On the way he passed Camus, who, with his wife, was speaking to the Comte d’Harcourt. Madame Camus was rather plain, older than her husband, and afflicted with a slight limp—an impediment in her walk, to quote M. de Richelieu. Camus’ marriage with this woman was a mystery. She was the third daughter of the Comte de Grigny, who owned a château in Touraine, and little else, if we except numerous debts. She was plain, without dowry, and had a limp. It may have been the comment of Froissart on womenso affected, or that her plainness appealed to him in some curious way; the fact remained that Camus had married her, and—so people said—was heartily sick of his bargain.
The Hall of Mirrors gave one eyes at the back of one’s head; and Camus, though his back was half-turned to Rochefort, saw his mirrored reflection approach and pass; but he did not take the slightest notice of his enemy, continuing his conversation, whilst Rochefort passed on towards the wide-open door of the Salon of Presentations.
Rochefort was one of those implacable men who never apologize, even if they are in the wrong. Camus had been his friend, or, at least, a very close acquaintance, and he had struck Camus in the face. If Camus did not choose to wipe out the insult it was no affair of Rochefort’s. He was ready to fight. He was not angry now with Camus; his attitude of mind was entirely one of contempt, and he passed on haughtily to the Hall of Presentations, where he soon found enough to distract his attention from personal matters.
The Hall of Presentations—vast, lit by a thousand lights—gave to the eye a picture of magnificence and splendour sufficient to quell even the most daring imagination. The Escalier des Ambassadeurs had been thronged, the corridors and the Hall of Mirrors crowded; but here, so wide was the floor, so lofty the painted ceiling, that the idea “crowd” vanished, or at least became subordinated to the idea of magnificence. One would not dream of associating the word “solemnity” with the word “butterfly”; yet, could one see the congregation of a million butterflies, variegated and gorgeous, drawn from all quarters of the earth towards one great festival, the word “solemnity” on the lips of the gazer might not be out of place.
So, to-night, at Versailles, all these butterflies of the social world of France—coloured, jewelled, beautiful—filling the vast Salon of Presentations with a moving picture, brilliant as a painting by Diaz, all these men and women, individually insignificant, produced by their setting and congregation that effect of solemnity which Versailles alone could produce from the frivolous.
That was, in fact, the calculated effect of Versailles; to give thefainéantthe value of the strenuous, the trivial the virtue of the vital; to give great echoes to the sound of a name, to raise the usher on the shoulders of the Suisse, the grand master of the ceremonies on the shoulders of the usher, the noble on the shoulders of the grand master of the ceremonies, and the King on the shoulders of the noble. A towering structure, as absurd, when viewed philosophically, as a pyramid of satin-breeched monkeys, but beautiful, gorgeous, solemn under the alchemy of Versailles.
The great clock of the Hall of Presentations pointed to ten minutes to ten. The King had not appeared yet, nor would he do so till the stroke of the hour.
The presentation was fixed for ten. Rochefort knew everybody, and the man who knows everybody knows nobody. That was Rochefort’s position at the Court of Versailles; he belonged to no faction, and so had no especial enemies—or friends. He did not fear enemies, nor did he want friends. Outside the Court, in Paris, he had several trusty ones who would have let themselves be cut in pieces for him; they were sufficient for him, for it was a maxim of his life that out of all the people a man knows, he will be luckyif he numbers two who are disinterested. He did not invent this maxim. Experience had taught it to him.
He passed now from group to group, nodding to this person and talking to that; and everywhere he found an air of inattention, an atmosphere of restlessness, such as may be noticed among people who are awaiting some momentous decision.
They were, in fact, awaiting the decision of Fate as to the presentation of the Dubarry. Among the majority of the courtiers nothing was definitely known, but a great deal was suspected. Rumours had gone about that it was now absolutely certain that the presentation would not take place, and all these rumours had come, funnily enough, not from the Choiseuls, but from the Vicomte Jean. The Choiseul faction, or rather the head centre of it, said nothing; for them the thing was assured. They had robbed the Comtesse, not only of her dress, her coiffeur and her carriage, but of her sponsor.
Camus, who had stolen the carriage, had followed Rochefort into the Hall of Presentations, and was now speaking to Coigny, Choiseul’s right-hand man. Coigny, who when he saw Camus had experienced a shock of surprise at seeing him so early, interrupted him.
“The carriage?”
“It is quite safe,” replied Camus. “The deed is accomplished.”
“But how are you here so soon?”
“Oh,ma foi!” said Camus, “am I a tortoise? Having placed the thing in the coach-house of a well-trusted friend, I went home, dressed, and came on here.”
“Ah, but suppose this well-trusted friend of yourswere to betray you at the last moment, harness his horses to the precious carriage, and drive it to the Rue de Valois?”
Camus laughed. “Can you drive a carriage without wheels? It took seventeen minutes only to remove the wheels and make firewood of them with a sharp axe, to knock the windows to pieces, strip out the linings, and rip to pieces the cushions. If the Dubarry drives to Versailles in that carriage—well, my friend, all I can say is, the vehicle will match her reputation.”
“Thanks!” said Coigny. “You have worked well, and you have Choiseul’s thanks.” He moved away, drawn by the sight of another of his confederates who had just appeared.
It was the Marquis Monpavon, twenty years of age, cool, insolent, a bully and scamp of the first water, with a smooth, puerile, egg-shaped face that made respectable fingers itch to smack it.
“The dressmaker?” said Coigny.
“She was charming,” replied Monpavon. “I have quite lost my heart to her. I have made an arrangement to meet her to-morrow evening at the corner of the Rue Picpus.”
“But the dress?”
“What dress?”
“The Dubarry’s! Good God! You did not forget about the dress?”
“No,” replied Monpavon. “I did not forget about the dress. The next time you see that dress will be on a mermaid in the Morgue. It is now in the Seine. What’s more, it is in a sack, which also encloses a few stones.”
“Thanks, Monpavon. I will tell Choiseul.” He hurried away, attracted by another new-comer. Thistime it was Monsieur d’Estouteville, an exquisite, who seemed to have no bones, so indolently did he carry himself.
“The coiffeur?” asked Coigny, in a low voice, as he ranged alongside of this person. “What have you done with him?”
“He is safe,” replied d’Estouteville.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“But, heavens! Did you not undertake to have him guarded? Yet you do not know where he is?”
“I only know that he is in Paris somewhere. My dear Coigny, I could have given him no better guardian than the guardian he has chosen for himself—drink.”
“Oh, you made him drunk!”
“Oh, no. It was a happy accident. It was this way. I had him brought to my house on an urgent summons. He was shown into a room where some wine was set out, quite by accident, and when I came to interview him with a purse full of gold for his seduction, I found he had been at the wine. He was talkative and flushed. Now, said I to myself, why should I pay five thousand francs for what I can obtain for a bottle of wine or two? So I ordered up some Rousillon, and made him drunk.”
