MEANWHILE, Lavenne, having watched the carriage containing Rochefort and Captain Roux taking its departure, turned and took his way to Rochefort’s rooms in the Rue de Longueville. The Rochefort affair was only an incident in his busy profession, yet whilst he was upon it, it held his whole life and ambition in life. He was made in such a manner, that the moment filled all his purview without blinding him. He could see the moment, yet he could also see consequences—that is to say, the future, and causes—that is to say, the past.

In his seven years’ work under Sartines, he had learned the fact that these social and political cases like that of Rochefort almost invariably produce, or are allied to, other cases, either engaging or soon to engage the attention of the police. Even in the spacious Court of France, people were too tightly packed for one to move in an eccentric manner without producing far-reaching disturbances, and he was soon to prove this fact in the case of M. de Rochefort.

Having reached Rochefort’s house, he was admitted by the concierge. He passed upstairs to the rooms occupied by the Count, ordered the valet to take his place on the stairs, and should any callers arrive, to show them up. Then, having shown his credentials as an agent of the HÔtel de Sartines, he began his perquisition.

There was nothing to find and he expected nothing, yet he proceeded on his business with the utmost care and the most painstaking minuteness.

In the middle of his work, he was interrupted by the valet, who knocked at the door.

“Monsieur,” said the valet, “there is a young girl who has called. She is waiting outside.”

“Ah, she is waiting—well, show her in.”

The man disappeared, and returned in a moment ushering in Javotte.

Lavenne looked up from some papers which he was examining. Javotte’s appearance rather astonished him. Young, fresh, and evidently respectable, he could not for a moment place her among possible visitors to Rochefort. Then it occurred to him that she might be the maid of some society woman sent with a message, and, without rising from his seat, he pointed to a chair.

“What is your business here, mademoiselle?” asked Lavenne.

“My business, monsieur, is to pay the last month’s wages of Monsieur de Rochefort’s valet. I have the money here with me. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“You are addressing an agent of the HÔtel de Sartines. Place the money on the table, mademoiselle, and it shall be handed to the valet. And now a moment’s conversation with you, please. Who, may I ask, entrusted you with this commission?”

“Monsieur,” replied Javotte, “that is my business entirely.”

Lavenne leaned back in his chair.

“Mademoiselle, I am going to ask you a question. Are you a friend of Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“Indeed, I am, monsieur.”

“Well, then, if you are a friend of his, I may tell you that I also am his friend, though I am, at the present moment, making an examination of his effects. So in his interests please be frank with me.”

Javotte looked at the quiet and self-contained man before her. Youth and Innocence, those two great geniuses, proclaimed him trustworthy, and she cast away her reserve.

“Well, monsieur, what do you want me to say?”

“Just this, I want you to tell me what you know of this gentleman. What you say may not be worth a denier to me, or it may be useful. You need say, moreover, nothing to his disadvantage, if you choose. Well?”

“I know nothing to his disadvantage, monsieur. He is the bravest man in the world, the most kind, and he saved me but the other night from two men who would have done me an injury——” Then catching fire, she told volubly the whole story of the occurrence on the night of the Duc de Choiseul’s ball.

Lavenne listened attentively.

Sartines had already given him Camus’ story of the killing of Choiseul’s agent. Javotte was now giving him the true story. He instantly saw the facts of the case, and the character of Camus.

“And you say, mademoiselle, that Monsieur de Rochefort, returning from the chase of those ruffians, one of whom he killed, by the way, found Monsieur Camus offering you an insult and struck him to the ground. Did Monsieur Camus not resent that action?”

“Monsieur, he did nothing, but he turned when he was going away and shook his finger at Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“Well, Mademoiselle Javotte, one question more: on whose service were you carrying that letter of which the robbers wished to relieve you? Speak without fear, whatever you say will do Monsieur de Rochefort no harm.”

“Monsieur, it was a letter addressed to Madame Dubarry.”

“Ah ha! That is all I wish to know. Well, say nothing of all this to anyone else, and should you have anything more to communicate to me, come to my private address, No. 10, Rue Picpus; ask for Monsieur Lavenne. That is my name. And remember this, as far as it is in my power, I am the friend of Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“Thank you, monsieur—and may I ask one question? Do you know where Monsieur de Rochefort is now, and is he safe?”

“I cannot tell you where he is, but I believe he is safe. In fact, I may be as frank with you as you have been with me, and say he is safe.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“One moment,” said Lavenne, as she rose to go. “May I ask your address, should I by any possibility need it?”

“I am in the service of Mademoiselle Fontrailles, monsieur.”

“Ah, you are in the service of Mademoiselle Fontrailles. Well, Mademoiselle Javotte, say nothing to anyone of our meeting, say nothing of our conversation, say nothing of Monsieur de Rochefort; but keep your eyes and ears open, and if you wish to serve Monsieur de Rochefort, let me have any news you may be able to bring me concerning him.”

“Now, I will swear that girl is in love with the Count,” said Lavenne to himself, when she had departed, “and the Count, according to my master, is in love with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who has the reputation of being incapable of love. Mademoiselle Fontrailles is a bosom friend of Madame Dubarry, and Madame Dubarry’s letter it was which caused the agents of Monsieur de Choiseul to attack Mademoiselle Javotte, and Monsieur de Rochefort to kill one of those precious agents. Mademoiselle Javotte has already proved to me that Monsieur le Comte Camus has lied in giving his evidence against Monsieur de Rochefort. The case widens, like those circles that form when one throws a stone into a pond. Well, let it continue to widen, and we will see what we will see.”

He finished his examination of Rochefort’s rooms, paid the valet off, locked the place up and started for the HÔtel de Sartines.

Monsieur de Sartines was seated in the octagon chamber on the first floor; he was busy writing at the famous bureau of a hundred drawers, which contained in its recesses half the secrets of France, and which had belonged to his predecessor, Monsieur D’Ombreval.

He looked up when Lavenne was announced, finished the letter on which he was engaged, and then turned to the agent.

“Well,” said de Sartines, “what about Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“He is at Vincennes by this time, monsieur. The affair was a little difficult, but I made him see reason, and he made no objection to accompanying Captain Roux. I have examined his rooms and found nothing. I have also discovered that the evidence given against him by Count Camus is far from being truthful.”

He told of Javotte and her story in a few words.

“Quite so,” replied Sartines; “and you know perfectly well that it does not matter a button whether this agent was killed by foul or fair play, or whether Count Camus has lied or not. The case is just as bad against Monsieur Rochefort from Monsieur de Choiseul’s point of view, and that is everything. No matter, we have Rochefort in safe keeping.

“Now to another business. Prepare to start at once for Versailles. You will inquire into the poisoning of this dog, which has given me more trouble and annoyance than the poisoning of Monsieur de Choiseul himself would have given me. I have inquired into it personally. I have put Valjean on the affair; the matter is as dark as ever, so just see what you can make of it. Here are all the papers relating to the business, reports and so forth, study them on the way and use expedition.”

“Monsieur will give me a free hand in the matter?”

“Absolutely. And here is a thousand francs in gold; you may need money. Order a carriage for the journey, and tell them not to spare the horses. I am in a hurry for your report, find wings; but, above all, find the criminal.”

“Yes, monsieur. It will be a difficult matter. The poisoning of a man is a simple affair, the evidence simply shouts round it for the person who has ears to hear. A dog is different. But I will find the criminal—unless——”

“Unless?”

“Unless, monsieur, the dog poisoned itself by eating some garbage.”

“Oh, no. Atalanta was very delicate in her feeding. No, it was the work of some scoundrel, of that I am sure.”

“Well, monsieur, we will see,” said Lavenne.

He bowed to the Minister of Police, and left the room.

CHAPTER II
MONSIEUR BROMMARD

DE SARTINES had no need to urge expedition on Lavenne. Lavenne always moved as quickly as possible between two points. After the King and de Sartines, Lavenne was perhaps the best and most quickly served man in France. The carriages of the HÔtel de Sartines were always ready and never broke down, the horses of the HÔtel de Sartines never went lame, the grooms, the veterinary surgeons, and the coachmen employed by the Ministry of Police, were men who had been tried and tested, men, moreover, who knew that drunkenness, insubordination or neglect would be visited by imprisonment, not dismissal.

