CHAPTER XI

ROCHEFORT AND CHOISEUL

Rochefort watched the two men. One could make out absolutely nothing from their expressions or movements. Then they turned slowly and walked towards a door on the left of the _salon_.

Choiseul, with his hand on the door-handle, nodded slightly to his companion, passed through the door, shut it, and Sartines came hurrying towards Rochefort.

“Your interview has been granted. Remember that the letter in your pocket stands between you and social and bodily destruction. _Mordieu_! remember also your friends, Rochefort, for I will not hide it from you, that, should you fall into Choiseul’s hands, things will go badly with us.”

“Do not worry me with directions, my dear fellow,” said Rochefort. “If I am to do this thing, I must do it in my own way—come.”

He led the way through the door and into a passage leading to a room the door of which was ajar.

Rochefort knocked at this door and entered the room, followed by Sartines.

It was a small but beautifully furnished writing-room. Choiseul was standing before the fireplace, with his hands behind his back. He seemed in meditation, and raising his head, bowed slightly to the Count whilst Sartines closed the door and took a position on the right.

Sartines, as he came to a halt, produced his snuff-box, tapped it, opened it, and took a pinch.

“Well, Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Choiseul, “you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, “I wish to make an explanation. Some days ago, at his Majesty’s palace of Versailles, you in your discretion, and acting under your powers, thought fit to issue a warrant for the arrest of my person, and you entrusted this business to two of your gentlemen, M. le Comte Camus and M. d’Estouteville.”

Choiseul nodded slightly.

“I resisted that arrest, monsieur, not because I was conscious of having done any wrong and not because I dreaded any consequences that might arise from false information given against me. I resisted arrest simply because I was going to Paris on important business and did not wish to be stopped.”

“Oh!” said Choiseul, “you were going to Paris on important business and did not wish to be stopped. Indeed! And you have come here to tell me that you resisted an order of the State because you were going to Paris and did not wish to be stopped!”

Choiseul’s voice would have frozen an ordinary man, and few men in Rochefort’s position could have stood under the gaze of his cold grey eyes unmoved.

“I came to tell you absolutely the truth, monsieur. Yes, I resisted the order of the State for private reasons, but I will add this, my reasons were not entirely personal. I had to meet a lady——”

“Go on,” said Choiseul, “I do not wish to pry into your personal affairs. Have you anything more to say?”

“Yes, monsieur. To make my escape, I had to take a horse that was standing in waiting. On it I reached Paris. In the saddle-bag I found a letter addressed by you to a lady—I have forgotten the name—I do not wish to pry into your private affairs.”

Choiseul’s face had changed slightly in colour, but otherwise he betrayed none of the emotion that filled him, except, Sartines noticed, by a slight twitching of his left shoulder.

“Ah!” said he, “you found a letter of mine!”

“Yes, monsieur, I entrusted it to a person, who is my very faithful servant, to take to the address upon it. Now, this person—knowing that I was in trouble with M. de Choiseul—thought fit to open the letter, an action most discreditable and only excusable inasmuch as it was prompted by an humble mind, blinded by devotion to my interests.

“The letter was put into my hands with a strong suggestion that the contents might be useful to me.”

“Now, M. le Duc, you will at once understand that, so far from making use of this letter, I did not even read it. It is in my pocket now, perfectly safe, and I have the honour of returning it to you.”

To Sartines’ horror, Rochefort put his hand in his pocket, took out the letter and gave it to Choiseul, who opened it, glanced at the contents and placed it on the mantelpiece as though it were of no importance.

“I have only to add, monsieur,” continued Rochefort, “that in Paris, instead of taking the wise course of returning to Versailles to seek re-arrest, I said to myself, ‘M. Choiseul is against me. I had better make my escape or at least keep concealed until the storm blows over.’ That was very foolish, but I was enraged about other matters and I did not think clearly, and now, monsieur, what is the charge against me?”

“You are charged, Monsieur de Rochefort, with the killing of a man in the streets of Paris on the very night upon which you were here as my guest last.”

“The charge is perfectly correct, monsieur, but your informant did not tell all.”

“Walking home with Comte Camus I rescued a woman from two men who were maltreating her. I pursued one of the men, he attacked me and I killed him. I returned only to find the unfortunate woman whom I had rescued being assaulted by Count Camus. I struck him in the face and rolled him in the gutter, and he has never yet sought redress for that assault which I made upon him.”

“What is this you say?” asked Choiseul.

“The truth, monsieur,” replied Rochefort proudly.

* * * * *

Now Lavenne that evening, on taking over the police arrangements for Choiseul’s reception, had given special instructions to Vallone, one of his subordinates who had nothing to do with the policing of the reception, who, as a matter of fact, was a spy of the Hôtel de Sartines engaged in the service of Choiseul. It was Vallone, in fact, who had given Sartines the information that Choiseul had sent the note which the Comtesse de Béarn had received in the basket of flowers.