“Ah!”
“He quite forgot that he was a hairdresser at the end of the first bottle; before he had finished the second, he grew quarrelsome, and would have drawn his sword.AThen he fell asleep, and my servants took him and laid him out by the wall that borders the Cemetery of the Innocents. It was then half-past sixo’clock. No man, not even his Majesty’s physician, could turn him into a hairdresser again before to-morrow morning. So, you see, by a stroke of luck I saved five thousand francs, and avoided the implication in this affair that a bribe given to a barber might have occasioned all of us.”
“Good!” said Coigny. He knew quite well that the apparently boneless d’Estouteville was one of the elect of chicanery, was as good a swordsman almost as Beauregard, and could outslang a fish-fag on the Petit Pont were he called to the test; but he had not expected such a brilliant piece of work as this. “Good. I will tell Choiseul that story. By the way, you are expected in his private apartments after this affair is over. You will not find him ungenerous, I think. Tell Monpavon and the others that they are expected also.”
He walked away to where the Duc de Choiseul was standing, talking to some gentleman. It was now after ten, and the King had not yet appeared, though the hour for the presentation had arrived. He drew the Minister aside, and informed him of the reports he had just received from d’Estouteville, Monpavon and Camus; and Choiseul was in the act of congratulating him when the whole brilliant assemblage turned as if touched by a magician’s wand; conversation died away, and silence fell upon the Chamber of Presentations.
The King had entered by the door leading from his apartments. He wore the Order of the Golden Fleece. Glancing from right to left, he advanced, followed by his suite, till, seeing Choiseul, he paused whilst the Minister advanced, bowing before him.
Choiseul saw that his Majesty was in a temper.He knew quite well that the King had made his appearance thus late, not because of laziness or indifference, but simply because he had been waiting the arrival of Madame Dubarry. The King, in fact, had been kept informed of all the guests who had arrived. Ten o’clock was the hour for the presentation, and now at a quarter past ten, his Majesty, never patient of delay, had left his apartments to seek the truth for himself.
“The Comtesse is late, Choiseul,” said the King.
“The journey from Paris is a long one, Sire,” replied the Minister, “and some delay might have occurred on the way.”
“Or some accident,” said the King. “Well, Choiseul, should some accident have happened to the poor Comtesse upon the road, we shall inquire into the cause of it, and I shall place the matter in your hands to find out and to punish, if necessary. But should the accident have happened in Paris, our Minister of Police will take the matter in his hands. Ah, there is de Sartines. Sartines, it seems that the Comtesse is late.”
“Yes, Sire,” replied the Minister of Police. “The carriage may have been delayed by the crowds that throng the Paris roads. But she will arrive in safety, if I am not much mistaken, before the half-hour has struck.”
Choiseul smiled inwardly, and those members of the Choiseul faction who were within earshot of this conversation glanced at one another. The half-hour struck, and Choiseul, freed from his Majesty, who had passed on, turned to de Sartines.
“Well, monsieur,” said Choiseul, “it seems that the clock has declared you a false prophet.”
“Monsieur,” replied de Sartines, looking at his watch, “the clock of the Chamber of Presentations, as you ought very well to know, is always kept five minutes in advance of the hour, by an order given by his late Majesty to Noirmont, the keeper of the clocks of the Palace of Versailles. It is now twenty-four and a half minutes past ten. Ah! what is this?”
A hush had fallen on the assembly; around the door leading to the corridor of entrance the people had drawn back as the waves of the Red Sea drew back before the rod of Moses.
The usher had appeared. He stood rigid as a statue, his profile to the room, then turning and fronting the great assembly and the lake of parquet floor where his Majesty stood in sudden and splendid isolation, he grounded the butt of his wand, and announced to the grand master of the ceremonies:
“The Comtesse Dubarry. The Comtesse de Béarn.”
Never had Madame Dubarry looked more beautiful than now, as she advanced, led by this lady of the oldrégime—stiff, as though awakened from some tomb of the past; proud, as though she carried with her the memory of the Austrian; remote from the present day as the wars of the Fronde and the beauty of Madame de Chevreuse. It was the youth and age of France; and de Sartines, gazing at Madame de Béarn as one gazes at a great actor, murmured to Himself:
“What a masterpiece!”
THE presentation was over. The Choiseuls were defeated. Madame Dubarry was passing hither and thither, speaking to this one and that, and poisoning her enemies with her sweetest smiles. The King was delighted; and Choiseul, devouring his own heart, was kissing the favourite’s hand. Smiles, smiles everywhere, and poisonous hatred so wonderfully masked that the washerwoman to the Duc d’Aiguillon might have thought herself the best-loved woman in France.
And Madame de Béarn? Madame de Béarn had vanished. Sartines had enveloped her in a cloud, and escorted her to her carriage; she had injured her leg that day, and required rest; she had braved pain and discomfort to obey the wish of his Majesty.
The Dubarry had triumphed, and they were paying their court to her. Rochefort, who had been following the whole proceedings of the evening with an interest which he had rarely experienced before in his life, approached de Sartines, who had just returned from escorting Madame de Béarn to her carriage; with that lightness of heart with which men sometimes approach their fate, he drew the Minister of Police a bit to one side.
“And Ferminard?” said he.
“Pardon me,” said de Sartines, “I do not understand your meaning. What about Ferminard?”
“Oh,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I was only intending to compliment you on having discovered so consummate an actor.”
The other said nothing for a moment. Then he said, speaking slowly and in a voice so low that it was only just audible to his companion:
“Rochefort, by accident you have been drawn into a little conspiracy of the Court; by luck you are able to escape from it if you choose to hold your tongue for ever on what you have seen and heard. You imagine that Ferminard came here to-night and laid his genius at the feet of Madame la Comtesse by acting for her the part of Madame de Béarn. All I can say is, imagine what you please, but say nothing; for, mark you, should anything of this be spoken of by you, friend though I am to you, my hand would fall automatically on you, and the future of M. de Rochefort would be four blank walls.”
“You threaten?” said Rochefort haughtily.
“Monsieur, I never threaten; I only advise. You have acted well in this affair; act still better by forgetting it all. And now that it is over, I am deputed to hand you your reward.”
“My reward!”
Sartines took a little note from his pocket and handed it to Rochefort, who opened it and read:
“You will not receive this until and unless all is successful. In that case I wish to thank you both in my own name and that of the dear Comtesse. The presentation will be over by eleven, at which time thisnote will be handed to you. Should you care to receive my thanks, you can reach Paris by midnight. I live at No. 9, Rue St. Dominic, and my door will be opened to you should you knock to receive my thanks.“Camille Fontrailles.”