The Minister of Police knew the value of speed, and since the safety of France might depend upon the horses of the Minister of Police, he did not boast when he made the statement that his horses were the swiftest in France.

In five minutes’ time, after giving the order, Lavenne was seated in a closed carriage drawn by two powerful Mecklenburg horses, and the carriage was leaving the courtyard of the HÔtel de Sartines and taking its way towards the Faubourg St. HonorÉ. During the journey, Lavenne studied the papers given to him by his master, pages and pages of reports. One might have fancied that the matter had to do with the assassination of an emperor, rather than the poisoning of a dog.

Lavenne read the whole of these papers and reports carefully, and then, folding them, placed them in his pocket.

According to them, everyone possible in connection with Versailles, the Trianons, and even with Luciennes, had been questioned and examined without result. The whole thing seemed to Lavenne rather clumsy. This questioning of individuals could bring little result. To the question, “Did you poison the dog?” could come but one answer, “No.” And the poisoner was unlikely to have acted in the presence of a witness. The thing that did strike Lavenne as peculiar, was the fact that there had been no accusations; it was just the case for false accusations, yet there were none.

At Versailles, having ordered the carriage to be kept in waiting, he crossed the park to the Trianons. Arrived at the Grand Trianon, he walked round to the kitchen entrance. Here there was great bustle and movement, goods arriving from tradesmen in Versailles and being received by the steward, scullions darting hither and thither, and everyone talking. In the kitchen, it was the same.

Lavenne knew everyone, or at least was known by everyone, especially by Brommard, the master cook, who, magnificent in paper cap and white apron, was directing operations.

“Ah, Monsieur Lavenne,” said Brommard, “and what happy chance brings you here to-day?”

“Why, I had some business at the Petit Trianon, and I just walked across to see if you were alive and well. Ma foi! Monsieur Brommard, but you are not growing thinner these days.”

Brommard heaved a sigh.

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, I am not growing thinner, though if worry made a man thin, I would be a rake, what between tradesmen who do not send provisions in time and cooks who spoil them when they arrive. I have to supervise everything, and I have only two eyes instead of the two hundred that I require.”

“Well, Monsieur Brommard, we all have our worries, even his Majesty, who, I fear, is in trouble over the death of his favourite hound, Atalanta.”

Brommard made a motion with his hand.

“Oh, ma foi! don’t speak to me about that business. Why, Monsieur Lavenne, I was had up myself and questioned on the matter by Monsieur de Sartines. As though I had poisoned the brute! I said to him, ‘I know nothing of the matter, but since Atalanta was served every day at the King’s table when he was at Versailles, she may have died of Ribot’s cookery’; for Ribot, as you know, is now the chef at Versailles, a gentleman who stole the recipe of my Sauce Noailles and gave it forth under the name of Sauce À la Ribot. Put his name to my sauce! God’s death, Monsieur Lavenne, a man who will steal another man’s sauce is not above poisoning another man’s dog. Not that I accuse Ribot, poor fool; he has not the spirit to poison a louse, and they say his wife beats him with his own rolling-pin. I accuse him of nothing but theft and stupidity, certainly not of poisoning his Majesty’s dog wilfully. Besides, Monsieur Lavenne, the dog was not poisoned, in my opinion.”

“Give us your opinion, Monsieur Brommard.”

“Well, it is this way, Monsieur Lavenne—What does all cookery rest on?”

“I am sure I don’t know, unless it is the shoulders of the chef.”

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, all cookery rests on an egg. The egg is the atlas that supports the world of gastronomy, the chef is the slave of the egg. Think, Monsieur Lavenne, what is the masterpiece of French cookery, the dish that outlives all other dishes, the thing that is found on his Majesty’s table no less than upon the tables of the Bourgeoisie, the thing that is as French as a Frenchman, and which expresses the spirit of our people as no other article of food could express it—the Omelette. Could you make an Omelette without breaking eggs? Aha! tell me that. Then cast your mind’s eye over this extraordinary Monsieur Egg and all his antics and evolutions. Now he permits himself to be boiled plain, and even like that, without frills, naked and in a state of nature, he is excellent, for you will remember that the Marquis de Noailles, when he was dying and almost past food, called for what?—an egg, plainly boiled.

“Now he consents to appear in all ways from poached to perdu—an excellent recipe for which is to be found in my early edition of the works of Taillevent, who, as you know, was master-cook to his Majesty King Charles V.

“Now he is the soul of a vol-au-vent, now of a sauce; not a pie-crust fit to eat but stands by virtue of my lord the egg, and should all the hens in the world commit suicide, to-morrow every chef in France worthy of the name would fall on his spit, as Vatel fell on his sword, and with more reason, for fish is but a course in a dinner, whereas the egg is the cement that holds all the castle of cookery together.”

“Pardieu, Monsieur Brommard,” said Lavenne, laughing, “you are quite a philosopher, and I shall certainly take off my hat to the next hen I meet. But, tell me, what has an egg to do with the poisoning of Atalanta?”

“Nothing, Monsieur Lavenne; God forbid that it should. I was about to say that, just as all cookery stands on an egg, so does the whole world stand on commonsense; and it is not commonsense to think that any man would poison Atalanta, who was a gentle beast, on purpose to spite his Majesty. Atalanta, in my opinion, poisoned herself. Dogs are not like cats. If you will observe, a cat is very nice in her feeding. Offer her even a piece of fish, and she will sniff it to make sure that it is in good condition and not poisonous, before she will touch it. Whereas dogs eat everything.”

“Dogs eat roses,” said a small voice.

It was Brommard’s little son, who, dressed in a white cap and apron, was serving his apprenticeship as a scullion. He had drawn close to his father, and had listened solemnly to the discourse about eggs.

Brommard glanced down and laughed, then he excused himself for a moment to supervise the work of one of the under-cooks, who was larding a fowl.

“Oh,” said Lavenne, “dogs eat roses, do they? And how do you know?”

“Monsieur,” said the child, “I have seen Atalanta, the beautiful dog of his Majesty, snap at a rose. I told my father when they were saying that Atalanta was poisoned, and I said that I had seen Atalanta eat a rose, and that perhaps the rose had killed her, and he laughed. But dogs do eat roses.”

“And where did you see Atalanta eat this rose?”

“It was near Les Onze Arpents, monsieur. A gentleman and a lady were walking together, and he was holding a rose in his hand. The rose was hanging down, so, and the dog, who was following them, sniffed at the rose and then bit it.”

“Yes—yes?”

“Well, monsieur, the gentleman, when he saw what the dog had done, threw the rose away behind his back into some bushes; the lady did not see, she was talking and laughing.”

“What day was this?”

“The day before Atalanta died, monsieur.”

“What was the gentleman like?”

“Very ugly, monsieur, and pitted with the smallpox.”

“And the lady?”

“Oh, I don’t know, monsieur, but she walked with a limp.”

“Ah, well,” said Lavenne, “dogs may eat roses, but roses do not poison dogs; so I would advise you to forget what you saw, or the ugly gentleman may be angry with you. You seem a bright boy, and here is something to buy sweets with. You are learning to be a cook, I suppose?”

“Monsieur,” said the child, gravely, “I am a cook. I can lard a fowl and make an omelette and a mayonnaise, and I have committed to memory the rules and recipes of twenty-three sauces out of the two hundred and twenty-three that my father knows. Yet, all the same, I must serve my apprenticeship as a scullion, cleaning pots and pans and preparing vegetables and fish and game. But I do not grumble.”

Little Brommard—destined to be the cook of Napoleon—put the coin Lavenne had given him in his pocket, and, thanking the latter, went off to supervise another scullion who was at work on some vegetables, whilst Lavenne, bidding good-bye to Brommard pÈre, took his departure.

He took a side-path that led to the cottage of the chief gardener of Trianon.

That official happened to be in, and Lavenne invited him to put on his hat and to come out for a moment’s conversation.

