only M. d’Estouteville had turned up, or Monpavon; Camus or Coigny!
Rochefort turned to the breakfast that was now served to him, and as he ate continued to grumble. If only some of these people whom he hated would come, that he might insult them; if only one of Choiseul’s agents, or even a dozen of them, would cometo arrest him, so that he might fight his way to the door and fight his way out of Paris; but no one came, till—as he was in the middle of his meal—an inconspicuous and quietly-dressed man entered, looked round, saw M. de Rochefort sitting at his breakfast, and came towards him.
It was Lavenne.
Lavenne came up to the table, bowed, and taking an empty chair at the opposite side of the table, sat down.
“Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Lavenne, “I have come to arrest you.”
He spoke with a friendly smile, and in a manner so urbane, and even deferential, that Rochefort was quite disarmed. He broke into a laugh as though someone had told him a good joke, refilled his glass, took a sip, and placed the glass down again.
“Oh, you have come to arrest me, Monsieur Lavenne; good. But where is your sword, and where are your assistants?”
“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I never carry a sword, and I always act single-handed.”
“Ah, you always act single-handed—So do I.Mordieu!Monsieur Lavenne, it is a coincidence.”
“Call it a happy accident, monsieur.”
“As how?”
“Simply because, monsieur, that as I come to do you a service, and to do it single-handed, your thanks will be all mine and I shall not have to divide it with others.”
“Now, upon my faith,” cried Rochefort, laughing and filling a glass with wine, “you have a way of putting things which is entirely new; and what I have observed in you before does not lose in value at all,I assure you, on further acquaintance. May I offer you this glass of wine? To your health—a strange wish enough, as I believe before many minutes are over—as many minutes, in fact, as I take in finishing my breakfast and rising from this table—I shall have the honour of spitting you on my sword.”
“To your health, monsieur,” replied Lavenne, perfectly unmoved and raising the glass to his lips. “One can only do one’s duty, and as it is my duty to arrest you, I must take the risk of your sword, which I believe, monsieur, not to be sharper than your tongue to those who have offended you; a risk which I reckon as slight, inasmuch as I have no intention of offending you.”
“Eh! no intention of offending me, and yet you talk of arrest!”
“That is the fault of our language, monsieur, which compels us sometimes to use words which carry unpleasant meanings to express our thoughts. Now the word Arrest is not a pleasant word, yet in my mouth and used at this table, it is not unpleasant—It means, in fact, Protection.”
“And how?”
“It is necessary for you to leave Paris immediately, monsieur—is that not so?”
“I am going.”
“No, monsieur, you are not. It is absolutely impossible to leave the walls of Paris, and were you by some miracle to do so, Monsieur de Choiseul would place his hand on you before you left France.”
“I will risk it.”
“You cannot—It is not a question of risk, it is a question of certainty. Now, monsieur, you are young,you have forty years more of good life before you, and you are in great danger of losing them.”
“I do not fear death.”
“Everyone knows that, but it is not death that you have to fear at the hands of Monsieur de Choiseul; it is something much worse.”
“And that?”
“La Bastille, monsieur. She is a terrible person, who rarely lets go what she once lays a hold on. You say to yourself, ‘Bah! I will fight my way from Paris, I will escape somehow.’ Well, I tell you, you will not. I will prove it to you. Last night, you ordered a horse to be kept waiting for you at noon to-day a quarter of a mile beyond the Porte St. Antoine.”
“How do you know that?”
“The Hôtel de Sartines knows everything, monsieur—— Well, Monsieur de Sartines would be very happy not to interfere with this way of escape for you, were it not that he knows Monsieur de Choiseul’s plans as well as yours. In short, monsieur, the Porte St. Antoine is guarded so well by Monsieur de Choiseul’s orders, that no one can leave Paris even in disguise; every other gate is guarded as strictly.”
“Diable!” said Rochefort. “It seems, then, that I must convert myself into a bird to fly over the walls.”
“Monsieur de Choiseul would set his falcons on you, monsieur.”
“Into a rat, then, to crawl out through the sewers.”
“The Hôtel de Choiseul contains many cats, monsieur.”
“My faith, that’s true,” cried Rochefort, with a laugh, “since it contains Madame de Choiseul and her friend, Madame la Princesse de Guemenée. Well,then, I must stay in Paris. I will go and live with Monsieur Rousseau and help him to write poetry—or is it music that he writes?”
“Neither, monsieur—but time is passing, and my business is urgent. I am here to arrest you, and I call on you, monsieur, to follow me.”