“You will not receive this until and unless all is successful. In that case I wish to thank you both in my own name and that of the dear Comtesse. The presentation will be over by eleven, at which time thisnote will be handed to you. Should you care to receive my thanks, you can reach Paris by midnight. I live at No. 9, Rue St. Dominic, and my door will be opened to you should you knock to receive my thanks.
“Camille Fontrailles.”
Rochefort stood for a moment with this note in his hand. She had been thinking of him; she had guessed his feelings towards her; and she in her turn loved him!
He glanced at the clock. It pointed to half-past eleven. A swift horse would take him in less than an hour to Paris. He turned to the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Sartines.
“To Paris, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, with a bow.
AT a quarter past eleven, that is to say, a quarter of an hour before Rochefort received the note from Mademoiselle Fontrailles, Choiseul, who had kissed the hand of the Dubarry, congratulated her on her dress, compared her to a rose in an epigram that had the appearance of being absolutely new, and watched her vanishing with his Majesty triumphantly towards the apartments lately occupied by the Princess Adélaïde, and now occupied by the favourite—at a quarter past eleven, Choiseul, furious under his mask of calm, turned towards his own apartments.
The fixed smile on his face never altered as he bowed to right and left, and as he passed along through the crowd several members of the assemblage detached themselves from the mass and fell into his train.
Choiseul’s apartments in the Palace of Versailles were even more sumptuous than those relegated to the use of the Dubarry. He passed from the corridor to thesalon, which he used for the private reception of ambassadors, and all that host of people, illustrious and obscure, which it was the duty of the Minister to receive, in the name of France.
Thissalonwas upholstered in amber satin andwhite and gold, with a ceiling of yellow roses and joyful cupids. Ablaze with lights, as now, the place seemed like a great cell, the most gorgeous and the most brilliantly lit in that great honeycomb, Versailles.
Choiseul sat down at a table and dashed off a letter which he addressed, sealed, and sent by a servant to M. de Beautrellis, captain of the Gardes, for delivery. Then he turned to Coigny who had followed him.
“You told the others to come here to-night?”
“Yes, monsieur; they are even now waiting outside the door.”
“Well, we will have them in. Coigny, how has this happened?”
“I don’t know, monsieur, unless it was the devil. Everything was secure, everything was assured. Madame de Béarn was out of action, and you know what other measures we took. Yet at the last moment we are overthrown.”
“Well,” said Choiseul, “it only remains for us to find out the secret of our reverse, and the name of the person who has upset our plans. Call in the others.”
Coigny went to the side door giving entrance to the apartments, opened it, and ushered in a number of gentlemen who had been standing outside. First came Camus, the chief of the executive of the broken-down conspiracy; after him Monpavon, cool, smug and impudent as ever, and after him, d’Estouteville, a trifle flushed; after these, the others who had helped in one way or the other in the great fiasco, as Monpavon had already named the business. Seven gentlemen in all entered to receive Choiseul’s felicitations on their failure to outwit a woman, and Choiseul’s tongue in a matter of this sort was sure.
“Ah, Monsieur Camus!” said he. “Good evening. Good evening, Monsieur Monpavon; Monsieur d’Estouteville, good evening. Ah! I see Monsieur d’Est, Monsieur Beaupré, Monsieur Duras—well, gentlemen, we have not succeeded in lending as much colour to his Majesty’s presentation to-night as I might have wished. We have not been very brilliant, gentlemen. Monsieur Monpavon, I believe you have a very small opinion of women. Their value, of course, viewed philosophically, is an academic question; but viewed practically—well, viewed practically, the brains of those women you despise, Monsieur Monpavon, have a certain value, though you may not imagine it. Yes, Monsieur d’Estouteville, the brain of a woman has proved itself a better article to-night than all the brains in Versailles. Monsieur Camus, what explanation have you to offer?”
He expected to see Camus discomfited, but the dark, pitted face of the Count showed nothing of his feelings.
“Monsieur,” said Camus, “we have been betrayed.”
“That is very evident,” said Choiseul. “Mon Dieu, Monsieur Camus, what next will you come here to tell me? That the sun does not shine at night?”
“Monsieur,” said Camus, “I have not yet finished. I know the name of the man who has betrayed us.”
“Ah, you know his name!”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And this man?”
“It is the Comte de Rochefort.”
“Rochefort!”
“Monsieur, it is Rochefort, and no other. He alone knew of our plan.”
“Who told him?”
“I did, monsieur.”
“You told him?”
“He was my friend. I reckoned him a man of honour. I swore him to secrecy.” As he told this lie his hand went to his pocket and produced a piece of paper. “And entrusted him with the full details of the business in hand. He refused to assist, we quarrelled. It was just after we left your ball last night, and we parted in the Rue de Chevilly.
“I turned and walked slowly away, intending to return to the Hôtel de Choiseul and inform you of the matter. Then I altered my mind, as the idea occurred to me of calling on my friend, the Marquis de Soyecourt, and I did not want to trouble you at that late hour, engaged as you were with the duties of hospitality. I came down the street leading past the Bénédictines de la Ville l’Évêque, and sought the side way to the Hôtel de Soyecourt that runs between the wall of the Bénédictines and the wall of the cloister of the Madeleine, forgetting that this side way is closed by a barrier at night. Before I had reached it a man came out hurriedly. It was M. Rochefort.
“He was carrying his sword naked in his hand and wiping it upon a piece of paper; he cast the paper away, and, sheathing his sword, walked off hurriedly in the direction of the river. He did not see me, as I had taken shelter in an alcove. I picked the piece of paper up; then I glanced down the passage to the Hôtel de Soyecourt, and there, lying by the barricade, was a man. He was dead, still warm, and he had died from a sword-thrust through the heart. I thought in him I recognized one of our agents. I walked away, and in the Rue de la Madeleine I tookcounsel with myself, went home, and sent a servant to apprise your major-domo of the occurrence. To-day I have been so busy ever since six in the morning that I had no time to trouble in the matter. But those are the facts, and here is the piece of paper which I picked up. And see, here are the blood marks.”
Choiseul took the page of theballadebetween finger and thumb; the marks were plain and bore out Camus’ statement.
It did not matter to him two buttons whether Camus’ statement were true or false, as long as his statement about the betrayal was true, and he knew now that it must be true, for his agents had brought him the report that the man in the cloak and hat who had left the Dubarrys’ house the night before had been accompanied by a man like Rochefort, that they had driven to a house in which Rochefort had apartments, a report of the whole story which we know.