“Well, Monsieur Lavenne, what can I do for you?” said the man, putting on his coat as he came out, and latching the door behind him.

“You can get a spade and take me to the place where you buried the dog belonging to his Majesty. I see by the report that you were ordered to bury it.”

“You mean Atalanta, monsieur?”

“The same.”

The gardener, without a word, went to the tool-house by the cottage and took out a spade, then, shouldering the spade, he led the way to a clear space amidst some bushes.

“Now,” said Lavenne, “dig me up the remains of the animal. I wish to examine them.”

The gardener did as he was told, and Lavenne, on his knees, made a minute examination of the mouth of the dog. The body of the animal, lying in a light, dry soil, showed no trace of putrefaction, being, so the gardener said, as fresh as when he buried it.

Lavenne, having finished his inspection, rose to his feet, dusted the soil from his knees, and having paid the man liberally for his trouble, took his way to where the carriage was waiting to convey him back to Paris. On the journey, he made some notes with a pencil in his pocket-book.

He had discovered the poisoner of Atalanta. Led by the luck that sometimes attends genius, or perhaps by the commonsense which made him conduct his inquiry, not by direct interrogation, but by conversation on things in general, he had accomplished in a few hours what Sartines had failed to accomplish in several days.

Arrived at the HÔtel de Sartines, he found his master absent and Monsieur Beauregard acting in his stead. Beauregard was a big, fine-looking man, one of the best swordsmen in France, fearless and honest, but not of the highest intelligence as far as detective work was concerned. Nor did Sartines use him for that business. Sartines had made Beauregard his chief of staff because the latter had all the qualities of a good organizer, the fidelity of a hound, and the rigid business methods in which Sartines was lacking. He was also a fine figure of a man, and so upheld the dignity of his position in the eyes of the Court and the populace.

Beauregard was a great friend of Lavenne.

“So his Excellency is out,” said Lavenne. “Well, that is a pity, as I have some news for him, and a request to make.”

“And the news?” said Beauregard.

“The news is, simply that I have found an indication as to the poisoner of Atalanta.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! My dear Lavenne, if you can only put your finger on that person, you will own the thanks of the entire staff. It is not that a dog has been poisoned, or that the dog is the favourite dog of the King, or rather, I should say, was the favourite dog of the King. It is that the HÔtel de Sartines has been put to shame by a small matter like this. Other failures one can hush up; other failures, though, indeed, we make few enough, are forgotten; but the smell of this business seems to permeate everywhere; and the thing will not be forgotten, simply because it is so small that it gives such a splendid field for the little wits of Paris and the Court to exercise themselves in.”

“Well, Captain Beauregard,” said Lavenne, “the poisoning of Atalanta, though seemingly a small enough affair, will, if I am not greatly mistaken, be the centre of an affair big enough to satisfy even the HÔtel de Sartines. I hope to put my hand on the poisoner, and in doing so to clear Monsieur de Rochefort from the charge of being an assassin, and also I hope to save a woman’s life.”

“Mordieu!” said Beauregard, “you are going to do a great many clever things, then—— Tell me, am I in your secret?”

“Why, yes, I don’t mind letting you know what is in my mind, though you know how I hate telling of what I propose to do or propose to find. As a matter of fact, you are the only man in France to whom I can talk, and yet feel that I have not lost energy in so doing; for it is a strange thing, but once one opens one’s mind to an ordinary person, a blight seems to creep in on the precious thoughts, hopes or ambitions that one cherishes in darkness. And I will tell you why it is different with you. You do not criticize or throw doubts upon budding fancies. Were I to open my mind to Monsieur de Sartines quite fully, he would put his hand in and take out my most precious thoughts, turn them over, criticize them, throw cold water upon them, perhaps, and put them back—then they would be dying—or dead.”

“I do not criticize you, Lavenne, because I have a lively feeling that any criticism of mine would be an impertinence, at least on the work of so close a reasoner as you are. Tell me, then, and I will repeat nothing—Who was the poisoner of Atalanta?”

“Count Camus.”

Beauregard whistled.

“And who is the lady whose life you are going to save?”

“The Comtesse Camus.”

“The man’s wife?”

“Precisely.”

“Good God!—and how is it threatened?”

“By poison.”

“And who is the prospective poisoner?”

“Count Camus.”

“Just heavens! Tell me, for I am vastly interested, how you found this out?”

“A few days ago—or, to be more precise, the day after Count Camus had returned from a hunting expedition with Monsieur de Rochefort, he was walking with his wife in the grounds of Trianon. He had brought with him a prepared rose.”

“A prepared rose?”

“A rose poisoned with one of those subtle poisons, whose secret was brought to France by the Italians in the time of King Charles IX. Once prepared, these roses have to be kept under cover, enclosed in a box. So kept, their virtue, or rather their vice, remains unimpaired for a considerable time, but once removed from the box, it disappears in the course of a few hours.”

“Yes, yes, but what is their power, and how is it used?”

“Quite simply. The person who smells the perfume of the rose dies.”

“Dies, simply from the perfume?”

“Absolutely, and as certainly as though he had drunk the Aqua Tofana of the Florentines.”

“Go on.”

“Well, our man, walking with his wife in the grounds of the Trianon close to Les Onze Arpents, took this rose from its box unseen by his companion, and carrying it very gingerly, you may be sure, by the tip of the stalk with the flower hanging downwards, was about to present it laughingly to her, when Atalanta, who was following them, out of caprice, or playfulness, or perhaps attracted by something in the scent of the flower, made a snap at it. Camus, on feeling what had happened, threw the ruined flower away behind his back into some bushes—and Atalanta paid the penalty instead of the lady.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you prove it against the Count?”

“Not in the least. Or, that is to say, not effectually. I could cover him with suspicion, but that is useless.”

“How, then, do you propose to proceed?”

“Ah, my dear captain, if I were to tell you that, I would tell you what I don’t exactly know.”

“You don’t know what you are going to do?”

“Pardon me. I do, but not in an exact manner. But I will tell you this. My first move is to get into the house of Count Camus.”

“On a warrant from de Sartines?”

“Heavens, no, as a servant. We have a man in all the important houses, and I believe one in the house of the Count.”

“Certainly we have. You know that Sartines suspects him, and where suspicion goes there our servants go also. Stay.” He rang a bell.

When a clerk answered the summons, he gave him an order, and the clerk returned in a few minutes with a huge book, bound in vellum and with a brass lock.

Beauregard took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the book.

He turned to the pages marked C, and ran his finger down the first column for the space of three inches.

“Yes. Jumeau is acting as pantry-man in the service of the Count.”

“He is almost useless,” said Lavenne; “but let us be thankful that he is there. Now let us send at once, and tell him that his mother is dying and that he must come at once; his cousin—that is to say, myself—is ready to take on his duties. As the cousin, I will take the message myself. I have just left the service of Monsieur—shall we say, Monsieur Gaston Le Roux?—he belongs to us. You will send a man round to him at once for a testimonial. The pantry-man’s duty is to look after the plate, to clean it, keep it in order, be responsible for it, and to do a few light duties.”

“Very well,” said Beauregard, “all that shall be done.”

“And now,” said Lavenne, “I must go and dress for the part, and in an hour, when the testimonial arrives, I will be ready. Let it be dated last month, and let it be for two years’ service. I may not even want it at all; they will be very glad, I should think, to accept Jumeau’s cousin’s service whilst Jumeau is seeing after his sick mother, and so save themselves the trouble of doing without a servant or hunting for one. Still, it is as well to be prepared at all points.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Beauregard. “Well, good luck to you.”

Lavenne took his departure and hurried round to his rooms in the Rue Picpus. It was now seven o’clock in the evening. It had been a busy day for him, but the work of that day was not over yet. When he arrived at the house in the Rue Picpus, he found someone waiting for him. It was Javotte.

“Monsieur,” said Javotte, “when I spoke to you this morning, I did not tell you quite all that I knew about the affairs of Monsieur de Rochefort. There was something I held back, and I would like to tell you it now.”

“Come in,” said Lavenne, with a smile. The eternal feminine was the same in his day as ours—that is to say, it might be summed up in the same words: “The animal with a postscript.”