“And where?—to the Bastille?”
“No, monsieur, to Vincennes, where we will hide you away from Monsieur de Choiseul till this business has blown over, and where you will be treated as a prisoner, but as a gentleman.”
“But were I to fall in with this mad plan of yours, Monsieur Lavenne, I would simply be running down Choiseul’s throat, it seems to me. As the first Minister of France, he will easily find me in Vincennes.”
“No, monsieur, he will not hunt in the prisons for a man whom he fancies to be running on the roads. Monsieur de Sartines, even, will have no official knowledge of your arrest. I am not arresting you under your own name. I have, in fact, mistaken you for one Justin La Porte, a gentleman under suspicion of conspiracy and of being a frequenter of certain political clubs. Should Monsieur de Choiseul, by some ill chance, find you at Vincennes, the whole blame would fall on me. I would be dismissed the service for my ‘mistake.’”
Rochefort, as he listened to all this, began to take counsel with himself. His madness and anger against the world had received a check under the hand of Lavenne. Lavenne was perhaps the only person in the world who had ever called him to order, thwarted his will without raising his anger, and made him think. Lavenne himself, in his person, his manner and hislife was a criticism on Rochefort. This man who never drank—or only sipped half a glass of wine as a matter of ceremony—who belonged to the people, who dressed soberly, and whose life was very evidently one of hard work and devotion to duty, commanded respect just as he commanded confidence. But there was more than that. Lavenne had about him something of Fate, and an Authority beyond even that of the Hôtel de Sartines. One could never imagine this man reasoning wildly or acting foolishly, nor could one very well imagine him allowing a personal motive to rule his line of action. There was something disturbing in his calmness, as though one discerned beneath everything a mechanism moving with the unswerving aim of a mechanism towards the goal appointed by its constructor.
“Even now, monsieur,” continued Lavenne, “you would have Monsieur de Choiseul’s hand upon your shoulder had you not, urged by some good fairy, taken refuge in the very last place where his agents and spies would look for you; they are ransacking the streets, they are posted at the gates, they are all hunting for a man who is running away, and you have outwitted them simply by not running away, but coming to breakfast at the Café de Régence.”
“And yet you found me,” said Rochefort.
“Because, monsieur, I belong to the Hôtel de Sartines, not to the Hôtel de Choiseul.”
“Let us be perfectly clear,” said Rochefort. “The agents of Choiseul are hunting for me, the agents of Sartines are trying to hide me.”
“Not quite so, monsieur: the agents of Choiseul are hunting for you, and all the agents of the Hôtel de Sartines must assist the agents of Choiseul if theyare called upon by them to arrest Monsieur de Rochefort. Butoneagent of the Hôtel de Sartines, that is to say I, myself, is trying to hide Monsieur de Rochefort, and he is doing so at the instigation of Monsieur de Sartines.”
“I see,” said Rochefort. “The matter is of such a delicate nature, that Sartines dare not give a general order to his police to thwart Choiseul’s men and to hide me, so he entrusts it to one man, and that man is Monsieur Lavenne.”
“Precisely, monsieur. You have put the whole thing in a nutshell.”
“Well, Monsieur Lavenne, the last time I played chess, it was with Monsieur de Gondy. I was stalemated by the move of a bishop. To-day, playing chess with Monsieur de Sartines, I am stalemated by the move of a knight. You are the knight, Monsieur Lavenne. You have closed in on me and shown me my position, and I do not kick the board over in a temper, simply because you have come to me as a gentleman comes to a gentleman, and spoken to me as a gentleman speaks to a gentleman. I cannot move, it seems, without being taken by either you or Choiseul. I prefer you to Choiseul, not so much because you offer me Vincennes in exchange for La Bastille, but because you are the better gentleman. Monsieur Lavenne, I place myself and my sword in your hands. Arrest me.”
He rose from the table, flung a louis on the cloth to pay his score. Then, taking his hat, he left the café with his captor.
In this fashion did de Sartines rope in and tame without resistance a man whose capture, by Choiseul, might have involved his—Sartines’—destruction. For Rochefort, angry with the Dubarrys and incensedagainst Camille Fontrailles, was now the danger spot in the surroundings of the Minister of Police, Rochefort and Ferminard—who was already in the safe custody of Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes.
LAVENNE left the café, followed by Rochefort. They passed down the street to the corner, where, drawn up at the pavement, stood a closed carriage.
“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “this is a police carriage, and as such will be able to leave the Porte St. Antoine—which, as you know, is the gate leading to Vincennes—without question or examination.”