And you will observe that, though Rochefort had stamped himself on the spy’s report in letters of fire, Sartines, the core of the whole conspiracy, was not even suspected. Sartines had managed to shovel the whole onus of the business on to the shoulders of Rochefort; he had not set out wilfully so to do, perhaps—or perhaps he had; at all events, his success was due entirely to his faultless methods. No one suspected him, and he had not made an enemy of Choiseul, despite the fact that he alone had wrecked Choiseul’s most cherished plan.
Choiseul, certain that Rochefort had been the means of his defeat, turned suddenly and faced the group of gentlemen standing before him.
“M. Camus, M. de Monpavon, M. d’Estouteville,” cried he, “I commission you. M. de Rochefort hasnot yet left the palace. Seize him and bring him here. If he has left the palace, pursue him and bring him here. I place the Gardes, and the Suisses and the police of M. Sartines at your disposal.”
He turned rapidly to a writing-table, sat down, and dashed off three warrants in the following terms:
“URGENCY.“The bearer is empowered to seize and arrest the person of Charles Eugène Montargis, Comte de Rochefort, and to call on all French citizens to assist in such arrest.“Signed,De Choiseul,“Minister.”
“URGENCY.
“The bearer is empowered to seize and arrest the person of Charles Eugène Montargis, Comte de Rochefort, and to call on all French citizens to assist in such arrest.
“Signed,De Choiseul,“Minister.”
He sanded each paper when written and passed it over his shoulder to the hands waiting to receive it. “If possible,” said he, “make the arrest yourselves, without the help of Sartines’ men. You are my accredited agents.”
When the three gentlemen had each received his commission and warrant they turned, led by Camus, and left the room swiftly and without a word. They entered the Chamber of Presentations, divided, passed through the room from door to door, through the thinning crowd, and drew it blank. Rochefort had left. The great clock of the chamber pointed to seven minutes past the half-hour.
WHEN Rochefort took his leave of Sartines and left the Chamber of Presentations, he made full speed for the corridor leading to the Escalier des Ambassadeurs, passed down the great staircase rapidly, pushed his way through the crowd thronging the hall, found Jaquin, the usher, on duty, and seizing him:
“Where is Monsieur Bertrand?” asked Rochefort.
“He is, no doubt, in the Cabinet of the Equipages, monsieur,” replied the usher.
“Good,” said Rochefort.
His carriage was waiting in the courtyard, but a carriage was too slow for his present purpose. He wanted a horse, and a swift horse, for the journey to Paris—wings, if possible, failing them, the swiftest horse in his Majesty’s stables.
Bertrand was the keeper of his Majesty’s horses, and Rochefort’s friend. The Cabinet of the Equipages was a moderately sized apartment. Here the King arranged each day what horses, what carriages and attendants he would require, and here Rochefort found his friend, deep in accounts and reports.
“My dear Bertrand,” said the Comte, “you see a man in a most desperate hurry. I must get to Paris atonce. My carriage is too slow, and I have come to beg or steal a horse.”
Bertrand threw up his hands.
“Impossible! I have already been called to account for lending horses to my friends in a hurry. Ask me anything else, my dear Rochefort—my purse, my life, my heart—but a horse, no, a thousand times, no.”
“Ah, well,” said Rochefort, “I must tell a lie, and you will know the desperate urgency of my business from the fact that it makes me lie to you. Well, then, I come from de Sartines with an order of urgency. I am commanded to ask for your swiftest horse on a matter of State business.”
“So be it,” said Bertrand. “I cannot resist that order, and you must settle with Sartines.” He scribbled some words on a piece of paper, and, calling an attendant, gave it to him.
“The horse will be in the courtyard in a few minutes,” said Bertrand. “Well, I am sure to be interrogated over this, and M. de Sartines will give you the lie. You have weighed all that?”
“Sartines will support me,” said Rochefort. “We are very good friends; you need fear nothing. And now, adieu! And thank you for your good offices in this matter.”
He bade good-bye to Bertrand and returned through the still crowded hall to the door that gave exit from the palace.
Carriage after carriage was leaving, and the courtyard, as Rochefort came out, was ablaze with light. Burning with impatience, Rochefort watched the endless stream of carriages, the servants, and the guards, till, catching sight of a groom in the royal livery, leading a horse by the bridle, he was about to descend thesteps when a hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned and found himself face to face with Camus. Behind Camus appeared the egg-shaped face of Monpavon—a man he hated—and beside Monpavon the boneless form of d’Estouteville.
“Monsieur,” said Rochefort, “you have taken a strange liberty with me.”
“Monsieur,” replied Camus, “I have come to take your freedom.”
He handed Rochefort the warrant of Choiseul. Rochefort read it by the light of the doorway, comprehended instantly the desperate seriousness of his position and the danger of resistance—besides the bad policy.
But M. de Rochefort was going to Paris, and policy, and danger, and even Choiseul himself, would not interfere with his purpose. He handed the paper back to Camus with a smile.
“Present it to-morrow at my apartments in Paris, Monsieur Camus. I shall be there at noon. If I am late, my servants will entertain you till my return.Au revoir.”
He descended a step, and Camus, putting out a hand to seize him, received a blow on the belt that felled him as effectually as a blow on the head would have done. Next moment, Rochefort, dipping under the horses’ heads of the carriage that had just stopped to take up, reached the groom in royal livery and the horse which he was leading, seized the bridle, mounted, and plunged his spurless heels into its flanks.
Valmajour, for so was the big roan horse named, was not of a temper to stand treatment like this without marking his resentment of it. He bucked, as much as a French horse can, filled the yard with the soundof his hoofs on the great cobble-stones; then he came to hand and struck for the gate.
But Rochefort had reckoned without Monpavon and d’Estouteville. They had raised the hue and cry, the lackeys and soldiers had taken it up. Twenty voices were crying, “Bar the gate!” and as Rochefort approached the great gateway, he saw the Suisses crossing their pikes before the gateway, pike-head across pike-head at a level four feet from the ground. Valmajour checked slightly at the pull of the bridle, rose to the touch of Rochefort’s heel, and passed over the crossed pikes like a bird. A shout rose from the on-lookers as horse and rider disappeared from the zone of torchlight at the gate into the blacknesses beyond, and on the shout and like the materialized fury of it, a horse and rider shot out across the courtyard in pursuit.
It was d’Estouteville. That limp and enigmatic personage had, alone, perceived, standing amongst the equipages, the horse of M. de Beautrellis, captain of the Gardes; a groom was holding it for the gallant captain, who had entered the palace on some urgent business. D’Estouteville had seized the horse, mounted, and was now in pursuit. He knew Rochefort perfectly, and that Rochefort, in his present mood, would not be taken without a battle to the death. This, however, did not check him in the least; rather, perhaps, it was the mainspring of his suddenly found energy.
The Suisses, recognizing a pursuer, and in a pursuer authority, did not attempt to check him, and next moment he too had passed the zone of torchlight and was swallowed up by the darkness beyond.
