CHAPTER VIII

THE HONOUR OF LAVENNE

That same morning, it will be remembered, Sartines received the visit of the Vicomte Jean, and also Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes, who came in person with the news of Rochefort’s escape.

Having dismissed Cousin, Sartines, perplexed, distracted, furious with himself, Rochefort, Choiseul, and the world in general, put aside the letters on which he had been engaged and rising from his chair began to walk up and down the room.

Everything now depended on what Rochefort would do. With Rochefort and Ferminard safe in Vincennes, Sartines felt safe. He knew instinctively that Choiseul was deeply suspicious about the affair of the Presentation. He knew for a fact that Choiseul had, through an agent, questioned the Comtesse de Béarn before she left Paris, and that the Comtesse, like the firm old woman she was, had refused to say a single word on the matter. She had, in fact, refused for two reasons. First: she had the two hundred thousand francs which the Dubarrys had paid her tight clutched in her hand. Secondly: she was too proud to acknowledge to the world how she had been tricked. Such a scandal would become historical, but not if she could help it with a de Béarn in the chief part.

There was no one to talk, then, but Rochefort and Ferminard, the chief actor—and they who had been in safe keeping were now loose.

In the midst of his meditations, a knock came to the door and the usher announced that Lavenne had arrived and wished to speak to the Minister. Sartines ordered him to be sent up at once. No visitor would be more welcome. The absence of Lavenne had been disturbing him for the last few days, for this man so fruitful in advice and expedient had become as the right hand of the Minister. Of all the clever people about him, Lavenne was the man whom he felt to be absolutely essential.

“_Mordieu_!” cried de Sartines, when Lavenne entered. “What has happened to you?”

He drew back a step.

The man before him looked ten years older than when he had seen him last, his face was white and pinched, his eyes were bloodshot, and the pupils seemed unnaturally dilated.

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, resting his hand on a chair-back as if for support, “I have had a bad time, but I will soon get over it. Meanwhile, I have an important report to make.”

“Sit down,” said de Sartines.

He rang the bell and ordered some wine to be sent up immediately. “And now,” said he, when the other had set down his glass, “tell me first where have you come from?”

“I have come from the Catacombs of Paris, monsieur, where I have been trapped and wandering since I don’t know when.”

“From the Catacombs?”

“Yes, monsieur, or rather from the plain of Mont Souris to which the gallery which I pursued led me.”

“But what were you doing in the Catacombs?”

“Trying to escape, monsieur, and I can only say this, that I hope never to have a similar experience.”

Then rapidly he began to tell of his visit to Camus’ house, of the laboratory, of what he had seen, and of his escape.

“I had to choose between three corridors, monsieur, and the one I chose led me to a blank wall. I had to come back, which took me a day. I had to go most of the time in darkness to husband the candles I had with me.

“The new corridor I chose led me right at last, but the last was a long time coming. Several times I fell asleep and must have slept many hours. I would have died of exhaustion had I not found water. At several places I found water trickling through crevices of the rock and I had to cross one fairly big pool. I had to walk always, feeling my way with one foot. My progress was slow. At last I came to the old grating which guards the entrance to the Catacombs on the plain of Mont Souris. There I might have died had not my cries attracted the attention of a man, who, obtaining assistance, broke down the bars and freed me. That was yesterday evening. He took me to his cottage, and then after I had taken some food I fell into a sleep that lasted till late this morning.”

Lavenne’s story filled Sartines with such astonishment that he forgot for a moment the main business in hand, that is to say, Rochefort. It was Lavenne who recalled him to it.

“And now that I have told you my story, monsieur,” said he, “let us forget it, for there are matters of much more importance to be considered. I have been out of the world practically for four days. Is Count Camus still alive?”

He had told Sartines about the poisoning of the silver dagger, but he had not told him all.

“Alive,” said the Minister, “oh, yes, he is very much alive, or was so late last night. Why do you ask?”

“Because, monsieur, before leaving the room I told you of, I drew that dagger from its sheath and inserted it again, but I took particular care to insert it the other way about.”

“The other way about?”

“Yes, monsieur. It fitted the sheath either way.”

“So that if Camus uses it,” cried Sartines, starting from his chair, “if the gentleman of the Italian school uses his fruit knife in the way that the poisoning of the blade suggests, it is he himself who will suffer?”

“Precisely, monsieur; I had only a moment to think in. I said to myself, this wicked blade has been prepared for the slaying of an innocent woman, he has already tried to kill her with a prepared rose, he failed, he killed Atalanta instead, the death of his Majesty’s favourite dog drew me into the business, and now I am made by God his judge. I said to myself—There is no use at all trying to bring this gentleman to justice by ordinary means, he is too clever, his poisons are too artfully prepared, he will surely give us the slip. Let his own hand deal him justice, and I reversed the dagger in its sheath.”

“_Mordieu_!” said de Sartines, “that was at least a quick road. But the handle of the dagger, will he not notice that it has been reversed?”

“No, monsieur, for the pattern of the handle was the same on both sides, whereas the patterns on the sides of the sheath were widely different.”

