CHAPTER X

THE ORDER OF ARREST

At a quarter past eleven, that is to say, a quarter of an hour before Rochefort received the note from Mademoiselle Fontrailles, Choiseul, who had kissed the hand of the Dubarry, congratulated her on her dress, compared her to a rose in an epigram that had the appearance of being absolutely new, and watched her vanishing with his Majesty triumphantly towards the apartments lately occupied by the Princess Adélaïde, and now occupied by the favourite—at a quarter past eleven, Choiseul, furious under his mask of calm, turned towards his own apartments.

The fixed smile on his face never altered as he bowed to right and left, and as he passed along through the crowd several members of the assemblage detached themselves from the mass and fell into his train.

Choiseul’s apartments in the Palace of Versailles were even more sumptuous than those relegated to the use of the Dubarry. He passed from the corridor to the _salon_, which he used for the private reception of ambassadors, and all that host of people, illustrious and obscure, which it was the duty of the Minister to receive, in the name of France.

This _salon_ was upholstered in amber satin and white and gold, with a ceiling of yellow roses and joyful cupids. Ablaze with lights, as now, the place seemed like a great cell, the most gorgeous and the most brilliantly lit in that great honeycomb, Versailles.

Choiseul sat down at a table and dashed off a letter which he addressed, sealed, and sent by a servant to M. de Beautrellis, captain of the Gardes, for delivery. Then he turned to Coigny who had followed him.

“You told the others to come here to-night?”

“Yes, monsieur; they are even now waiting outside the door.”

“Well, we will have them in. Coigny, how has this happened?”

“I don’t know, monsieur, unless it was the devil. Everything was secure, everything was assured. Madame de Béarn was out of action, and you know what other measures we took. Yet at the last moment we are overthrown.”

“Well,” said Choiseul, “it only remains for us to find out the secret of our reverse, and the name of the person who has upset our plans. Call in the others.”

Coigny went to the side door giving entrance to the apartments, opened it, and ushered in a number of gentlemen who had been standing outside. First came Camus, the chief of the executive of the broken-down conspiracy; after him Monpavon, cool, smug and impudent as ever, and after him, d’Estouteville, a trifle flushed; after these, the others who had helped in one way or the other in the great fiasco, as Monpavon had already named the business. Seven gentlemen in all entered to receive Choiseul’s felicitations on their failure to outwit a woman, and Choiseul’s tongue in a matter of this sort was sure.

“Ah, Monsieur Camus!” said he. “Good evening. Good evening, Monsieur Monpavon; Monsieur d’Estouteville, good evening. Ah! I see Monsieur d’Est, Monsieur Beaupré, Monsieur Duras—well, gentlemen, we have not succeeded in lending as much colour to his Majesty’s presentation to-night as I might have wished. We have not been very brilliant, gentlemen. Monsieur Monpavon, I believe you have a very small opinion of women. Their value, of course, viewed philosophically, is an academic question; but viewed practically—well, viewed practically, the brains of those women you despise, Monsieur Monpavon, have a certain value, though you may not imagine it. Yes, Monsieur d’Estouteville, the brain of a woman has proved itself a better article to-night than all the brains in Versailles. Monsieur Camus, what explanation have you to offer?”

He expected to see Camus discomfited, but the dark, pitted face of the Count showed nothing of his feelings.

“Monsieur,” said Camus, “we have been betrayed.”

“That is very evident,” said Choiseul. “_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur Camus, what next will you come here to tell me? That the sun does not shine at night?”

“Monsieur,” said Camus, “I have not yet finished. I know the name of the man who has betrayed us.”

“Ah, you know his name!”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And this man?”

“It is the Comte de Rochefort.”

“Rochefort!”

“Monsieur, it is Rochefort, and no other. He alone knew of our plan.”

“Who told him?”

“I did, monsieur.”

“You told him?”

“He was my friend. I reckoned him a man of honour. I swore him to secrecy.” As he told this lie his hand went to his pocket and produced a piece of paper. “And entrusted him with the full details of the business in hand. He refused to assist, we quarrelled. It was just after we left your ball last night, and we parted in the Rue de Chevilly.

“I turned and walked slowly away, intending to return to the Hôtel de Choiseul and inform you of the matter. Then I altered my mind, as the idea occurred to me of calling on my friend, the Marquis de Soyecourt, and I did not want to trouble you at that late hour, engaged as you were with the duties of hospitality. I came down the street leading past the Bénédictines de la Ville l’Évêque, and sought the side way to the Hôtel de Soyecourt that runs between the wall of the Bénédictines and the wall of the cloister of the Madeleine, forgetting that this side way is closed by a barrier at night. Before I had reached it a man came out hurriedly. It was M. Rochefort.

“He was carrying his sword naked in his hand and wiping it upon a piece of paper; he cast the paper away, and, sheathing his sword, walked off hurriedly in the direction of the river. He did not see me, as I had taken shelter in an alcove. I picked the piece of paper up; then I glanced down the passage to the Hôtel de Soyecourt, and there, lying by the barricade, was a man. He was dead, still warm, and he had died from a sword-thrust through the heart. I thought in him I recognized one of our agents. I walked away, and in the Rue de la Madeleine I took counsel with myself, went home, and sent a servant to apprise your major-domo of the occurrence. To-day I have been so busy ever since six in the morning that I had no time to trouble in the matter. But those are the facts, and here is the piece of paper which I picked up. And see, here are the blood marks.”

Choiseul took the page of the _ballade_ between finger and thumb; the marks were plain and bore out Camus’ statement.

It did not matter to him two buttons whether Camus’ statement were true or false, as long as his statement about the betrayal was true, and he knew now that it must be true, for his agents had brought him the report that the man in the cloak and hat who had left the Dubarrys’ house the night before had been accompanied by a man like Rochefort, that they had driven to a house in which Rochefort had apartments, a report of the whole story which we know.

And you will observe that, though Rochefort had stamped himself on the spy’s report in letters of fire, Sartines, the core of the whole conspiracy, was not even suspected. Sartines had managed to shovel the whole onus of the business on to the shoulders of Rochefort; he had not set out wilfully so to do, perhaps—or perhaps he had; at all events, his success was due entirely to his faultless methods. No one suspected him, and he had not made an enemy of Choiseul, despite the fact that he alone had wrecked Choiseul’s most cherished plan.

Choiseul, certain that Rochefort had been the means of his defeat, turned suddenly and faced the group of gentlemen standing before him.

“M. Camus, M. de Monpavon, M. d’Estouteville,” cried he, “I commission you. M. de Rochefort has not yet left the palace. Seize him and bring him here. If he has left the palace, pursue him and bring him here. I place the Gardes, and the Suisses and the police of M. Sartines at your disposal.”

He turned rapidly to a writing-table, sat down, and dashed off three warrants in the following terms:

“URGENCY.

“The bearer is empowered to seize and arrest the person of Charles Eugène Montargis, Comte de Rochefort, and to call on all French citizens to assist in such arrest.

“Signed, DE CHOISEUL, “Minister.”

He sanded each paper when written and passed it over his shoulder to the hands waiting to receive it. “If possible,” said he, “make the arrest yourselves, without the help of Sartines’ men. You are my accredited agents.”

When the three gentlemen had each received his commission and warrant they turned, led by Camus, and left the room swiftly and without a word. They entered the Chamber of Presentations, divided, passed through the room from door to door, through the thinning crowd, and drew it blank. Rochefort had left. The great clock of the chamber pointed to seven minutes past the half-hour.