CLOUDS were drifting across the moon’s face, casting alternately light and shadow on the country; the people, attracted by the fête at the palace, had long vanished. The road was clear, and Rochefort gave free rein to Valmajour.
For two miles or so he kept at full speed; then he reined in, leaped from the saddle, eased the girths a bit, and stood for a moment gazing backwards along the road, and listening and watching to see if he were pursued.
As he listened, he heard on the breeze a faint and rhythmical sound; it was the great clock of Versailles striking midnight. It passed, and then in the silence of the night his quick ear caught another sound, also rhythmical, but continuous. It was the sound of a horse at full gallop. He was pursued.
Even as he listened and looked, the shadow of a cloud drew off, leaving to view the distant figure of a horseman and his horse, as though it had dropped them on the road. He tightened the girths and remounted, only to discover the tragic fact that Valmajour, the brave Valmajour, was lame.
Now Rochefort was a man to whom the riding of a lame horse brought more suffering than to the horseitself. It was clearly impossible to urge Valmajour into any pace, but there was a good horse behind him to be had for the taking. He turned Valmajour’s head and advanced to battle.
Instantly his quick eye recognized d’Estouteville, who, advancing at a gallop, was fully exposed to view by the moonlight now strong on the road, and instantly his quick mind changed its plan. He was only too eager for a fight, but what he wanted even more was a horse. D’Estouteville was a good swordsman, and might place him, by chance,hors de combat, and this chance did not suit him. For M. de Rochefort was going to Paris, and he had sworn to himself that nothing should stop him.
When d’Estouteville was only a hundred yards away, Rochefort drew rein, leaped from his horse and ran away. He struck across a fence and across some park-land lying on the right of the road, and d’Estouteville, scarcely believing his eyes at the sight of his cowardice, flung himself from the saddle, left the two horses to fraternize, and gave chase.
Rochefort was striking across the grass towards some trees. One of the swiftest runners in France, he now seemed broken down and winded. D’Estouteville overhauled him rapidly as he ran, making for a small clump of trees standing in the middle of the park-land. He doubled round this clump, d’Estouteville’s hand nearly on his shoulder, and then, having turned and having the road again for his goal, a miracle happened.
The tired and broken-down runner became endowed with the swiftness of a hare; d’Estouteville, furious and hopelessly outpaced, followed, cursing no less deeply because he had no breath to curse with.On the road Rochefort, with a good thirty yards between him and his pursuer, seized the bridle of d’Estouteville’s horse, which was quietly cropping the grass at the road edge, mounted, and, waving his hand to the emissary of de Choiseul, struck off for Paris.
D’Estouteville, still perfectly sure of his prey, mounted Valmajour and turned in pursuit. Then he found out the truth. Rochefort had exchanged a broken-down horse for a sound one; his flight had not been dictated by cowardice but by astuteness, and the fooled one in his fury would have driven his sword through the heart of Valmajour had not Valmajour been the King’s horse and under royal protection.
THE horse Rochefort had captured was a powerful roan, fully caparisoned after the fashion of the officers’ horses of the cavalry, with pistols in the holsters and a saddle-bag for despatches.
Having ridden half a league at full gallop, Rochefort drew rein and glanced back. He was no longer pursued. He hugged himself at the thought of d’Estouteville’s position. D’Estouteville would have to return to Versailles, on a lame horse, and with what explanation? Were he to tell people that Rochefort had run away from him, he would be laughed at, for Rochefort’s reputation for courage was too well founded to be shaken by a tale like that.
Then as Rochefort proceeded swiftly on his way, the saddle-bag attracted him; he was at open war with the Choiseul faction; Choiseul was in power, the Gardes were the servants of Choiseul, and the horse belonged to an officer in the Gardes. It and its trappings were loot, and to examine his loot he opened the saddle-bag as he rode, plunged in his hand, and found nothing but a letter. A large, official letter, sealed with a red seal and addressed in a big firm hand to
“Mademoiselle La Bruyère,“In the Suite of Her Royal Highness“At Compiègne.
“To be left with Madame de La Motte.”
This was the letter which we saw Choiseul writing.
“Oh, ho!” cried Rochefort, “M. de Choiseul writing to a young lady, and that young lady in the suite of the Dauphiness. Well, I have no quarrel with Choiseul’s private affairs and the letter shall go to its destination or be returned to him—but first, let me get to Paris.”
He returned the letter to its place, closed the saddle-bag and urged the horse into a canter.
He did not know that Choiseul had specially commissioned M. de Beautrellis to take this letter, written immediately after the presentation, to its destination, nor the special urgency and secrecy necessary to the business, and with which Choiseul had impressed the servant. Nor would he have had time to think of these things had he known, for he was now catching up with the crowd of Parisians who had returned on foot from Versailles, and his eyes and ears and tongue were fully occupied in avoiding stragglers and warning them out of his way.
At the Octroi of Paris he was stopped by the soldiers for a moment, but he had no difficulty in passing them, despite the fact that he was in full court dress, without spurs, and riding a guard’s horse. He was M. de Rochefort, known to all of them, and this was doubtless one of his many freaks. Then, with the streets of Paris before him, he struck straight for his home in the Rue de Longueville.
Burning as he was to keep his appointment, he knew the vital necessity of money and a change of clothes. Though he had outwitted d’Estouteville, he was still pursued. Choiseul would ransack Paris for him, and failing to find him there—France. He guessed Camus’s part in the business, he guessed that his action in killing Choiseul’s villainous agent had been traced to him, and worse than that, he guessed that the part he had played in disclosing the plan which Camus had put before him to Madame Dubarry was now perfectly well known to Choiseul.
Choiseul would never forgive him for that.
It was absolutely necessary for him to leave France for a time till things blew over, or Choiseul was out of power. Of course in a just age, he might have stood up to the business of the killing, called Javotte as a witness to the facts of the case, and received the thanks of society, not its condemnation; but in the age of theLettre de Cachetand of Power without mercy, flight was the only safe course, and this child of his age knew his age, and none better.
It was two o’clock when he reached the Rue de la Harpe, adjoining the Rue de Longueville. Here he left the horse tied to a post for anyone to find who might, and taking the letter from his saddle-bag, repaired to his apartments. He let himself in with his private key, and without disturbing his valet changed his clothes, took all the money he could find, some three thousand francs in gold, tore up and burned a few letters and left the house, closing the door gently behind him.
A nice position, truly, for the man who had sworn never to touch politics, alone in the streets of Paris at half-past two in the morning, with only a few thousandfrancs in his possession and the whole of France at his heels.
But Rochefort, now that he was in the midst of the storm he had always avoided, did not stop to think of the fury of the wind. So far from cursing his folly and his position, he found some satisfaction in it. It seemed to him that he had never lived so vividly before.