“So I am to make my escape from the Bastille in a police carriage,” laughed Rochefort. “Well, let us enter.”
“Pardon me, monsieur, but I cannot go with you. I have to go to your rooms and make a perquisition, an examination for papers, and so on. Were I not to do this in person, it would be done by some fool, perhaps, who might find undesirable things and talk, or play in some other way into the hands of Monsieur de Choiseul. As for me, you may trust that I will respect all your private correspondence.”
“It is all burnt, my dear Monsieur Lavenne. However, make what search you will. But am I to go alone to Vincennes—and what shall I say to this charming governor you spoke of?”
“No, monsieur, you are to go under strict arrest and masked. Captain Roux is in the carriage; he is ratherdull-witted, but has no tongue, so he will not bore you.”
“And will I see you at Vincennes?”
“Possibly, monsieur. And now let me say at once that my advice to you is patience. I do not hide at all from you, monsieur, that I am your friend. That morning when you invited me to drink wine with you whilst you breakfasted, showed me a gentleman, whom I am delighted to be of service to, always remembering that my first services are due to Monsieur de Sartines, my master. I will look after your interests whilst not disregarding his. And now, monsieur, into the carriage, quick, for delay is full of danger here in the open street.”
“I thank you,” said Rochefort, “I have absolute confidence in all you do and say. Well,au revoir, Monsieur Lavenne, and now for the acquaintance of Monsieur le Capitaine Roux.”
He entered the carriage, the door of which Lavenne had opened.
“Captain Roux,” said Lavenne, “this is the prisoner, La Porte. Whilst using him as a gentleman, keep him strictly guarded; and, above all, let no man see his face till he is safely at Vincennes. You have the mask. Monsieur La Porte will not object to your putting it upon him for the journey.”
He shut the door and called to the driver, “Vincennes.”
Rochefort, face to face with the redoubtable Captain Roux, broke into a laugh, which found no echo from the other.
Roux was a stout man who never laughed, an earnest-minded machine, if I may be allowed the term; he had also, to use Lavenne’s expression, no tongue. The genius of de Sartines was never better shown than inhis selection of these two men for the arrest of Rochefort—Lavenne to persuade him to accept arrest and be conveyed to Vincennes, Roux to convey him.
“Well, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Rochefort, as the carriage started, “it seems that we are to make a little journey together.”
“Monsieur,” replied the other, “I wish to be in every way agreeable to you and so fulfil my orders in that respect, but I am forbidden to talk to you.”
“And yet you are talking to me, my dear sir.”
“I was only making a statement of my orders, monsieur. And now, if you will permit me, this is the mask.”
Rochefort took the grey silk mask and examined it, then, with a laugh, he put it on. It was fixed with strings which tied behind the head, and he had good reason to thank de Sartines’ forethought in supplying it; for at the Porte St. Antoine, when the carriage stopped for a moment, one of the guards, despite the warning of the coachman, pushed aside the curtain of the window and popped his head in.
“Whom have we here?” said he.
Roux, in reply, struck the man a blow on the face with his clenched fist.
Then, leaning out of the window, he talked to the guards. He asked them did they not know a carriage of the Hôtel de Sartines when they saw it, and spoke to them about their intelligence, questioned their ancestry and ordered the arrest of the unfortunate, whose nose was streaming blood. Then he sank back, and the carriage drove on.
“Ah, monsieur,” cried the delighted Rochefort, from behind his mask, “I have never heard anything quite like that before. I would give the liberty which I donot possess to be able to curse like that—and they said you had no tongue! Tell me, was it by training you arrived at this perfection, or was it a natural gift?”
“Monsieur,” said Roux, “I am forbidden to speak to you.”
The carriage rolled on, leaving the old Hôtel of the Black Musketeers on the right, and the Bastille and the Porte St. Antoine safely behind. Rochefort, seated beside his silent companion, said nothing more, at least with his tongue. The silence of Captain Roux might be a check to conversation, but it lent itself completely to that form of mental conversation which Villon has so well exemplified in the Debate between his heart and body.
Commonsense and M. de Rochefort were having a few words together, and commonsense was doing most of the talking.
“Well, Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Commonsense, “and here we are in a police carriage, at last, being driven to his Majesty’s fortress of Vincennes; and all on account of Politics—that is to say, a woman. You have known a hundred women, yet they have never succeeded in dragging you into Politics. How did this one manage it? You lost your heart to her. That is precisely what happened, and now you have lost your liberty as well as your heart; next thing, you will lose your estates, then you will take this Choiseul by the neck and strangle him, and then you will lose your head—and all through a woman.