CHAPTER III
CHOISEUL’S LETTER

LAVENNE inhabited very modest apartments in the Rue Picpus, a street of that old Paris which, always dying and vanishing, never seems quite to die, which showed the towers of Philip Augustus to the people who lived in the time of Charles V. and the old houses of Louis XI. to the subjects of Louis XV., which shows, even to-day, glimpses of the remotest past in odd corners left unswept by the tide of Time.

The room into which he ushered Javotte was as old as the street and house that contained it. Beamed and wainscoted, its only furniture a few chairs, a table, a stove and a number of volumes piled on a shelf, it had, still, a fairly comfortable appearance. Rooms have personalities, and there are some rooms tolerable to live in even when stripped almost bare of furniture, others intolerable, furnish them how you please. Lavenne’s belonged to the first order.

He took his seat at the table, pointed out a chair to Javotte, and ordered her in a good-humoured way to be quick with her business, as he had a pressing matter on hand.

“It is this way, monsieur,” said Javotte. “I did not tell you all this morning, simply because what I left untold relates to an affair of which I am rather ashamed in one way, and not the least ashamed of in another.”

“And this affair?”

“Relates to the opening of a letter addressed by Monsieur de Choiseul to a lady in CompiÈgne.”

“And who opened the letter?”

“I did, monsieur.”

“And how did it fall into your hands?”

Javotte explained how Rochefort had found it in the saddle-bag of the horse he had used in his escape from Versailles.

“He would not open it himself, monsieur. He gave it to me to deliver to the lady at CompiÈgne; when I said to him, ‘Monsieur de Choiseul would open the letter were it one of yours,’ he only replied—‘You see, I am not Monsieur de Choiseul, but simply Monsieur de Rochefort.’ That was the reply of a great noble; but I, monsieur, am simply a servant, and, what is more, the servant of Monsieur de Rochefort’s interests, seeing that he saved me from those men of Monsieur de Choiseul, who might have killed me. I do not love Monsieur de Choiseul and——”

“You do love Monsieur de Rochefort,” finished Lavenne, with a laugh.

Javotte flushed, her eyes sparkled, as though the words had been an insult, then she calmed down.

“Perhaps you are right, monsieur, perhaps you are wrong. In any case, my feelings have nothing to do with the matter.”

“Pardon me,” said Lavenne, “you are right. I have been indiscreet. Let us forget it—and accept my apology. Now, as to this letter. May I ask you to tell me its contents?”

“I can do better, monsieur, I can show you the letter itself.”

She took the letter from her breast and handed it to Lavenne, who spread it open on the table before him and began to read, his elbows upon the table and his head between the palms of his hands.

It was a terrible document for Choiseul to have put his name to. Written in a moment of fury immediately after the presentation of Madame Dubarry, it consisted of only twelve lines. Yet it told of the failure of his plot against Dubarry, and it spoke of the King in a sentence that was at once indecent and almost treasonable.

“Mordieu!” said Lavenne. “What a letter! What a letter! What a letter!” He glanced at the back of it, then he cast his eyes again over the contents.

It will be remembered that Choiseul was the enemy of Sartines, and that the overthrow of Choiseul was, at that moment, the central desire of the heart of Sartines. Lavenne knew this fact, and he knew that the weapon lying before him on the table was of so deadly a nature, that were he to hand it to his master, both honour and money would be handed to him in return; he was no opportunist, however, nor could the prospects of personal advantage blind him to the fact that the weapon before him on the table was not his to sell. It belonged to Javotte. To serve Rochefort, she had sullied her integrity by opening Choiseul’s letter; trusting to Lavenne, she had brought him the letter, and not a man, perhaps, in the HÔtel de Sartines other than Lavenne but would have put her off with promises or threats and carried the letter to his master, after the fashion of a dog retrieving game.

But Lavenne was not a common man. With a villain, he would use every art and subtlety; but with the straightforward and simple, he was always honest and straightforward. Your modern police or political agent is supposed to be a man who excels in his profession according to his capacity for the detection of crime; this is but a half truth, for the detection of innocence is just as important to the police agent, and to feel the innocence in others one requires a mind that can attune itself to innocence as well as to villainy. A mind, in other words, that can keep its freshness, even though its possessor dwells on the dust-heap of crime.

Lavenne could not betray Javotte over this matter without running contrary to his nature. He recognized at once that this weapon, when it was used, would have to be used in defence of Rochefort, not in furtherance of the desires of Sartines. He recognized, also, that with this weapon both purposes might be served; Rochefort might be defended and Sartines’ ambition furthered at the same stroke. But the time had not yet come, and even when it did arrive, this lethal instrument would require to be used by a master hand. Turning to Javotte, he gave her, in the course of five minutes, his whole opinion on the business, showing her his whole mind on the matter with a frankness which she knew by instinct to be genuine.

“And you will keep that letter, then, monsieur?”

“With your permission, I will keep it, and I will use it, if use it I must, to further the interests both of Monsieur de Rochefort and of my master. But I promise you, it shall be used in Monsieur de Rochefort’s interests first.”

“Very well, then, monsieur,” replied Javotte. “I will leave it with you.”

Then she took her departure, and Lavenne, placing the letter in a secret compartment of the panelling, began to dress for the part he was to play in the household of Count Camus.

CHAPTER IV
THE DECLARATION OF CAMUS

JAVOTTE, when she left the Rue Picpus, took her way to the Rue de Valois. It will be remembered that Camille Fontrailles had slept at the Dubarrys’ house in the Rue de Valois, and as Javotte was now in her service, she had to follow her mistress.

Immediately on Rochefort quitting her that morning, she had gone to the Rue de Valois, helped her mistress to dress, and then slipped out on her mission to Rochefort’s rooms, where she had first met Lavenne.

Troubled in mind at not having made a clear breast of the affair about Choiseul’s letter, and feeling sure that Lavenne would be the best person to help Rochefort in that matter, she had slipped out again at half-past six. She was now returning to help her mistress to dress for the evening.

An ordinary girl, knowing that the Dubarrys were the enemies of Choiseul, would have put the letter in their hands; but Javotte had a mind of her own, and a knowledge of Court life, and the Dubarrys in particular, which prevented her from putting the slightest trust in any person belonging to the Court, and more especially in the Dubarrys.

She knew that were they to use the letter against Choiseul, they would do so in their own interests, not in the interests of Rochefort. How right she was in this, we shall presently see.

When she arrived at the HÔtel Dubarry, she found the house en fÊte. The Countess was not there, she was still at Versailles, but Chon and Jean were in evidence, and they were receiving friends to supper; and amongst those friends, who should be first and foremost but Count Camus. The man who had engineered, or partly engineered, the plot against the presentation was among the first to call on Jean that day to congratulate him on the success of the Countess. Jean had received him with open arms. Nothing pleased Jean better now than to smooth things over, and make up to the Choiseul faction. The Countess had triumphed; she had beaten Choiseul, and she would break him. The duel was not over by any means, but she had scored the first hit, and it was politic to smile on Choiseul and his followers, just as Choiseul and his followers had found it politic to kiss her hand on the night of her triumph.

“Come to supper this evening, my dear fellow,” said Jean. “I am expecting one or two people. Madame de Duras and a few others. Have I heard about Rochefort?—no, what about him?”

Camus told, in a few words, of Rochefort’s crimes, and of how he had escaped the night before just as he, Camus, had laid his hand upon him in the name of Choiseul.

“I always said he was a mad fool,” replied Jean; “and has he escaped for good?”

“Oh, mon Dieu, no,” said Camus, “not whilst there is a frontier. Choiseul is scouring the roads, Paris is watched, and a reward of a thousand louis is offered for him, dead or alive.”

“Well, if he is taken dead, we will be saved from his future gasconades,” said Jean.

“I would sooner he were taken alive,” replied Camus, “for I have a very particular desire to see that gentleman hanged; and hanged he will be, if I know anything of the mind of Choiseul.”