It was only a few minutes’ walk from the Rue de Longueville to the Rue St. Dominic, where Mademoiselle Fontrailles lived; one had to go through the Rue de la Harpe, and as he entered that street he saw the horse, which he had left tied to a post, being led away by a man.
“Well, my friend,” said the Count, as he overtook the man, “and where are you going with that fine horse?”
“Monsieur,” replied the other, “I found him tied to a post, and thinking it a pity to leave him there to be misused maybe, or stolen by the first thief, I am taking him home.”
“Just so,” replied the Count, taking a louis from his pocket, “and, as I may be in want of a horse in a few hours, here is a louis for you if you will take him home, give him a feed, change his saddle and be with him on the road that leads from the Porte St. Antoine at eleven o’clock, that is, nine hours from now. Be a quarter of a mile beyond the gate, and if you will do this, I will pay you ten louis for your trouble.”
“Monsieur, I will do it.”
“Can you obtain a plain saddle in exchange for this one?”
“I will try, monsieur.”
“Do not try, simply rip all this stuff off and take thesaddle-bag away, then it will be plain enough, take off the chain bridle and leave the leather, and remember ten louis for your trouble.”
He handed the louis to the man, and went on his way.
It was a good idea, though risky; Rochefort, however, took risks; he was of the temper of Jean Bart, who, it will be remembered, once reefed his sails with seaweed, trusting to the wind to blow them loose at the proper moment.
In the Rue St. Dominic he paused at the house indicated in the letter. It was a medium-sized house of good appearance, and all the windows were in darkness, with the exception of the second window on the first floor. He stopped and looked up at this window. To knock at the door would mean rousing the porter. He was quite prepared to do that, but the lit window fascinated him, something told him that the person he sought was there.
He looked about to see if he could find a pebble, but the moon had gone and the roadway was almost invisible in the darkness; he rubbed the sole of his boot about on the ground, but could find nothing, so taking a louis from his pocket and taking careful aim, he flung it up at the window.
The casement was open a few inches, and, as luck would have it, the coin instead of hitting the glass, entered, struck the curtain and fell on the floor.
He waited for a moment, and was just on the point of taking another louis from his pocket, when a shadow appeared on the curtain, the curtain was drawn aside, and the window pushed open. He could see the vague outline of a form above the sill, and then came a woman’s whisper:
“Who is it?”
“Rochefort,” came the answer. He dared not say more, fearing that it might be some servant: then, as the form disappeared with the word, “Wait,” he knew that all was right.
He searched for the door, found it, and stood waiting, his heart beating as it never had beaten before. Choiseul, Camus, his own position, everything, was forgotten.
He heard a step in the passage and then the bolts carefully withdrawn; he could scarcely believe in his luck: Camille Fontrailles, with her own hand, was opening the door for him, at dead of night, secretively, and in a way that cast everything to the winds.
Next moment he was in the hall, holding a warm hand in the darkness, whilst the other little hand of the woman who had admitted him was replacing the bolts.
“Come,” whispered a voice.
He followed, still holding her hand and led as a blind man is led, up the stairs, to a landing, to a door.
The woman pushed the door open, and they entered a room lit by a lamp and with the remnants of a fire in the grate.
The light of the lamp struck on the woman’s face. It was Javotte.
Rochefort dropped her hand, stared round him, and then at the girl who was standing before him with a smile on her lips.
Never had Javotte looked prettier. Though a girl of the people, she had a refinement of her own; compared to Camille, she was the wild violet compared to the cultivated violet, the essential charm was thesame; but to Rochefort, suddenly disillusioned, she had neither charm nor grace.
“You!” said he, drawing back and walking towards the window.
The smile vanished from her lips, they trembled, and then, just as if it had started from her lips, a little shiver went all through her.
In a flash, she understood all; he had not discovered her window by some miraculous means, he had not come to see her, he did not care for her. It was her mistress for whom this visit was intended. Ever since he had kissed her in the corridor of the Hôtel Dubarry, she had dreamed of him, looked for him, fancied that he would come to seek her. He had come, but not for her.
The blow to her love, her pride, and her life was brutal in its directness, yet she took it standing, and after the first moment almost without flinching. She had come of a race to whom pride had been denied, a race accustomed to theDroit de Seigneur, the whip of the noble and the disdain of the aristocrat, yet the woman in her found the pride that hides suffering, and can find and place its hand even on disdain.
“Monsieur,” said Javotte, “I am sorry, but my mistress is from home.”
Rochefort, standing by the window, had recovered himself. He guessed quite well that little Javotte had a more than kindly feeling for him, that at a look or a touch she would be his, body and soul, and that she had led him upstairs thinking that his visit was to her. But he was moving under the dominion of a passion that held his mind from Javotte as steadily as centrifugal force holds the moon from the earth.
“From home?” said he. “Has she not been here, then, to-night?”
“Yes, monsieur, she was here till half-past twelve, then she left for the Rue de Valois with Mademoiselle Chon Dubarry.”
“Mademoiselle Dubarry was with her here, then?”
“Yes, monsieur, and they left together.”
He saw at once that the appointment Camille had given him was no lover’s tryst—or, at least, a lover’s tryst with a chaperon attached to it. This pleased him, somehow. Despite the fact that his heart had leaped in him whilst under the dominion of the thought that Camille had flung all discretion to the winds, the revelation of the truth that it was Javotte who was flinging discretion to the winds came to him as a satisfaction, despite the check to his animal nature. Camille was not to be conquered as easily as that.
She had waited for him till half-past twelve, there was some comfort in that thought; the question now arose as to what he should do. It was clearly impossible to knock the Dubarrys up at that hour in the morning. He must wait, and where better than here; he wanted a friend to talk to, and whom could he find better than Javotte?
There was a chair by the bed, and he sat down on the chair, and then what did he do but take Javotte on his knee.
He told her to come and sit on his knee whilst he explained all his worries and troubles, and she came and sat on his knee like a child. She would have resisted him now as a lover, yet there in that bedroom, in that deserted house, she let him caress her without fear and without thought. There was somethinggreat about Rochefort at times, when he forgot Rochefort theflaneurand Rochefort the libertine, or perhaps it would be nearer the mark to say there was nothing little about him, and nothing base.
“It is this way, Javotte,” said he. “Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, of whom you have no doubt heard, is pursuing me, and I am running away from Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, and as I am not used to running away, I run very badly, but still I do my best. Now, you remember the other night when those bad men attacked you?—well, when I chased them away, I followed one of them and he threw a knife at me and I killed him. He was an agent of Monsieur de Choiseul, who, having discovered that I killed his agent, would like very much to kill me. He tried to arrest me at the Palace of Versailles some hours ago, and the agent he employed was Monsieur Camus, the same man whose face I smacked before you——”
“Oh, monsieur,” said Javotte, “that is an evil man; his face, his very glance, took the life away from me.”