“You have made a fool of yourself, Monsieur de Rochefort. Yesterday, you were free as a butterfly, the whole world lay before you, you did not know the meaning of the word Liberty. Well, you are to learn the meaning of that word, and the lesson promises tobe a curious one. You are not Choiseul’s prisoner, you are not Sartines’ prisoner, you are not even yourself. You are Monsieur La Porte, and you are being tucked away in Vincennes, hidden, just as a man might hide an incriminating letter in a desk. Why is Sartines so anxious to hide you? Is it not that he fears that you may be found, and if this fear does not fade away in his mind, it is quite on the cards that you may never be found.
“And you can do nothing as yet, only wait. Monsieur Lavenne is your friend, and it seems to me he is the only friend you have got in the world.”
Commonsense is sometimes wrong, as in this instance.
It had forgotten Javotte.
Rochefort was aroused from his reverie by the stoppage of the carriage. They had arrived at the main gate of Vincennes. The great fortress towered above them, the battlements cutting the sky and showing the silhouette of a passing sentry against the free blue of heaven.
Rochefort heard the harsh voices of the guards interrogating the coachman. Then the carriage passed on, rumbling across the drawbridge, and drew up in the courtyard before the door of the entrance for prisoners.
Rochefort got out and, following Captain Roux and being followed in turn by a soldier, passed through the doorway down a corridor to the reception-room. This was a bleak and formal place, the old guard-room of the fortress, where the stands for pikes still remained and the slings for arquebuses; but of pikes and pikemen, arquebuses or arbalètes, nothing now remained, their places being taken by desks, books and manuscripts, anda clerk dry as parchment, who was seated behind one of the desks, and who, having entered all particulars in a book, handed Captain Roux a receipt for Monsieur de Rochefort, as though that gentleman had been a bundle of goods.
Roux, having put the receipt in his belt, turned on his heel and, without a word, left the room. Rochefort, left alone with the clerk and the soldier, turned to the clerk.
“Well, monsieur,” said Rochefort, “it seems to me that Monsieur le Capitaine Roux has left his good manners with his tongue at the Hôtel de Sartines; and he is in such a hurry back to find them that he has forgotten to introduce us properly. I do not even know your name.”
The clerk wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to the soldier.
“Come, monsieur,” said the soldier, touching Rochefort on the arm.
“Monsieur,” said Rochefort, still addressing the clerk, “there is a mistake somewhere.”
“In what way?”
“In this way, monsieur. When I consented to come here as the guest of Monsieur de Sartines, I did so on the understanding that I was to be treated as a gentleman. I demand to see Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes.”
“He is absent.”
“When does he return?”
“Monsieur,” said the clerk, “it is not for a prisoner to ask questions.”
“But it is for a clerk to reply.Mordieu!it seems to me you do not know to whom you are talking. Come, your master, when does he return?”
The man of parchment half rose from his chair. Then he sat down again. He had, in fact, a special despatch from Sartines on his table giving instructions as to Rochefort’s treatment. He swallowed his anger, and took a different tone.
“The governor of Vincennes returns this evening; he will be informed that you wish to see him. And now, monsieur, our interview is ended. I am busy.”
“Good,” said Rochefort, turning on his heel. Following the soldier, he left the room.
This same soldier was the gaoler on duty by day, whose business it was to receive prisoners, accompany them before the governor or clerk, and then to see them safely incarcerated according to the orders of the governor. Vincennes was much more of a military prison than the Bastille. Soldiers were the gaolers, and the day went to the roll of drums and the blare of bugles, rather than to the clang of bells. Vincennes was more cheerful than the Bastille, but was reckoned less healthy. Madame de Rambouillet it was who said that the cell in which Marshal Ornano died was worth its weight in arsenic; yet of the two prisons, Vincennes was preferable, if there can be such a thing as choice between prisons.
Rochefort followed his guide down the corridor, and then up a circular stone staircase to the floor above. Here they passed down another corridor, till they reached a door on the right which the sergeant opened, disclosing a room, barely furnished, yet not altogether cheerless.
The grated window gave a sweeping view of the country; to the left, pressing one’s nose against the glass, one could get a glimpse of the outskirts of Paris; immediately below lay the castle moat, and runningpast the moat, the Paris road bordered with poplar trees.