Jean Dubarry showed Camus out, and opened the door for him with his own hand. He would not have minded the hanging of Rochefort in the least, if Rochefort could only be hanged before he could speak his mind and tell his tale; but he greatly dreaded the catching of Rochefort by Choiseul, and comforted himself with the thought that Rochefort must now be in the safe custody of the governor of Vincennes.

At eight o’clock, the first of the guests arrived in the person of Madame de Duras. Chon Dubarry and Camille Fontrailles were waiting to receive her, and Jean entered just as Camus was announced; on the heels of Camus came M. de Joyeuse, a young fop and spendthrift, and scarcely had he entered when the wheels of Madame d’Harlancourt’s carriage were heard in the courtyard. She came in with M. d’Estouteville, whom she had brought with her.

Jean Dubarry was as pleased to receive d’Estouteville as he had been to welcome Camus. Nothing could underscore the Countess’s success more deeply than the evident anxiety of these members of the Choiseul faction to be well with her.

“Mordieu!” said Jean to himself, “Choiseul himself will be coming next—well, let us wait and see.”

He was in the highest spirits, complimenting Madame d’Harlancourt on her appearance, jesting with Joyeuse, with a word for everyone except Camus, who was deep in conversation with Camille Fontrailles.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” Camus was saying, “it seems an age since I met you at Monsieur de Choiseul’s, and yet, by the almanac, it was only the other night.”

“Why, monsieur, since that night so many things have happened, that the time may well seem long—the Presentation, for instance.”

“Ah, yes, the Presentation,” said Camus, with a laugh. “We have all been deeply absorbed by that event.”

“Deeply,” said Camille.

“You are a friend of the Countess, mademoiselle?”

“Absolutely, monsieur.”

“Well,” said Camus, with an air of the greatest ingenuousness, “I have not been her friend. I have never been her enemy, still, I must confess I have not been her friend in the strict sense of the word. Court life is like a game of chess, and I daresay you are aware that, during the last few days, a great game of chess has been going forward between my friend Choiseul and the Countess. I was on Choiseul’s side all through it; I even helped in some of the moves. She won, and I must say her courage has made me her admirer.”

“And not her friend?”

“Mademoiselle, I am the friend of Monsieur de Choiseul, and I do not easily separate myself from my friends. Still, I am content to remain his friend, and yet to stand aside and take no part in any further move that he may make against the Countess.”

“And why, monsieur, do you impose this inaction upon yourself?”

“Simply for this reason. I cannot take an active part in any move against a person who is a friend of yours.”

“And why not, monsieur?”

“Ah, you ask me a question now that is very difficult to answer.”

“How so?”

“Because the reply may make you angry.”

“Then you had better not answer the question, monsieur.”

“On the contrary, it is better to say what is in my mind, since to leave it unsaid would be an act of cowardice, and it is better that we should both know a secret that is tormenting me like fire. I cannot act against a friend of yours, simply for this reason—I have learned to love you.”

He had risen before finishing the sentence, and at the last word, bowing profoundly, he moved away to where Jean, de Joyeuse and Madame d’Harlancourt were talking together, and joined in their conversation. Camille followed him with her eyes. He had attracted her at the ball, his action against Madame Dubarry had turned her against him, his frank confession of the part he had taken had somewhat modified her resentment, his declaration that in future he would remain neutral had modified it still more; his declaration of love had stunned her.

He was a married man.

The thing amounted to an insult, yet she did not feel insulted, nor did she feel angry; her being was stirred to its depths for the first time in her life. Unconscious of the fact that a declaration of love from Camus had about as much meaning as a declaration of pity from a tiger, or perhaps half-conscious of it, she was held now by the mesmerism of the man, and sat watching him as he conversed with the others; till Madame de Duras, coming up to her, broke the spell.

At supper, her eyes kept continually meeting those of Camus, and she was half conscious of the fact that a wordless conversation was going on between her almost unwilling mind and the mind of the Count.

Men like Camus do most of their murderous work against women without speech. They have the art of making women think about them, and they know that they have the art.

Camus all that evening kept aloof from the girl to whom he had made his declaration of love. He wore a brooding and meditative air at times. He knew that she was observing him closely, and he acted the part of the eternal lover to perfection.

Yet, despite his acting, he was desperately in earnest.

When the card-tables were being set out, it was found that Camille had vanished from the room. She did not appear again that night.

CHAPTER V
THE HOUSE OF COUNT CAMUS

MEANWHILE, Lavenne, when Javotte had taken her departure, set out on the business of dressing himself for the part he was about to perform. In a cupboard opening off his bedroom he had all sorts of disguises, from the dress of an abbÉ to the rags of a beggar-man. He was a master in the art of disguise, and knew quite well that every profession and station in life has its voice and manner and walk, as well as its dress; that dress, in fact, is only part of the business of disguise, deportment, manner and voice being equally essential, and even perhaps more so.

In fifteen minutes, or less, he had converted himself into a perfect representation of a servant out of a place, slightly seedy, and seeking a situation. Then, having glanced round his rooms to see that all was in order, he locked his door, put the key in his pocket and started for the HÔtel de Sartines. Here he received the written character, which had been prepared for him under the name of Jouve, and he started for Camus’ house in the Rue du TrÔne.

It was a large house, decorated in the Italian style, and the concierge, who opened to Lavenne’s ring, did not receive him too civilly; but he passed him on to the kitchen premises, and here Lavenne, finding Jumeau, gave him the news of his mother’s mortal illness; and the distress of Jumeau was so well done and so natural, that Lavenne formed a better opinion of his capabilities than he had hitherto held, and made a mental note of the fact, afterwards to be incorporated in a report to de Sartines.

Jumeau, having dried his eyes, took Lavenne down a passage and, lighting a candle, drew him into the small bedroom which he occupied, and which was situated immediately beside the plate pantry. Jumeau had not only to clean the plate, but to act as a watchdog at night in case of thieves.

When the bedroom door was closed, Lavenne turned to Jumeau:

“Have you anything to report?”

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, nothing political at all has taken place in the house. Monsieur de Sartines told me to be especially watchful of any friends of Monsieur de Choiseul, or messengers, and to do my utmost to intercept any letter from the Duc. Not a scrap of paper of that description have I seen.”

“Well, you have done your duty evidently with care, and I shall note that in my report. I have come to take your place, as you guessed by this; so now take yourself off to the major-domo, get leave of absence to see your mother, and say that your cousin, Charles Jouve, is prepared to take your place, that he is an excellent servant, and has the highest testimonials; then come back here and tell me what he says.”

“Yes, Monsieur Lavenne.”

“What sort of a man is this major-domo, and what is his name?”

“His name is Brujon, Monsieur Lavenne, and he is rather stupid, fond of talk, and very fond of his glass of wine.”

“Good! He is a gossip?”

“You may say that.”

“Well, off you go; and use all your wits, now, so that he may accept me in your place.”

Jumeau left the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Lavenne sat on the bed waiting his return, and glancing about him at the poorly furnished room, dimly lit by a candle tufted with a “letter,” like a miniature cauliflower.

In five minutes, Jumeau returned.

“Well,” said Lavenne, “what luck?”

“The best, Monsieur Lavenne. He is in a good humour. He asked me all sorts of questions as to my mother, spoke of filial duty and gave me leave of absence for three days. He wishes to see you.”

Lavenne rose from the bed.

“Let us go at once, then,” said he, “before his good-humour changes. Lead the way, introduce me to him, and then say nothing more. I will do the talking.”

They left the room.

Monsieur Brujon’s office was situated on the same floor, that is to say, the basement.

It was a fairly large room, with an old bureau in one corner, where Monsieur Brujon kept his receipted bills, his correspondence, his keys and a hundred odds and ends that had no place in a bureau; old playbills, ballades, wine labels, a questionable book or two, corks, shoe-buckles and so forth.

He was a character, Monsieur Brujon. Untidy as his bureau, stout, rubicund, with a fatherly manner and an eye for a pretty girl, he was a fine example of the old French servant that flourished in feudal times, the servant who became a part of the family, drank his master’s wine, knew his master’s secrets, and through other servants of his kind the secrets of half the town or countryside where he lived.

