Lavenne did not hear this last. Horrified at what he had heard, he felt as though some unseen hand had suddenly intervened in this game of life and death, dealing the cards in a reverse direction, and the ace of spades, not to Camus, but to Camille Fontrailles. He turned from Vallone and walked rapidly to the door of the supper-room.
He entered.
Dressed in a sober suit of black he had the appearanceof a confidential servant, and no one noticed him, or, if they did, put him down as one of the stewards of the house superintending the service. Numerous small tables were spread about, the place was crowded and a band of violins in the gallery was playing, mixing its music with the sound of voices, laughter, and the tinkle of glass and silver.
Lavenne passed the table where the Dubarry group was seated. Camille Fontrailles was chatting and laughing with the others; she had never appeared more beautiful, she was seated opposite to Camus. Lavenne swept the room with his eyes, as though he were searching for some plan of action; then he hurriedly walked to the door, crossed the receptionsalonand passed through the door through which he had seen Sartines and Rochefort following Choiseul. He reached the door where the conference was going forward and knocked.
Choiseul paused for a moment without replying.
“Let us see,” said he, “you accuse Monsieur Camus of having assaulted this girl, and you would add to that the suggestion that his accusation against you was prompted by anger at the blow you dealt him.”
“I did not know that the accusation against me came from Comte Camus,” replied Rochefort, “but I must say I suspected that he had a hand in the business. Now that you tell me, I would say that most certainly the accusation was prompted by spite.”
“Well,” said Choiseul, “I have listened to what you have said, and what you have said has impressed me, Monsieur de Rochefort. But I stand here to do justice, and for that purpose I must hear what Comte Camus has to say, for he distinctly told me that he hadparted company with you, that he had started on his way home, that he altered his direction in order to call on a friend, and that by accident he had come upon the evidence which he disclosed to me. I shall call Comte Camus and you can confront him.”
“Do so, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, “and now one word first. I fell into politics by a false step, just as a man might fall into a well. I confess that I acted against you, monsieur, not from animosity, but simply because the party with which I momentarily allied myself was in opposition to you. I would ask you to forget all that and forgive an antagonist who is now well disposed towards you, should you decide that Monsieur Camus’ story is a lie, and that I have spoken the truth. Monsieur, I am not fit for politics; I want to enjoy my life since I have only one to enjoy. I don’t want to go into the Bastille on account of your anger, and I don’t want to be hanged for having killed a ruffian who attempted my life. Therefore, Monsieur le Duc, should you think that I have acted as a straight man and a gentleman through all this, I would ask a clear forgiveness. Firstly, for ridding Paris of a rogue with my sword; secondly, for having been such a fool as to ally my life and my fortune to the fortune of those cursed Dubarrys.”
The outward effect of this extraordinary speech on Choiseul was to make him turn half way in order to hide a smile. Then, stretching out his hand he rang a bell; with almost the same movement he casually took the letter lying on the mantelpiece and put it in his pocket.
Sartines knew from the expression on Choiseul’s face that Rochefort was saved, unless Camus, by some trickery,were to turn the tables. Everything rested now with what Camus would do and say.
He was taking a pinch of snuff when Lavenne’s knock came to the door.
Lavenne entered. His face was absolutely white.
“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, disregarding the other two, “send at once for Monsieur Camus. Mademoiselle Fontrailles has been poisoned—he may know some antidote, but it will have to be forced from him.”
“Good God!” said Sartines, instantly guessing the truth. “He has given her the poison instead of his wife.”
“Yes—yes, monsieur—but send quick.”
“I will fetch him myself,” cried Sartines, rushing from the room.
Choiseul, amazed, found his speech.
“What is this you say?” he asked. “Poisoned, in my house? Explain yourself!”
“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “Comte Camus has poisoned a lady at the supper-table—yes, in your house; he intended to poison his wife. I have been watching him for some time. He poisoned Atalanta, the King’s hound, with poison which he had prepared for his wife, and which the dog ate by accident. Woe is me! I should have seized him to-day, but the evidence was not complete. I had arranged things otherwise, but God in His wisdom has brought my plans to nothing.”