Sartines sat down again; for a moment he said nothing; he seemed plunged in thought.

“That was four days ago,” said he at last, “yet nothing has happened. Both Camus and his wife are alive and very much in evidence.”

“Have they met much, monsieur?”

“As far as I can say, no, for Madame Camus has been at Versailles for the last couple of days.”

“When I asked had they met much, monsieur, I should have asked, have they met at any public entertainment or banquet, for it is then that the deed will be done, openly and before witnesses. For that is the essence of the whole business. It would be quite easy for Count Camus to poison his wife at home and in secret, but it is necessary for him to say, ‘I only met her once in the last so many days, we were quite good friends, so much so, that we shared an apple together. Do you suggest that I poisoned the apple? Well, considering that I ate half of it and that I did not touch it beyond taking it from the dish and cutting it in two such a suggestion is absurd.—And here is the knife itself. I always use it for cutting fruit, see, the blade is silvered on purpose, take it, test it for poison——’ So, monsieur, you see my drift. The deed will be done at some public entertainment, and I ask you, have they met at such an entertainment where the thing would be feasible?”

“No,” said Sartines, speaking slowly and raising his eyes from the floor where they had been resting. “But they will to-night.”

“To-night?”

“I believe so. M. de Choiseul is holding a reception at his house in the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré. Camus, who is in love with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, will surely be there, and the girl will surely be there, since the Dubarrys are now friends with Choiseul—for the moment—and since Madame Camus is a friend of Madame de Choiseul, she will be there.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I will not give a _denier_ for M. Camus’ life after midnight to-night.”

“He will save the hangman some trouble,” said Sartines, taking a pinch of snuff. “And it will be interesting to watch—yes—very interesting to watch.” Then suddenly his face changed in expression. “_Dame_! I forgot, all this put it out of my head. Rochefort has left Vincennes.”

“M. de Rochefort left Vincennes!” cried Lavenne. “Since when, monsieur?”

“He escaped last night.”

“But—but,” said Lavenne. “He had agreed to stay. He quite understood his danger. This is strange news, monsieur.”

“He must have got tired of prison,” said Sartines. “That devil of a man never could be easy anywhere, and not only that, he has let out Ferminard.”

“But how did they escape, monsieur?”

“How, by means of a rope which M. de Rochefort must have woven out of nothing in three days, by means of a file which he must have invented out of nothing for the purpose of cutting his window-bar, by half strangling the gaoler and leaving him tied up on the floor—I do not know, the thing was a miracle, but it was done.”

“And you have heard nothing of him this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“Now,” said Lavenne, talking as if to himself, “I wonder what his motive was in doing that? I explained to him and he understood——”

“He had no motive, he is a man who acts on impulse.”

“Has he been visited in prison, monsieur?”

“No. I was sending Captain Beauregard to see him this morning, but it was too late.”

“Has he been treated well?”

“Excellently. Captain Pierre Cousin, who came to me with the news this morning, vouched for his good treatment.”

“Did he say anything to Captain Cousin that might give a clue to his motive?”

“No, Captain Cousin never saw him.”

“Never saw him?”

“Well, it seems that he has been very busy with the half-yearly reports and accounts of Vincennes, and the governor in any case does not visit new prisoners as a matter of routine.”

“Ah,” said Lavenne. “One can fancy M. de Rochefort imagining himself neglected and getting restive, but I cannot imagine where he could have got the means of escape.”

“Nor can anyone else,” replied de Sartines.

He looked up. The usher had knocked at the door and was entering the room, a letter in his hand.

“Who brought it?” asked Sartines, taking the letter.

“I don’t know, monsieur, a man left it and went away saying that there was no answer.”

He withdrew and the Minister opened the letter.

He cast his eyes over the contents and then handed it to Lavenne.

“DEAR SARTINES,” ran this short and explicit communication, “I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you to-night at the Duc de Choiseul’s reception. I have left Vincennes, it was too dull. Meanwhile, do not be troubled in the least. I hope to make everything right with Choiseul.

“Yours, “DE ROCHEFORT.”

“Well, monsieur,” said Lavenne, returning the letter, which he had read with astonishment, but without the slightest alteration of expression, “we have now, at least, a clue to M. de Rochefort’s plans.”

Sartines was white with anger.

“A clue to M. de Rochefort’s plans. Is the Hôtel de Sartines to sit down, then, and wait for M. de Rochefort to develop his plans?” He had taken his seat, but he rose again and began to walk up and down a few steps, his hands behind his back, his fingers twitching at his ruffles. “M. de Rochefort finds the Château de Vincennes too dull, he leaves it just as I would leave this room, he comes to Paris to amuse himself and he sends me a note that he hopes to meet me at M. de Choiseul’s. Delightful. But since it is my wish that he should not have left the Château de Vincennes, that he should not be in Paris, that instead of visiting the Duc de Choiseul, he should be ten thousand leagues away from the Duc de Choiseul—it seems to me, considering all these things, that I have been ill-served by my servants, by my agents, and by the police who have the safe keeping of the order of his Majesty’s city of Paris.”

