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 the Lettre de Cachet and 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 thousand francs 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 the saddle-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 the same; 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 the Droit 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 something great about Rochefort at times, when he forgot Rochefort the flaneur and 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 away that 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 friendship towards 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.

CHAPTER II
THE GRATITUDE OF THE DUBARRYS

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 without money 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. The concierge, 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 Dubarry mÉnage, 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 in their 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.

“You will excuse me for saying it, my dear Rochefort, but, considering the delicate position of the Comtesse and 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 simply playing 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 a denier for 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.

CHAPTER III
THE PAIR OF SPECTACLES

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 the act 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, and Sartines 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 a good 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.”

CHAPTER IV
THE ARREST OF ROCHEFORT

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. Nothing was 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 the hors-d’oeuvre for 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 ordered dÉjeuner for 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 come to 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 his life 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 they are called upon by them to arrest Monsieur de Rochefort. But one agent 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 incensed against 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.

CHAPTER V
CAPTAIN ROUX

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 rather dull-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 in his 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 do not 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 to be 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, and a 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 running past 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, and Rochefort 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 chamber to 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 wind of 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. We will 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.