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.