“Ah,” said Brujon, “this is the young man who has come to take your place. He has some knowledge of his work, then?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“In whose service did you say he was last?”

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I was in the service of Monsieur Le Roux, and to expedite matters, I have brought with me the testimonial that he gave me on my leaving him?”

“And why did you leave him?”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Lavenne, remembering Monsieur Brujon’s instinct for gossip, “it was not that he had any fault to find with me, or I with him; it was on account of madame.”

“Eh, madame! Had she a temper, then?”

“It was not her temper so much as other things, monsieur.”

Monsieur Brujon read the testimonial and expressed himself satisfied, told Jumeau that he might take his departure, and Lavenne that he might remain; then when the door was shut, he turned to the new-comer.

“Well,” said he, “what was the matter with madame?”

When Lavenne had finished his revelations, M. Brujon, chuckling and gloating, rose to conduct the new-comer round the house, so that he might have the lie of the premises. He took him through the basement, showed him the kitchen, the plate pantry, the room he was to occupy by the pantry, and the other offices. Then upstairs, that the new servant might see the dining-room, to which it was his duty to convey the plate. As they went on their way, Brujon conversed, and Lavenne, who had already taken the measure of his man, led the talk to Camus.

“I need not hide it from you,” said he, “that I look on it as a feather in my cap taking service, even for a short time, under your master. I have heard much about him; it is even said that his cleverness is so great that he knows Arabic and all the secrets of the East.”

“You may well say that,” replied Brujon, pompously, “not only is he of one of the oldest families, but he has here—” and he tapped his empty forehead—“what all the others have not got. I, who know him so well, and whom he trusts, can speak of that.”

“Ma foi!” said Lavenne, in an awed voice, “is it a fact, then, that he is an alchemist?”

Brujon pursed out his lips as he closed the door of the dining-room, having shown the place to his companion. “It is not for me to say anything of his secrets, but I can tell you this, he is clever enough to put Monsieur Mesmer in his pocket.”

“Mon Dieu! but he must be even a greater man than I thought, and to think that you have seen him at work, perhaps. Why, it would frighten me to death—and where does he do these wonderful things?”

“Come here,” said Brujon.

He led the way down the corridor, leading from the dining-room, paused at a door, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and, choosing a key, opened the door.

The lamp which he was carrying disclosed a room lined with shelves containing bottles, glass cupboards containing bottles and flasks stood in the corners, and in the centre, on a heavy bench-like table, were more bottles, some retorts, and a lamp. Heavy red curtains hung before the window.

It was a chemist’s laboratory.

“This is the room where my master works,” said Brujon, “he and I only have access to it. I am exceeding my duties, even, in showing it to you; though, indeed, he has never given me orders on that matter. Now you may see the truth of what I say—but never say that you have seen it.”

“Oh, mon Dieu, no! The place frightens me. You see, I am not clever like you, Monsieur Brujon; indeed, all my schooling taught me was just to repeat the Credo, and to read a few words of print.”

“Well, if it taught you also to hold your tongue,” replied the most inveterate gossip in Paris, “it has taught you enough to make you a good servant. Well, it is now time for bed. You know your duties, and should any noise awaken you in the night, your first thought will be of the plate under your keeping. You will give the alarm, call me and hold the thief should you be able to seize him. But I may tell you at once that there is little need of fear. All the doors are impossible to open, there are no windows on the ground floor, and there is always a watchman in the courtyard. Still, it is your duty to be on the qui vive.”

“You may trust that I will do my duty, Monsieur Brujon; and now, where is your bedroom, so that, in the event of anything happening, I may call you?”

“I will show you,” replied Brujon.

He led the way downstairs and showed the room, which was situated off the same passage as that on which Lavenne’s opened.

“The menservants sleep in the basement, the maids under the roof,” said Brujon, with a fat smile.

He bade good-night to the new man and shuffled off to his office, whilst Lavenne retired to his room. Lavenne had a theory that every mind is like a safe in this particular: that the strongest safe can be picked if only the locksmith is clever enough. He knew that to get at a man’s secrets all questioning is useless, unless you bring your mind in tune with his. He knew that men run in tribes, and that there is a quite unconscious freemasonry between members of the same tribe.

His instinct told him the tribe to which M. Brujon belonged, and his marvellous power of adaptability made him for the moment a member of the same tribe. In short, his scandalous stories about the unfortunate Madame Le Roux had put him at once en rapport with the jovial, easy-going, scandal-loving and eminently Gallic mind of M. Brujon.

That mind had opened without any difficulty to the skilful pick-lock, giving up the fact as to the situation of the room where his master busied himself with his strange chemistry.

Lavenne had captured the situation of the room; it was now his business, and a much more difficult business, to capture the key, or, failing that, to pick the lock. He had brought with him an instrument similar to the old crochet used by the burglars of France ever since the time of the Coquillards—the instrument that is used still under the name of the Nightingale. With this he could unlock and lock a door as easily as with a key. It remained to be seen whether the door of Camus’ room could be opened by this means.

He blew out the candle, lay down on the bed, and closing his eyes began, as a pastime, to review the whole situation.

It was a difficult situation enough. If Camus caught him in the act of making an examination of his room, Camus would certainly kill him, unless he killed Camus. Even in the latter event he would almost certainly be lost, unless he could make his escape, which was very unlikely. For if he killed Count Camus in his own house, he would, if caught, be most certainly hanged by de Sartines; it being the unwritten law of the HÔtel de Sartines that an agent caught on a business of this sort must never reveal his identity, or seek protection from the Law which employed him, suffering even death, if necessary, in the execution of his duty.

But this consideration did not deflect our man a hair’s-breadth from the course he had mapped out for himself. The thing that was now occupying his mind was the room itself, of which he had caught a glimpse, its contents and its possible secrets.

It was the dark centre of Camus’ life, the depository, without doubt, of his secrets. What he would find there in the way of written or other evidence, Lavenne did not know; of how he would prosecute his search, he had no definite plan; yet he knew that here was the only place where Justice might rest her lever as on a fulcrum, and with one swift movement send the Poisoner crashing to the pit that awaited him.

As he lay in the darkness revolving these matters in his mind, he heard the great clock of the HÔtel chiming the hour of eleven. He determined to wait till midnight. Jumeau had told him that Camus had gone to the HÔtel Dubarry and would not be home, most likely, till the small hours, if then.

Lavenne felt that he had the whole night before him, unconscious of the fact that Camus’ hour of return that night was not at all to be counted on, simply for the reason that Camus, when Camille Fontrailles left the party, had become restless, and though he had taken his place at the card-table, showed such absence of mind that Luck, who hates a cold lover, declared herself dead against him.

Meanwhile Monsieur Brujon retired to rest, but not before sending a special messenger to Monsieur Gaston Le Roux with a note, enclosing the testimonial, and an inquiry as to whether the man mentioned in it was to be trusted.

M. Le Roux’s reply consisted of only one word, “Absolutely.”

CHAPTER VI
THE LABORATORY

AT twelve o’clock, Lavenne, slipping from the bed, felt in his pockets to make sure that the crochet, the tinder-box and steel and the three special candles which he had brought with him, short and thick like modern night-lights, were to hand. Then he opened his door.

The passage was in black darkness, yet he felt sure of finding his way. He had noted the length of the passage, the position of the doors, and the position of the staircase leading to the upper floor; he had counted the number of steps in the stairs, the form of the landing to which they led was mapped in his mind, and also the point in the landing from which opened the passage leading to the dining-room corridor and to the laboratory of Camus.

He closed the door of the bedroom carefully, and groping his way, passed down the passage to the stairs. The stairs creaked under his foot, some stairways seem to creak the louder the more softly they are trodden on. Lavenne knew this idiosyncrasy and went boldly, reached the landing, found the passage to the dining-room corridor, and in a moment more was spreading his fingers on the door of Camus’ private room in search of the key-hole.

Then, taking the crochet from his pocket, he inserted it in the lock.