Rochefort went to the window and looked out, whilst Sergeant Bonvallot, for that was the name of his guardian, dismissed the soldier who had followed them, closed the door, and began to make arrangements for the comfort of his visitor.
He inspected the water-pitcher to see if it were filled, the bed coverings to see if they were thick enough, and the sheets to see if they were clean. He knew perfectly well that all was in order, but Rochefort had the appearance of a man who would pay for little attentions, and they were cheap.
“There, monsieur,” said Bonvallot, when he had finished, “I have made you as comfortable as I can. Your dinner will be served at five o’clock, your supper at nine, and should you feel cold a fire is permitted, also writing materials, should you need them—but for those you will have to pay.”
Rochefort turned from the window and contemplated his gaoler fully, and for the first time.
Bonvallot was a large man, with small eyes and a face that suggested good-humour. He would have made a capital innkeeper.
“Why, upon my word,” said Rochefort, who knew at once how to tackle his man, “you seem to me an admirable fellow. My own servant could not have done better, and when I come to leave here, you will not have cause to regret your efforts on my behalf. Your name?”
“Bonvallot, monsieur.”
“Well, Monsieur Bonvallot, here is a half louis to drink my health, and when my dinner is served, let me have a bottle of your best Beaune, and a fire, certainly,there is no companion like a fire, and as for writing materials, we will see about that to-morrow. Should there be any books in this old inn of yours, Monsieur Bonvallot, you may bring them to me. I am not a great reader, but who knows what one may become with so much time on one’s hands, as it is likely I may have here—Is your inn pretty full?”
“Fairly so, monsieur,” replied Bonvallot, falling into the vein of the other. “Though no guests have arrived for some days, still, those who are here remain a long time.”
“Ah! they could not pay any better compliment to the house. Am I alone on this corridor?”
“No, monsieur, in the room next to yours there is another guest.Ma foi!he is not difficult to feed either; he seems to live on pens, ink and paper.”
“He must suffer from indigestion, this guest of yours.”
“I do not know what he suffers from, monsieur, but this I do know: when I bring him his food he makes me listen to what he has written, which I cannot understand in the least.”
“Ah, he must be a philosopher, then.”
“I do not know, monsieur. I only know that I do not understand him.”
“Then he is most certainly a philosopher. Well, Monsieur Bonvallot, I will not keep you from your duties. Do not forget the Beaune; and presently, perhaps, you will be able to assist me in getting clean linen and so forth, for I came here in such a hurry, that I forgot to order my valet to pack my valise.”
“We will arrange about that, monsieur,” replied Bonvallot.
He went out, shutting and locking the door, andRochefort was left alone with his thoughts. He walked to the window again and looked out. Then he opened the glass sash. The walls at the openings of these upper windows were bevelled, else each window would have been but the opening of a tunnel six feet long. They were guarded each by a single iron bar, and the glass sash opened inwardly. Rochefort had as yet no idea of flight, and he was, perhaps, the only prisoner who had ever looked through that window without measuring the thickness of the bar, or estimating the height of the window from the ground.
He was quite content with his position for the moment. Lavenne’s words were still ringing in his ears, and Lavenne’s face was still before him. Rochefort had never feared a man in his life, yet Lavenne had brought him almost to the point of fearing Choiseul.
At bottom, M. de Rochefort was not a fool, and he recognized that whilst Life and Death are simply toys for a brave man to play with, imprisonment for life is a thing for the bravest man to dread. Vincennes was saving him from Choiseul, and as he stood at the window whistling a tune of the day, he followed Choiseul with his mind’s eye, Choiseul ransacking Paris, Choiseul posting spies on all the roads, Choiseul urging on the imperturbable and sphinx-like de Sartines, and Sartines receiving Choiseul’s messages without a smile.
He was standing like this, when a voice made him start and turn round.
“Monsieur de Rochefort,” said the voice, which sounded as though the speaker were in the same room as the prisoner.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Rochefort. “Who is that speaking, and where are you?”
“Here, Monsieur de Rochefort, in the next chamberto yours. I heard your voice and recognized it talking to that fat-headed Bonvallot, and I said there must be a hole in the wall somewhere to let a voice come through like that; so I searched for it and found it. The hole is under my bed. A large stone has been removed, evidently by some industrious rat of a prisoner, who never could complete his business. Search for the hole on your side, Monsieur de Rochefort.”
Rochefort pulled his bed out from the wall, and there, surely enough, was a hole about a foot square in the wainscoting. He lay down on his face and tried to look through into the next chamber, but the wall was three feet thick and the head of his interlocutor on the other side blocked the light, so that he could see nothing.
