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.