Lavenne possessed a vast fund of special knowledge without which, despite his genius and fertility of resource, he would have been lost a hundred times in the course of a year. Not only had he a quick mind to receive knowledge, he had also a memory to retain it. Again, that kindness and rectitude of spirit which made so many men his friends, opened for him a living library in the HÔtel de Sartines. For instance, he had learned much of the science of Cryptography from Fremin. Jondret, who would certainly have been hanged some day as a housebreaker, had not de Sartines recognized his genius and drawn him into the police, had taught him the science of picking locks, whilst Cabuchon, a little old man, who in the year 1767 had placed his dirty forefinger on the poisoner of M. Terell, the haberdasher of the Rue St. HonorÉ, had taught him many of the tricks of poisoners.

The art of poisoning, first studied in Europe seriously by the Italians, had been imported into France in the days of the infamous Catherine de Medicis. The Revolution put its heel definitely on the last remnants of this fine product of the Middle Ages, but in the time of the fifteenth Louis there were still a few practitioners of the business, as witness the case of M. Terell poisoned by a candle.

Cabuchon had disclosed many of the secrets of this horrible science to the eager Lavenne. He had not only given him considerable knowledge of the methods used by the practitioners of the Italian art, such as the poisoning of gloves and flowers, but he had also given his pupil an insight into the psychology of the poisoner who uses recondite means, showing clearly and by instance that these people develop a passion for the business, and are sometimes held under the sway and fascination of the demon who presides over it so firmly that they will poison their fellow men and women for the slightest reason, and sometimes for no perceptible reason at all.

It was this knowledge derived from Cabuchon that disclosed to Lavenne at one stroke the poisoner of Atalanta, and the intending poisoner of Madame Camus.

It was the knowledge derived from Jondret that was now guiding his dexterous hand in the use of the crochet. Feeling and exploring the wards, examining the construction of the lock, using the delicacy and gentleness of a surgeon who is probing a wound, he worked, till, assured of the mechanism, with a powerful and sudden turn of the wrist he forced the bolt back and the door was open.

He entered the room, shut the door, and proceeded to examine the lock. The bolt was a spring bolt, that is to say, that whilst it required a key to open, it required none to lock it again. He pressed the door to, and it closed with a click scarcely audible and speaking well for the perfection of the mechanism.

Then he struck a spark from the tinder and steel, and lit one of his candles. The lamp was standing on the table, but he would have nothing to do with it. It was necessary to be prepared for instant concealment should anyone arrive to interrupt him, and a lamp takes a perceptible time to extinguish. He placed the lighted candle on the table, and turned to the curtains hiding the window. They were of heavy corded silk, and there was space enough behind them for a man to hide if necessary. Sure of the fact, he turned again to the table. He scarcely glanced at the bottles and retorts upon it; hastily, yet thoroughly, he examined it for drawers or secret compartments, but the table was solid throughout, made of English oak, roughly constructed and showing no sign of the French cabinet-makers’ art.

Leaving the table, he examined the cabinets in the corners of the room. They held nothing but the bottles and retorts visible through their glass doors. He examined the walls for concealed cupboards and caches, auscultating them here and there, just as a physician sounds the chest of a patient nowadays. But the walls made no response, they were of solid stone behind the stucco. He turned his attention to the flooring, sounding the solid parquet here and there, and had reached to a spot halfway between the table and the window-curtains, when a hollow note gave answer to his knock, a deep, resonant note, showing that a fairly large area of floor space was involved. He was going on both knees to examine this space more carefully when a step sounded in the corridor outside, a key was put into the lock of the door; and Lavenne, who, at the first sound of the step had blown out the candle, placed it in his pocket and whipped behind the curtains veiling the window.

It was Camus. He entered, lamp in hand, closed the door, placed the lamp on the table, and from it lit the other lamp. The Count evidently required plenty of light this evening, either to assist his thoughts or his studies. Lavenne, behind the curtains, had a good view of the room, its occupant, the table, the walls leading to the door and the door itself.

Camus, turning from the table, began to pace the floor. He seemed plunged in deep thought as he walked up and down, his hands behind his back, his head bent, the light now striking his face, now his hands knotted together, delicate yet powerful hands, remarkable, had you examined them closely, for the size of the thumbs.

Could you imagine yourself in the room with a man-eating tiger, and nothing separating you in the way of barrier but a curtain, you would feel somewhat as Lavenne felt alone thus with Count Camus. Looking through the small space between the curtains, he noted for the first time fully the powerful build of the man.

Camus, unconscious that he was being watched, continued to pace the floor. Then, pausing before one of the corner cupboards, he took a key from his pocket, opened the cupboard and drew out a wooden stand, holding two narrow tubes shaped like test-tubes. The tubes were corked, and one was half-filled with a violet-coloured solution, the other with a crystal-clear white liquid.

Camus closed the cupboard door with his left hand, and carrying the tubes carefully placed them and the stand containing them on the table. Then going to another cupboard, he took from it an object which held the watcher behind the curtain fascinated as he gazed on it. It was a mask made of glass, with black ribbons attached at the edge, so that it could be tied securely to the head of the wearer, the ribbons passing above and below the ears.

“Ah ha!” said Lavenne to himself, “we are going to see something now.”

He watched whilst Camus, having placed the mask on the table, went to the cupboard and produced a glass slab, a rod of glass and a small brush of camel-hair, such as artists use for water-colour painting. Also, from the same cupboard, he produced a tiny bottle with a gold stopper; this bottle was not made of glass, but of metal.

Having arranged his materials on the table, the Count drew from his pocket an object which caused the watcher behind the curtain much searching of mind. The object was a dagger, or rather a sheath knife, small, of exquisite design, and with scabbard and pommel crusted with gems.

He drew the blade from the sheath, which he placed carefully on one side. The blade was of silver, double-edged and damascened, about an inch broad and four inches long.

He placed the blade by the sheath. Then he put on the mask, took the tube containing the violet liquor and poured a few drops on the glass slab, then, as swiftly as light, a few drops from the tube containing the crystal-clear liquid, stirring the two together with the point of the glass rod. He reached out his left hand for the small metal bottle, uncorked it, and poured a few drops on the slab.

Instantly a cloud of vapour rose up, the liquid on the slab seemed to boil; dipping the little brush in the seething fluid, he drew the dagger blade to him and began to paint the silver with swift strokes, reaching from the haft to the point.

He only painted one side of the blade, and when the business was completed, instead of returning the blade to the sheath, he laid it on the table as if to dry.

Then he rose from the chair and removed the mask from his face.

A faint sickly odour filled the room. Lavenne, who had a pretty intimate knowledge of most perfumes, pleasant or unpleasant, and who in the course of his duties in the old quarters of Paris had learned the art of possessing no nose, drew back slightly from this effluvium, the effect of which was mental rather than physical. It might have been likened to an essence distilled from an evil dream. But it did not seem to trouble Camus. He was now putting away the bottle and the tubes, the rod and the slab of glass. He returned the mask to the cabinet he had taken it from, and then, coming back to the table, he took up the dagger, examined it attentively and returned it to its sheath.

Going to the right-hand wall, he touched a spot about four feet from the ground; a tiny door, the existence of which Lavenne had failed to detect, flew open. He placed the dagger in the cache thus disclosed, shut the door, extinguished one of the lamps on the table, and carrying the other in his hand, left the room.

Lavenne drew a deep breath.

The situation was saved. Relieved of that terrible presence, his mind could now work freely. Up to this, he had been unable to guess the meaning of Camus’ labours.

Why had Camus used this terrible fluid to poison the knife only on one side? Why had he used such immense precaution that the other side of the steel should remain untainted.

The answer came now in a flash. Cabuchon had told him of this old medieval trick, only Cabuchon had used the word knife, not dagger.

Camus would use his dagger in this way. Laughingly, at some festival or banquet, he would take out his beautiful dagger, and, cutting a pear or a peach or an apple in two, offer half to his companion, whoever he or she might be.

And the half offered to his companion would be poisoned, inasmuch as it would have come closely in contact with the poisoned side of the knife, whereas the half retained for himself would be innocuous.

And who could say to him, “Madame Camus died after eating that peach you offered her,” considering the fact that he had also eaten of it?