“Here is the hole,” said he, “but I can see nothing. Who are you?”
“Who am I? Did you not recognize my voice?Hé, pardieu, I am Ferminard. Who else would I be?”
“Ferminard! Just heaven! and what on earth are you doing here?”
“Doing here? I am hiding from Monsieur de Choiseul. What else would I be doing here?”
“Hiding from Choiseul! Explain yourself, Monsieur Ferminard.”
“Well, Monsieur Rochefort, it was this way. After that confounded presentation, I had an interview with Monsieur Lavenne, one of Monsieur de Sartines’ agents, and as a result of that interview, I consented to place myself under the protection of Monsieur de Sartines for a short time. You can very well guess, monsieur, the reason why, especially as it was brought to my knowledge that Monsieur de Choiseul had windof my hand in that affair, and was about to search for me.”
“Oho!” said Rochefort. “That is why you are here.”
“Yes, monsieur, and now in return for my confidence, may I ask why you are in the same position and under the same roof?”
“Well, I am here for just the same reason, Monsieur Ferminard.”
“You are hiding from Monsieur de Choiseul.”
“Precisely.”
“Mordieu, that is droll.”
“You think so?”
“It is more than droll. For, see here, Monsieur de Rochefort, we are two prisoners, we neither of us wish to escape, yet we have the means.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Well, monsieur, I have only been here a very short time, yet, being an indefatigable worker, the moment I arrived I demanded writing materials and set to work upon a drama that has long been in my mind. Now it is my habit when working to walk to and fro and to act, as it were, my work even before it is on paper.”
“Yes,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I heard you once; go on.”
“Well, monsieur, I chanced to stamp upon the floor whilst impersonating the character of Raymond, the villain of my piece, and the floor, where I stamped upon it, sounded hollow. ‘Ah ha!’ said I, ‘what is this?’ I found a flag loose and raised it, and what did I find there but a hole.”
“Yes?”
“And in the hole, a knotted rope some forty feet long, a staple, and a big sou.”
“Ma foi!But what do you mean by a big sou?”
“Why, monsieur, a big sou is a sou that has been split in two pieces and hollowed out, then a thread is made round the edges so that the two halves can be screwed together, so as to form a little box.”
“And what can be held in a box so small?”
“A saw, monsieur, made from a watch-spring, a little thing enough, but able to cut through the thickest bar of iron.”
“And does your big sou hold such a saw?”
“It does, monsieur.”
“Ciel!what a marvel, what industry; and to think that some poor devil of a prisoner made all that, and got his rope ready, and then perhaps died or was removed before he could use it!”
“Yes, monsieur, he had everything ready. The thing is a little tragedy in itself, and is even completed by this hole.”
Rochefort laughed.
“And how can a hole complete a tragedy, Monsieur Ferminard?”
“Why, quite simply, Monsieur de Rochefort. The window in this chamber is too narrow to permit the passage of a man’s body, so, doubtless, the prisoner was anxious to reach your chamber. Of what dimensions is your window?”
“Large enough to get through for an ordinary-sized man.”
“There, you see that the unfortunate was justified, and we may even say that the unfortunate must have had some knowledge of your chamber and the dimensions of your window. Well, Monsieur de Rochefort, his labour was not all lost, for though neither of us wish to escape, we both wish to talk to the other. Wewill have much pleasant conversation together, you and I. Up to this, I have had no one to speak to but that fat-head of a Bonvallot, a man absolutely destitute of parts, who does not know the difference, it seems to me, between a tragedy and a comedy, and to whom a strophe of poetry and the creaking of a cart-wheel amount to the same thing.”
“I assure you, Monsieur Ferminard, the good Bonvallot and I are much in the same case. I know nothing about poetry, and I cannot tell a stage-play from a washing-bill. So in whatever conversations we have together, let us talk of anything but the theatre.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur de Rochefort, since you confess yourself ignorant of one of the most sublime branches of art, it will be my pleasure to open for you the doors of a Paradise where all may enter, so be that they are properly led. But, hush! I hear a sound in the corridor. Replace your bed.”
Rochefort rose to his feet and replaced the bed. Scarcely had he done so, when the door opened, and Bonvallot appeared, bearing some clean linen, two towels, and some toilet necessaries.
“Here, monsieur,” said Bonvallot, “are several shirts new laundered, and other articles, which I have scraped together for your comfort. Half a louis will pay for them.”