“Bon Dieu!” said Rochefort, all thoughts about himself swept away. There was something shocking in Lavenne’s face and voice and words. Choiseul, mystified, understanding only half of what had happened, yet comprehending the depth of the tragedy of which his house had been chosen for the stage, stood waiting, half dreading the re-appearance of Sartines, too proudto cross-question a subordinate and at heart furious at this scandal which had thrust itself upon his hearth.
He had not to wait long.
Steps sounded outside, the door opened and Camus entered, closely followed by Sartines. Camus, not comprehending the urgent summons, was, still, pale about the lips, and his manner had lost its assurance.
Sartines shut the door.
“That is the man,” said Lavenne, stepping forward and suddenly taking command of the situation.
Lavenne, in a flash, had altered. He seemed to have increased in size; something ferocious and bullying lying dormant in his nature broke loose; advancing swiftly on Camus he seized him by the collar as he would have seized the commonest criminal and absolutely shouting in his face, held him tight clutched the while:
“I arrest you, your game is lost. The antidote for the poison you have just given an unfortunate woman! Confess, save her, and you may yet save your neck. You refuse? You would struggle? Ah, there——”
He flung himself on Camus as if he would tear the secret from him, but he was not searching for the secret, but for the dagger, which he found and plucked from him, flinging it to Sartines.
Camus, who had not spoken a word, struggled furiously, white, gasping, terrific, proclaiming his infamy by his silence, knowing that all was over, and that this terrible man whom he had never seen before, this man who had lain hidden in his path and who had seized him like Fate, was his executioner.
The struggle lasted only half a minute, then Camus was on the floor and Lavenne, with the whipcord which he always carried, was fastening the wrists of his prisoner.There was no appeal, no defence, or questions or cross-questions. Just a prisoner bound on the floor, and Lavenne, now calm, rising to address his master.
“Shall I remove him, monsieur?”
“But the antidote,” said Sartines.
“There is no antidote, monsieur,” said Lavenne, “else he would have confessed to save his life.” He gave a down glance at Camus. Camus, white and groaning, lay like a man stricken by a mortal blow, and then Choiseul, glaring at him, spoke.
Choiseul, who had not moved nor spoken, suddenly found speech. Filled with fury at the whole business, not caring who was poisoned as long as the affair did not occur in his house, stricken in his dignity and hating the idea of a scandal, he turned to Sartines.
“Take that carrion away,” he burst out. “Away with him by that door which opens on the kitchen premises. Go first, Sartines, and order all the servants to remain away from the yard where you will have a carriage brought. Then you can remove him to La Bastille. Monsieur de Rochefort, kindly help in the business—and Monsieur de Rochefort, all is cleared between us. Go in peace and avoid politics. Now do as I direct. No scandal, no noise—not a word about all this business which is deeply discreditable to our order. We poison in secret, it seems; well, in secret we shall punish.”
“Monsieur,” said Sartines, delighted that the Rochefort business was over and done with, “I shall do exactly as you direct. It is best. Lavenne, open that door and give me your assistance with this.”
Lavenne opened the door and they carried Camus out. Not one word had he spoken from first to last. Rochefort followed. When he reached the door, heturned and bowed to Choiseul, Choiseul returned the bow. Rochefort went out and shut the door behind him and the incident was closed.
Then Choiseul, taking the letter from his pocket re-read it, lit a taper and burned it in the grate. He stamped on the ashes and, leaving the room, returned to thesalonon which the passage opened.
Some of the guests were taking their departure, amongst them the Dubarry party.
“We were looking for Monsieur Camus,” said Jean Dubarry, “but he seems to have vanished.”
“Ah, Comte Camus,” replied Choiseul, “I saw him early this evening, but I have not seen him since.”