“Just so,” said Rochefort; “and I struck that evil man in the stomach, and left him kicking his heels on the steps of his Majesty’s palace, whilst I made my escape. I got a horse and came to Paris, but I cannot stay in Paris. To-morrow I am going to the Rue de Valois to keep that appointment with your mistress, which I failed to keep to-night. Well, I may be taken prisoner or killed before I reach the Hôtel Dubarry. In that case, you will tell your mistress all, and that the fault was not mine, in that I did not arrive here in time. You will be my friend in this, Javotte?”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Javotte, “I will, indeed, be your friend.”
She who had hoped only to be his lover cast awaythat hope, or imagined that she cast away that hope, in taking up the reality of friendship.
“I trust you,” he said; “and now to another thing. I have here a letter belonging to Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul; it is addressed to a lady at Compiègne, it was in the saddle-bag of the horse which I took to carry me to Paris, and it must be delivered to the lady it is intended for.”
He took the letter from his pocket and gave it to Javotte, who had now risen and was standing before him.
“You must find someone to take it for me, and that someone will expect to be paid for his trouble, so here are two louis——”
“Monsieur,” said Javotte, “I do not need money.”
Rochefort returned the coins to his pocket and stood up. He had not offered Javotte money for herself, but he should not have offered it at all. The brutality that spoils a butterfly’s wing may be a touch that would not injure a rose-leaf.
“Nor did I offer it to you,” said he, placing his hand on her shoulder. “One does not offer money to a friend—or only as a loan—I meant you to give it to some footman or other as a reward for his services. But should you ever need a loan, my little Javotte, why, then, Rochefort will be your banker, offering you his life and his services without interest. But there is one thing he will never lend you—and can you guess what that thing is?”
“No, monsieur.”
“His friendship—for it is yours, now and always.”
Javotte bowed her pretty head as if in confirmation and acknowledgment. Still holding the letter in her hand, she turned it over, glancing now at the superscription,now at the seals. Then, moving towards the chair, she sat down. Rochefort watched her, wondering what was in her mind, and waiting for her to speak.
“Monsieur,” said Javotte at last, “you ask me to take this letter to its destination. To do so, I must first read the address, and I find it is addressed to Mademoiselle La Bruyère. You say Monsieur de Choiseul is the writer of it. You say Monsieur de Choiseul is pursuing you. Well, monsieur, is it not possible that, in parting with this letter, you are parting with a weapon that may be very useful to you?”
“Oho!” said Rochefort, laughing, amused at Javotte’s seriousness and her air of subtlety and intrigue, as though some dove were suddenly to assume the garb of a serpent’s wisdom. “What is this you say?”
“Simply, monsieur, that Mademoiselle La Bruyère is one of the greatest enemies of Madame la Comtesse Dubarry. I have heard my mistress say that she obtained her place in the entourage of the Dauphiness In order to poison the mind of the Dauphiness against her. Here is Monsieur de Choiseul writing to Mademoiselle La Bruyère——”
“Ah!” cried Rochefort, striking himself on the forehead, and speaking as though oblivious of Javotte’s presence, “I see. Choiseul writes a despatch to Mademoiselle La Bruyère—and last night of all nights, immediately after the presentation, to tell her, without doubt, of the plan and its failure—and the plan was directed against his Majesty as well as against the Countess. Certainly, that letter may prove a very terrible weapon against Choiseul.”
“And you will use it, monsieur?”
“The letter?”
“Yes, monsieur, the letter.”
“I—no, I cannot use it. I do not even know that it would help me. I may be wrong even in my suspicion. The thing may have no value at all; how do I know that it is not a love-letter?”—he laughed at the idea of Love coupled with the idea of Choiseul—“or about some private matter? No, it is impossible. I cannot open Monsieur de Choiseul’s letter to see if it concerns me, and even were I to open it, and were I to find the blackest conspiracy under the handwriting of Choiseul, I could not use it against him.”
“Monsieur,” said Javotte, “I am only a poor girl, but I have seen much in the service of Madame la Comtesse. I have kept my mind about me, and I have been employed in many things that have taught me many things. Living at Luciennes and Versailles, I have observed Monsieur de Choiseul—Look at the affair of yesterday—and there are other things—— Well, I know that if you were Monsieur de Choiseul, you would open this letter.”
Rochefort laughed.
“You have touched the spot,” said he. “If I were Monsieur de Choiseul, I would do as you say, but since I am Monsieur de Rochefort, I cannot. I am only a poor gentleman of Auvergne, without any head for political intrigue or any hand for political matters, and were I to open that letter, I would do the business so badly, that my unaccustomed hand would betray itself.”
“Monsieur, I did not ask you to open this letter.”
“Mademoiselle, had you done so, I would have obeyed you without murmur, for your lightest request would be for me a command. And now put the accursed thing away that it may not tempt us any more,and if you will show me to some room where I may snatch a couple of hours’ sleep, I will lie down, for I have a heavy day before me if I am not very greatly mistaken.”
Javotte rose up and placed the letter in the drawer of a bureau by the door. Then she ran out of the room and returned with a rug of marten skin, which she spread on the bed; she turned the rug back and arranged the pillows. She was offering him her bed.
“I will call you at six o’clock,” said she.
She glanced round the room like a careful housewife who wishes to see that everything is in order, smiled at Rochefort, nodded, and vanished, closing the door behind her.
Rochefort removed his coat and sword-belt, got under the rug, rested his head on the pillow and in five minutes was snoring.
Javotte, crossing the landing, entered her mistress’s bedroom, where a lamp was burning.
She turned the lamp full on and sat down in a chair by the fire-place. She was in love and her love was hopeless, and her power of love may be gauged from the fact that she was thinking less of herself than of Rochefort, and less of Rochefort than his position.
She knew Camille Fontrailles as only a woman can know a woman. That beautiful face, those eyes so capable of betraying interest and love, that charm, that grace—all these had no influence with Javotte. She guessed Camille to be heartless, not cruel, but acardiac, if one may use the expression, without impulse, negative towards men, yet exacting towards them, requiring their homage, yet giving in return no pay—or only promissory notes; capable of real friendshiptowards women, and more than friendship—absolute devotion to a chosen woman friend. This type of woman is exceedingly common in all high civilizations; it is the stand of the ego against the Race instinct, a refusal of the animal by the sensibilities, a development of the finer feelings at the expense of the natural passions—who knows—— Javotte reasoned only by instinct, and it was instinct that made her guess Rochefort’s passion for Camille to be a hopeless passion, and it was this guess that now brought some trace of comfort to her human and wicked heart.