“Thanks, put them on the bed; and now tell me, which of the guests of your precious inn occupied my chamber last.”
“Why, monsieur, this chamber has not had a tenant for two years and a half. Then it was occupied by Monsieur de Thumery.”
“And what became of Monsieur de Thumery?”
“He was removed to the next chamber, monsieur.”
“Ah, and is he there still?”
“No, monsieur, he died a month ago.”
“What sort of man was he, this Monsieur de Thumery?”
“A very delicate man, monsieur, and very pious—one who scarcely ever spoke.”
“He never tried to escape, I suppose.”
“Oh,mon Dieu!no, Monsieur, he was as gentle as a lamb. He did nothing but read the lives of the saints.”
“Thank you, and here is your half louis. And what is that book on the bed?”
“Why, I brought it with the clothes, monsieur, as you said you wished for books. It belonged to Monsieur de Thumery. It is not much, some religious book or other—still, it is a book.”
He went off, and Rochefort picked up M. de Thumery’s religious book. It was the works of François Rabelais, printed by Tollard of the Rue de la Harpe, in the year 1723.
MEANWHILE, Lavenne, having watched the carriage containing Rochefort and Captain Roux taking its departure, turned and took his way to Rochefort’s rooms in the Rue de Longueville. The Rochefort affair was only an incident in his busy profession, yet whilst he was upon it, it held his whole life and ambition in life. He was made in such a manner, that the moment filled all his purview without blinding him. He could see the moment, yet he could also see consequences—that is to say, the future, and causes—that is to say, the past.
In his seven years’ work under Sartines, he had learned the fact that these social and political cases like that of Rochefort almost invariably produce, or are allied to, other cases, either engaging or soon to engage the attention of the police. Even in the spacious Court of France, people were too tightly packed for one to move in an eccentric manner without producing far-reaching disturbances, and he was soon to prove this fact in the case of M. de Rochefort.
Having reached Rochefort’s house, he was admitted by the concierge. He passed upstairs to the rooms occupied by the Count, ordered the valet to take his place on the stairs, and should any callers arrive, to showthem up. Then, having shown his credentials as an agent of the Hôtel de Sartines, he began his perquisition.
There was nothing to find and he expected nothing, yet he proceeded on his business with the utmost care and the most painstaking minuteness.
In the middle of his work, he was interrupted by the valet, who knocked at the door.
“Monsieur,” said the valet, “there is a young girl who has called. She is waiting outside.”
“Ah, she is waiting—well, show her in.”
The man disappeared, and returned in a moment ushering in Javotte.
Lavenne looked up from some papers which he was examining. Javotte’s appearance rather astonished him. Young, fresh, and evidently respectable, he could not for a moment place her among possible visitors to Rochefort. Then it occurred to him that she might be the maid of some society woman sent with a message, and, without rising from his seat, he pointed to a chair.
“What is your business here, mademoiselle?” asked Lavenne.
“My business, monsieur, is to pay the last month’s wages of Monsieur de Rochefort’s valet. I have the money here with me. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“You are addressing an agent of the Hôtel de Sartines. Place the money on the table, mademoiselle, and it shall be handed to the valet. And now a moment’s conversation with you, please. Who, may I ask, entrusted you with this commission?”
“Monsieur,” replied Javotte, “that is my business entirely.”
Lavenne leaned back in his chair.
“Mademoiselle, I am going to ask you a question. Are you a friend of Monsieur de Rochefort?”
“Indeed, I am, monsieur.”
“Well, then, if you are a friend of his, I may tell you that I also am his friend, though I am, at the present moment, making an examination of his effects. So in his interests please be frank with me.”
Javotte looked at the quiet and self-contained man before her. Youth and Innocence, those two great geniuses, proclaimed him trustworthy, and she cast away her reserve.
“Well, monsieur, what do you want me to say?”
“Just this, I want you to tell me what you know of this gentleman. What you say may not be worth adenierto me, or it may be useful. You need say, moreover, nothing to his disadvantage, if you choose. Well?”
“I know nothing to his disadvantage, monsieur. He is the bravest man in the world, the most kind, and he saved me but the other night from two men who would have done me an injury——” Then catching fire, she told volubly the whole story of the occurrence on the night of the Duc de Choiseul’s ball.
Lavenne listened attentively.
Sartines had already given him Camus’ story of the killing of Choiseul’s agent. Javotte was now giving him the true story. He instantly saw the facts of the case, and the character of Camus.