Lavenne looked on and listened. When Sartines was taken with anger in this particular way, he literally stood on his dignity, and seemed to be addressing the Parliament.

“What, then, has happened to us?” went on the Minister. “We have lost touch with our genius, it seems. Are we the Hôtel de Sartines or the Hospital of the Quinze-Vingts?” Then, blazing out, “By my name and the God above me, I will dismiss every man who has touched this business, from the gaoler at Vincennes to the man who received that letter and allowed the bearer to take his departure.”

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “it is less the fault of your servants than of events. M. de Rochefort is free, but you need have no fear of the consequences.”

“Do you not understand,” said Sartines, in an icy voice, speaking slowly, as though to let each word sink home to the mind of the listener, “that if M. le Duc de Choiseul takes this Rochefort in his net he will not be satisfied with imprisoning him. ‘For the good of the State,’ that will be his excuse—he will question him by means of the Rack and the Question by Water. Or rather, he will only have to mention their names and Rochefort will tell all. Why should he shelter the Dubarrys whom he hates? And once he tells, we are all lost. His Majesty would never forgive the affair of the Presentation—never—and now we have this precious Rochefort walking right into M. de Choiseul’s arms.”

“There is nothing to fear, monsieur, I have in my pocket something that will act on M. de Choiseul as a powerful bit acts on a restive horse. It is no less than a letter which M. de Choiseul wrote on the night of the Presentation.”

He took Choiseul’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Sartines.

“Where did you get this from?” asked Sartines when he had finished reading it.

Lavenne told.

“Ah,” said the other. “Well, this simplifies everything indeed. This is the bowstring. _Mon Dieu_! was the man mad to write this? At once I shall take this to his Majesty and lay it before him with my own hands.”

“No, monsieur,” said Lavenne.

“Ah! What did you say?”

“I said no, monsieur. The letter is not mine, or at least only mine to hold as a means for the protection of M. de Rochefort. I promised the girl I told you of to keep it for that purpose.”

“Why, _Mon Dieu_!” cried Sartines, “I believe you are dictating to me what course of action I should take!”

“No, monsieur, or only as regards that letter and—a thing which is very precious to me—my honour.”

“Your honour. My faith! An agent of mine coming to me and talking of his honour where a business of State is concerned.” Then, flying out, “What has that to do with me?”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Lavenne coldly, and in a voice perfectly unshaken, “have you lived all these years in the world, and have you faced Paris and the Court so long in your capacity as Minister of Police that you set such a light price on honour. You value the keen sword of Verpellieux, the acuteness of Fremin, the cleverness of Jumeau, but what would all these men be worth to you if they could be bought? I have never spoken to you of the many times I could have accepted bribes in small matters, but the fact remains that without hurting you I could have accumulated fair sums of money. I did not, simply because something in me refused absolutely to play a double part. You know yourself how often I could have enriched myself by selling important secrets to your enemies. Where would you have been then? And the thing that saved you was not Lavenne, but the something that prevented Lavenne from betraying you. I call that something Honour. If it has another name it does not matter. The thing is the same. Well, I have pledged that something with regard to this letter, and if I do not redeem the pledge I will be no longer Lavenne, but a secret service agent of very little use to you, monsieur. That is all I wish to say.”

De Sartines took a few turns up and down. Then he folded up the letter and handed it back to Lavenne. From de Sartines’ point of view the word Honour belonged entirely to his own class. It was the name of a thing used among gentlemen, a thing appertaining to the higher orders. He had never considered it in relation to the _Rafataille_, had he done so he would have considered the relationship absurd.

According to his view of it, Honour, even amongst the nobility, was a very lean figure. Splendidly dressed, but very lean and capable of being doubled up and packed away without any injury to it.

A man must resent an insult sword in hand.

A man must not cheat at cards—or be caught cheating at cards.

A man may lie as much as he pleases, but he must kill another man who calls him a liar.

These were the chief articles in his code.

Sartines himself was almost destitute of the principles of Honour as we know it, just as he was almost wanting in the principles of Mercy as we know it. Witness that relative of his whom he had kept imprisoned in the Bastille for private ends and who was only released by the Revolutionaries of July.

Still, he had his code, and he talked of Honour and he considered it as an attribute of his station in life.

Lavenne just now had shown him a new side of the question, shown him in a flash that what he had always called the Fidelity of his subordinates was in reality a principle. He had always taken it as a personal tribute. He saw now that in the case of Lavenne, at least, it had to do with Lavenne himself, and secondarily only with de Sartines. And it was a principle that must not be tampered with, for on its integrity depended M. de Sartines’ safety and welfare.

He knew, besides, that the letter was in safe hands and that the wise Lavenne, in using it for the protection of Rochefort, would use it also for the protection of de Sartines. And away at the back of his mind there was the ghost of an idea that this terrible letter was safest for all parties in the hands of Lavenne.

Therefore he returned it.

“What you say is just, here is the letter. I will trust you to use it not only for the protection of M. de Rochefort, but in my interests if necessary. That is to say, of course, the interest of the State.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” replied the other, rising from his chair. “And now I must find M. de Rochefort if possible—though I have very little hope of doing so before to-night.”