She was capable of dying for Rochefort, of sacrificing all comfort in life for his comfort, yet of treasuring the thought of his discomfiture at the hands of Camille.
She rose up, and, taking the lamp, stood before the mirror that had so often reflected the beauty of her mistress.
What she saw was charming, yet she saw it through the magic of disenchantment.
It was the wild flower gazing at her reflection in the brook where the lordly dragon-fly pauses for a second, heedless of her, on his way towards the garden of the roses.
Then she placed the lamp on the table again, and went downstairs to make coffee for the dragon-fly, to give him strength on his journey.
ROCHEFORT was pursuing Camus through Dreamland, when the touch of a hand upon his shoulder brought him wide awake. It was Javotte. She had placed the tray with the coffee on a table by the window, and was standing beside him. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, burst out laughing as though the world he had awakened to was a huge joke, and, casting the marten-skin rug aside, rose to his feet.
“Ma foi,” said he, “I was chasing a man through the palace of Versailles, when Monsieur de Choiseul laid his hand on my shoulder—and the hand was yours. It is a good omen.”
He kissed the hand that had brought him the coffee, slipped on his coat and sword-belt, laughing and talking all the time, and then, coffee-cup in hand, stood still talking and at the same time glancing out of the window every now and then.
He had remembered, a most important fact, that he owed his valet a month’s wages.
Javotte at once offered to take it for him, and placing five louis in a piece of paper, he gave them to her for the purpose.
“That will keep him going till things clear up,” said Rochefort. “He is faithful enough, but withoutmoney he would be driven to seek another master. And now good-bye, little one, nay, not good-bye—au revoir. We will meet soon again, of that I am sure, and in happier circumstances.”
“Are you going to the Rue de Valois, monsieur?”
“I am going to the Rue de Valois, and that as quick as my feet can take me.”
“But, monsieur, have you not thought of the danger?”
“What danger?”
“Oh,ma foi!What danger? If Monsieur de Choiseul is pursuing you, will he not have the streets watched?”
“Undoubtedly; but as Paris is under Monsieur de Sartines, Monsieur de Choiseul must first put Monsieur de Sartines in motion. Now, Monsieur de Sartines is my friend and he will delay, I am perfectly sure; he will be bound to act, but he will not be bound to break his neck running after me. So I feel pretty safe till noon.”
Javotte sighed. She said nothing more, but accompanied him down the stairs to the door, which she unlatched for him. Theconcierge, a discreet person, no doubt observed this letting out of a man whom he had not let in. However, that was nothing to him, and as for Javotte, she did not think of the matter, so filled was her mind with other things.
Having closed the door on Rochefort, she came up again to her room, and taking the letter from the drawer in the bureau looked at it long and attentively. Rochefort had refused to open it, but Javotte had no scruples at all on the matter. She argued with herself thus: “If I were to open this from curiosity, I would be on the level with those spying servants whom I detest,like Madame Scudery’s maid or the maid of Madame du Close. But I am not doing it from curiosity. I am doing it for the sake of another person, who is too proud and too fine to take precautions for himself. And who is Monsieur de Choiseul that one should trouble about opening his letters? Does he not do the very same himself—and who is Mademoiselle La Bruyère that one should not open her letters? Does she not do much worse in many and many a way? And what are they writing to one another about, these two? Well, we will see.”
She procured a knife and heated it over the still burning lamp in her mistress’ bedroom. Then, with a dexterity which she had often seen exhibited in the Dubarryménage, she slid the hot knife under the seals of the letter.
Meanwhile, Rochefort was walking briskly towards the Rue de Valois. It was a perfect morning, the sky was stainless and the new-risen sun was flooding the city with his level beams, pouring his light on the mansions and gardens of the Faubourg St. Honoré, on the churches and spires of the cité, on the Montagne Ste. Genevieve and on the grim, black towers of the Bastille.
His way lay through the Rue de Provençe, a street that might have been named after its inhabitants, for here, amidst the early morning stir of life, you might hear the Provençal patois, the explosive little oaths, the shrill tongues of the women of the Camargue; and here you might buy Arles sausages, and Brandade, from swarthy shopkeepers with red cotton handkerchiefs tied round their heads and with gold rings intheir ears, and here you might see the Venus of Arles in the flesh at every corner.
He passed from here into the Rue d’Artois, and then into the Rue de Valois.
Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte was at home, and Rochefort, following the servant, passed into the hall and was shown into the identical room where, only the night before last, he had assisted at the council of war, and where the Countess had protested her devotion to him and the Vicomte Jean had sworn eternal friendship.
The servant had drawn the blinds, and the morning light entered, illuminating the place and striking the white and gold decorations, the painted ceiling and the crystal of the candelabrum. The chairs were set about just as they had been left by the last persons who had occupied the place, and on one of the chairs was lying a woman’s glove.
From the next room could be heard voices; men’s voices, laughter and the clink of money. The Vicomte Jean and some of his disreputable companions were, no doubt, playing at cards, had been playing, most likely, all night, or, at all events, since news came that the presentation was a success, for the Vicomte had not turned up at Versailles, he had been too busy in Paris arranging matters.
Now, as Rochefort listened, he heard the servant entering to announce a visitor; the voices of the card-players ceased, then came the sounds of voices grumbling. A minute later, and the door giving on the corridor opened, and Jean Dubarry made his appearance.
He had never looked worse. His face was stiff from drink and sleeplessness, his coat was stained with wine, and one stocking was slipping down and wrinkled.He had been taking huge pinches of snuff to pull himself together, and the evidence of it was upon him.
“Ha, Rochefort,” cried the man of pleasure. “You are early, hey! You see me—I have not been to bed—when the good news came by special messenger, I had some friends here, they are here still——” He yawned and flung himself on a couch, stretched out his legs, put his hands in his pockets, and yawned again.
“Your special messenger did not come quicker from Versailles than I did,” said Rochefort. “Dubarry, I’m in the pot this time. I have always avoided politics, but they have got me at last, it seems.”
“What are you saying?” asked Dubarry.
“I am saying that Choiseul is after me.”
“Choiseul after you!” echoed Dubarry, rousing himself. “What is this you say? What has he found out?Dame!I thought all this business was happily ended, and now you come and disturb me with this news—what is it?”
“Oh,ma foi, you may well ask what is it!” replied Rochefort, irritated by the manner of the other. “It is this precious business of yours that has fallen on me, and it seems to me now that I am the only one to pay. Choiseul has discovered my part in it; he tried to arrest me at Versailles last night, he failed and I am here. I am pursued—that is all.”
Dubarry rose to his feet thoroughly sobered; he walked a few steps up and down the room, as if trying to pull his thoughts together. Then he turned to Rochefort.