“And you say, mademoiselle, that Monsieur de Rochefort, returning from the chase of those ruffians, one of whom he killed, by the way, found Monsieur Camus offering you an insult and struck him to theground. Did Monsieur Camus not resent that action?”
“Monsieur, he did nothing, but he turned when he was going away and shook his finger at Monsieur de Rochefort.”
“Well, Mademoiselle Javotte, one question more: on whose service were you carrying that letter of which the robbers wished to relieve you? Speak without fear, whatever you say will do Monsieur de Rochefort no harm.”
“Monsieur, it was a letter addressed to Madame Dubarry.”
“Ah ha! That is all I wish to know. Well, say nothing of all this to anyone else, and should you have anything more to communicate to me, come to my private address, No. 10, Rue Picpus; ask for Monsieur Lavenne. That is my name. And remember this, as far as it is in my power, I am the friend of Monsieur de Rochefort.”
“Thank you, monsieur—and may I ask one question? Do you know where Monsieur de Rochefort is now, and is he safe?”
“I cannot tell you where he is, but I believe he is safe. In fact, I may be as frank with you as you have been with me, and say he is safe.”
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“One moment,” said Lavenne, as she rose to go. “May I ask your address, should I by any possibility need it?”
“I am in the service of Mademoiselle Fontrailles, monsieur.”
“Ah, you are in the service of Mademoiselle Fontrailles. Well, Mademoiselle Javotte, say nothing to anyone of our meeting, say nothing of our conversation,say nothing of Monsieur de Rochefort; but keep your eyes and ears open, and if you wish to serve Monsieur de Rochefort, let me have any news you may be able to bring me concerning him.”
“Now, I will swear that girl is in love with the Count,” said Lavenne to himself, when she had departed, “and the Count, according to my master, is in love with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who has the reputation of being incapable of love. Mademoiselle Fontrailles is a bosom friend of Madame Dubarry, and Madame Dubarry’s letter it was which caused the agents of Monsieur de Choiseul to attack Mademoiselle Javotte, and Monsieur de Rochefort to kill one of those precious agents. Mademoiselle Javotte has already proved to me that Monsieur le Comte Camus has lied in giving his evidence against Monsieur de Rochefort. The case widens, like those circles that form when one throws a stone into a pond. Well, let it continue to widen, and we will see what we will see.”
He finished his examination of Rochefort’s rooms, paid the valet off, locked the place up and started for the Hôtel de Sartines.
Monsieur de Sartines was seated in the octagon chamber on the first floor; he was busy writing at the famous bureau of a hundred drawers, which contained in its recesses half the secrets of France, and which had belonged to his predecessor, Monsieur D’Ombreval.
He looked up when Lavenne was announced, finished the letter on which he was engaged, and then turned to the agent.
“Well,” said de Sartines, “what about Monsieur de Rochefort?”
“He is at Vincennes by this time, monsieur. The affair was a little difficult, but I made him see reason,and he made no objection to accompanying Captain Roux. I have examined his rooms and found nothing. I have also discovered that the evidence given against him by Count Camus is far from being truthful.”
He told of Javotte and her story in a few words.
“Quite so,” replied Sartines; “and you know perfectly well that it does not matter a button whether this agent was killed by foul or fair play, or whether Count Camus has lied or not. The case is just as bad against Monsieur Rochefort from Monsieur de Choiseul’s point of view, and that is everything. No matter, we have Rochefort in safe keeping.
“Now to another business. Prepare to start at once for Versailles. You will inquire into the poisoning of this dog, which has given me more trouble and annoyance than the poisoning of Monsieur de Choiseul himself would have given me. I have inquired into it personally. I have put Valjean on the affair; the matter is as dark as ever, so just see what you can make of it. Here are all the papers relating to the business, reports and so forth, study them on the way and use expedition.”
“Monsieur will give me a free hand in the matter?”
“Absolutely. And here is a thousand francs in gold; you may need money. Order a carriage for the journey, and tell them not to spare the horses. I am in a hurry for your report, find wings; but, above all, find the criminal.”
“Yes, monsieur. It will be a difficult matter. The poisoning of a man is a simple affair, the evidence simply shouts round it for the person who has ears to hear. A dog is different. But I will find the criminal—unless——”
“Unless?”
“Unless, monsieur, the dog poisoned itself by eating some garbage.”
“Oh, no. Atalanta was very delicate in her feeding. No, it was the work of some scoundrel, of that I am sure.”
“Well, monsieur, we will see,” said Lavenne.
He bowed to the Minister of Police, and left the room.