“Sartines came and fetched him off,” said Jean.
“Then perhaps he has gone off with Sartines,” said Choiseul, “and now you are carrying off Mademoiselle Fontrailles so early in the evening. Ah, Mademoiselle Fontrailles, you are carrying away with you all the charm you have brought to my poorsalons, and leaving behind you the envy of all the roses of Paris who have been eclipsed by the Flower of Martinique.”
He bowed profoundly to the laughing girl and to Chon Dubarry.
Then he went to the card-room.
A FEW days later the Comte de Rochefort was breakfasting with his friend, de Chartres, when, the conversation taking a turn, Rochefort, in reply to some remark of his companion, laughed.
“That reminds me,” said he, “I am going to leave Paris.”
“You are going to leave Paris? And for how long?”
“Oh, an indefinite time.”
“And who gave you that bright idea?”
“M. de Duras.”
“M. de Duras advised you to leave Paris?”
“Oh, no, he only gave me the idea that it would be a good thing not to become like M. de Duras. I saw myself in a flash as I would be twenty years hence, old M. de Rochefort with a painted face, living socially on the tolerance of his friends and mentally on the latest rumour and the cast-off wit of others. Besides, I was always fond of a country life; besides—I have had my fling in Paris, I have spent I don’t know how many thousand francs in four years, and if I go on I will be impoverished, and I can stand many things, Chartres, but I could never stand being your poor man.
“I do not mind living on a crust of bread in the least, but I object very strongly to living with the knowledgethat I cannot have venison if I want it. I have come from a queer stock, we have always gone the pace, but we have all of us had a grain of commonsense somewhere in our natures to check us in time.
“People say I am mad simply because they only see me spending my money in Paris; they do not know in the least that I have a reputation for commonsense on my estates as solid as an oak-tree. My people in the country know me and they respect me, because I know them and will not let myself be cheated. People say I am mad—silly fools—have they never considered the fact that I have always steered clear of politics?”
“Oh, oh!” said Chartres; “good heavens, what are you saying?”
“That was an accident, an uncharted rock that I struck. I have always steered clear of politics, otherwise I might be like Camus, of whose fate I have just told you—and mind, never, never breathe a word of that even to your pillow—or poor Camille Fontrailles. Well, to return to our subject. I am leaving Paris for another reason, which I will tell to you who are my best friend. I am in love, and the girl whom I am going to make my wife could not live in Paris.”
“And why not?”
“Because she is a girl of the people; because she has a heart of gold and a soul as pure as the soul of a child, and a power of love simple and indestructible as the love of a dog; because she is a woman who can be faithful in friendliness as a man, because she is a child who will be a child till she dies. All that would be extremely absurd in Paris. But down there in the country, Madame la Comtesse de Rochefort will grow and live in the clear air that nourishes the flowers; she will be respected by people who know the value ofworth, and when Monsieur de Rochefort is an old man, he will perhaps see in his grandchildren the strength of a new race and not the vices of our rotten aristocracy.”
“Rochefort,” said Chartres, “I do not know whether this is madness or commonsense, I only know that you are talking in a way that surprises me as much as though I were to hear my poodle Pistache talking philosophy.”
“Precisely, yet Pistache has more philosophy in his composition than half the philosophers. You despise him because he is a poodle and plays antics, just as you despise me because I am a man who has played the fool. Yet Madame de Chartres does not look on Pistache as a bag of tricks covered with fur, for she believes—so she told me—that Pistache has a soul, and the woman whom I am going to marry does not look on me as a fool, simply because she loves me.
“Believe me, Chartres, the only people who really understand dogs and men—are women.”
Footnote:
AHairdressers alone amongst tradesmen were permitted to wear swords.
AHairdressers alone amongst tradesmen were permitted to wear swords.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes:The original spelling, hyphenation, accentuation and punctuation has been retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been corrected.
Transcriber’s Notes:
The original spelling, hyphenation, accentuation and punctuation has been retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been corrected.