CHAPTER VII
THE FAWN AND THE SERPENT

LAVENNE, considering this matter in his mind, still remained behind the curtain standing in absolute darkness and waiting so as to give Camus time to remember anything that he might possibly have forgotten.

After the lapse of ten minutes, fairly assured that the Count would not return, he pushed the curtains aside and struck a light.

This time, he boldly lit the lamp on the table and with it in his hand approached the wall on the right and began to hunt for the spring of the secret opening. He was not long in finding it; a tiny disc, the same colour as the wall and only revealed by its thread-like edge, showed itself to the light of the lamp. He pressed on it, the door of the cache flew open, and in a moment the dagger was in his hand. There was nothing else in the cache. Already he had formulated a plan in his mind, a plan which at first sight might seem diabolical, but which he considered, and with justice, the only means with which to meet the case.

Camus was no ordinary villain. This room was evidently his stronghold and the cache was evidently his most secret hiding-place. Yet there were no incriminating papers to be found in the room, no papers whatever; nor in the cache. This gentleman evidently kept his secrets in his soul. He made no mistakes. Justice, Lavenne felt, might search for ever without finding a tittle of evidence against him, and indeed this fact, de Sartines, who had long known his proclivities, had proved to the hilt. But there is such a thing as Retribution, and in the name of Retribution Lavenne had declared in his own mind that the knife of Camus should be Camus’ undoing.

Lavenne, replacing the lamp on the table, examined the dagger minutely without drawing the blade. The design was different on the two sides of the sheath. On one side a fawn trod boldly on jewelled grapes, on the other a serpent of six curves extended itself from the blade-entrance to the point. The pommel on both its sides was of the same design.

Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two sides of this dagger-sheath. One could have told them one from the other in the dark and just by the sense of touch.

Lavenne verified this fact with a grim pursing of his lips. The dagger and sheath had been constructed for a set purpose, so that the poisoner who had poisoned one side of the blade might know at once, and before drawing it from its sheath, which was the lethal side. A mistake on this point would have meant death to the poisoner instead of the intended victim. Now Lavenne did not know which side of the blade Camus had poisoned, for the sheath had been covered by the Count’s hand when he put the blade back in it.

Lavenne, however, did not in the least require to know which was the poisoned side, or whether it faced to the serpent or the fawn. Camus knew this and that was sufficient.

To destroy Camus, Lavenne had only to draw the double-edged blade from the sheath and insert it again, the other way about.

That being done, this presenter of fruit to ladies would, when he cut his apple or pear in two, present himself with the poisoned half.

Lavenne drew the blade from the sheath, noticed that the poison, which doubtless was only soluble in an acid solution, like, for instance, the juice of a fruit, showed no sign of its presence on the silver, inserted the blade again in the sheath the other way about, and returned the dagger to the cache, which he then closed. His work was now done, there was nothing left but to extinguish the lamp and leave the room. He looked about to see that everything was in perfect order, and then, taking the crochet from his pocket, he approached the door.

The lock turned quite easily to the instrument, but the door did not open.

He withdrew the crochet, reinserted it, and made the turn with his wrist, and again with the same result.

The door was bolted now as well as locked. Lavenne drew the back of his hand across his forehead, which was covered with sweat. It was quite useless to try again. It was not the fault of the lock. He remembered now that Brujon, before he opened the door to show him the room, had placed one hand on the wall beside the door. Brujon was stout, and Lavenne had fancied that he leaned his hand on the wall to rest himself. He knew now that Brujon must have touched a spring withdrawing a secret bolt, without the release of which the door would not open.

When Brujon had closed the door, he must have forgotten to touch another spring which would have re-shot the bolt. Owing to this forgetfulness, Lavenne had been able to enter the room simply by picking the lock. But Camus, who seemed never to forget precaution, had not forgotten to touch the bolting spring, with the result that Lavenne was now a prisoner in a prison that threatened to be his tomb.

He knew that it was quite futile, with the means at his disposal, to make any further attempt upon the lock; even had he possessed a crow-bar and all the tools necessary, the noise of the breaking open of the door would arouse the house.

The doorway being impossible, he turned to the window, which he had not yet examined. The lamp held close to the window showed nothing of the dark world outside, but it showed very definitely strong iron bars almost touching the glass.

The window being impossible, he turned to the floor.

There was just a chance that the hollow-sounding portion of the parquet between the table and the window curtains might disclose a means of exit. There was, in fact, more than a chance, for a man like Camus, who forgot nothing, would be the least likely man to forget to provide a secret way of escape from this chamber of secrecy.

Lavenne was not wrong; the parquet on close examination showed the outline of a trap-door so well constructed as to be perfectly indistinguishable to the gaze of a person who was not searching for it.

In five minutes, or less, he had discovered the button of the opening spring. He pressed on it, and the flap, instead of rising, as in the ordinary trap-door, sank, disclosing a perpendicular ladder leading down into absolute darkness.

CHAPTER VIII
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS

HERE was a way of escape, but escape to where? He did not consider the latter question for an instant. Replacing the lamp on the table, he glanced round to make sure that everything was in exact order, counted all the articles in his possession, the crochet, the two extra candles which he carried, etc., just as a surgeon counts the sponges which he has used during an operation, and having satisfied himself that he had disturbed nothing and left nothing behind, he extinguished the lamp, found the trap-door opening in the darkness and came down the ladder. It had fifteen rungs. When he felt the solid ground under his feet, he lit one of his candles and looked about him.

He was standing in a passage that led to a flight of steps descending into darkness, above was the square opening of the trap-door, and shining in the wall on his right, a brass handle. He guessed its use and pulling on it, the flap of the door above rose steadily and slowly and closed with a faint sucking sound like that of a piston driven home in a perfectly fitting cylinder.

It seemed to Lavenne that everything was favouring him, for had he been forced to leave the door open, his plan might have been ruined, as Camus would undoubtedly have suspected a spy on his movements.

With the lighted candle in his hand, he came towards the flight of steps. At the top of this stone stairway, he paused for a moment almost daunted. It seemed to have no end. The light of the candle became swallowed up in the darkness before revealing the last step. There were over a hundred of these steps leading to a passage, or rather a tunnel, which ended by opening into a corridor. The tunnel struck the corridor at right angles, and Lavenne, holding his light to the walls, looked in vain for an indication as to whether he should turn to the right or the left. Failing to find any, he turned to the right.

He had gone only a few yards when an opening in the corridor wall gave him a glimpse of something more daunting than the darkness. It was a skull resting on a heap of bones. The skull, from which the lower jaw was missing, was yet not wholly without speech. It told Lavenne at once where he was.

Pursuing his way and casting the light of the candle into several more of these lidless sarcophagi, he reached a large open space, where over the piles of bones heaped against the walls, the candle-light revealed a Latin inscription cut into the stone.

From this open space to the right, to left, in front and behind of the man who had just entered it, the candle-light showed four corridors each leading to darkness.

Lavenne had left the laboratory of Count Camus only to find himself entangled in the Catacombs of Paris.

Camus’ house seemed built in conformity with his mind, secure, secret, containing many things unrevealable to the light of day, and based on a maze of dark passages offering a means of escape to the mind that knew them and bewilderment and despair to the mind that did not.

Lavenne knew something of the catacombs, but not much. They lay outside his province.

The Catacombs of Paris are to-day just as they were in the time of the fifteenth Louis, with this difference: they are more fully occupied, since they contain the bones of many of the victims of the Terror. This vast system of tunnelling which extends from the heart of Paris to the plain of Mont Souris is in reality a city where rock takes the place of houses, galleries the place of streets, dead men the place of citizens, and eternal darkness the place of day and night.

It has been closed now for some years on account of the danger to explorers arising from the huge army of rats that have made it their camping-ground. Some years ago a man was attacked and eaten by rats in one of the galleries.

Few inhabitants of the gay city of Paris ever give a thought to the city of Death that lies beneath their feet, and fewer still to the motto that is written on the walls of this vast tomb—just as it is written everywhere:

“Remember, Man, that thou art Dust, and that unto Dust thou shalt return.”