Lavenne had given the man instructions to watch Count Camus as a cat watches a mouse, and Lavenne, just at this moment, was standing unobserved watching the throng passing in and out of the _salon_ where refreshments were served. He saw Vallone leave the _salon_. Vallone glanced about, saw Lavenne and came rapidly towards him.

“Well,” said Lavenne, “what is it?”

“Monsieur, you told me to watch Count Camus, and more especially should he use a dagger to cut fruit with.”

“Yes—yes?”

“He is seated at a small table with Madame Camus, Mademoiselle Fontrailles, and M. le Vicomte Jean Dubarry.”

“Yes—yes?”

“He has just taken a peach from a dish of fruit handed to him by a servant, and producing a knife like that which you spoke of, he cut the peach in two.”

“Quick—go on!”

“He handed one half of the peach to Madame Camus.”

“Yes—and the other half he ate himself?”

“No, monsieur. The other half he handed on his plate to Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”

“Did she eat it?”

“Yes, monsieur, she ate it, looking all the time at Monsieur Camus with a smile, and between you and me, monsieur, she seems to favour the Count more than a little.”

Lavenne did not hear this last. Horrified at what he had heard, he felt as though some unseen hand had suddenly intervened in this game of life and death, dealing the cards in a reverse direction, and the ace of spades, not to Camus, but to Camille Fontrailles. He turned from Vallone and walked rapidly to the door of the supper-room.

He entered.

Dressed in a sober suit of black he had the appearance of a confidential servant, and no one noticed him, or, if they did, put him down as one of the stewards of the house superintending the service. Numerous small tables were spread about, the place was crowded and a band of violins in the gallery was playing, mixing its music with the sound of voices, laughter, and the tinkle of glass and silver.

Lavenne passed the table where the Dubarry group was seated. Camille Fontrailles was chatting and laughing with the others; she had never appeared more beautiful, she was seated opposite to Camus. Lavenne swept the room with his eyes, as though he were searching for some plan of action; then he hurriedly walked to the door, crossed the reception _salon_ and passed through the door through which he had seen Sartines and Rochefort following Choiseul. He reached the door where the conference was going forward and knocked.

* * * * *

Choiseul paused for a moment without replying.

“Let us see,” said he, “you accuse Monsieur Camus of having assaulted this girl, and you would add to that the suggestion that his accusation against you was prompted by anger at the blow you dealt him.”

“I did not know that the accusation against me came from Comte Camus,” replied Rochefort, “but I must say I suspected that he had a hand in the business. Now that you tell me, I would say that most certainly the accusation was prompted by spite.”

“Well,” said Choiseul, “I have listened to what you have said, and what you have said has impressed me, Monsieur de Rochefort. But I stand here to do justice, and for that purpose I must hear what Comte Camus has to say, for he distinctly told me that he had parted company with you, that he had started on his way home, that he altered his direction in order to call on a friend, and that by accident he had come upon the evidence which he disclosed to me. I shall call Comte Camus and you can confront him.”

“Do so, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, “and now one word first. I fell into politics by a false step, just as a man might fall into a well. I confess that I acted against you, monsieur, not from animosity, but simply because the party with which I momentarily allied myself was in opposition to you. I would ask you to forget all that and forgive an antagonist who is now well disposed towards you, should you decide that Monsieur Camus’ story is a lie, and that I have spoken the truth. Monsieur, I am not fit for politics; I want to enjoy my life since I have only one to enjoy. I don’t want to go into the Bastille on account of your anger, and I don’t want to be hanged for having killed a ruffian who attempted my life. Therefore, Monsieur le Duc, should you think that I have acted as a straight man and a gentleman through all this, I would ask a clear forgiveness. Firstly, for ridding Paris of a rogue with my sword; secondly, for having been such a fool as to ally my life and my fortune to the fortune of those cursed Dubarrys.”

The outward effect of this extraordinary speech on Choiseul was to make him turn half way in order to hide a smile. Then, stretching out his hand he rang a bell; with almost the same movement he casually took the letter lying on the mantelpiece and put it in his pocket.

Sartines knew from the expression on Choiseul’s face that Rochefort was saved, unless Camus, by some trickery, were to turn the tables. Everything rested now with what Camus would do and say.

He was taking a pinch of snuff when Lavenne’s knock came to the door.

Lavenne entered. His face was absolutely white.

“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, disregarding the other two, “send at once for Monsieur Camus. Mademoiselle Fontrailles has been poisoned—he may know some antidote, but it will have to be forced from him.”

“Good God!” said Sartines, instantly guessing the truth. “He has given her the poison instead of his wife.”

“Yes—yes, monsieur—but send quick.”

“I will fetch him myself,” cried Sartines, rushing from the room.

Choiseul, amazed, found his speech.

“What is this you say?” he asked. “Poisoned, in my house? Explain yourself!”

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “Comte Camus has poisoned a lady at the supper-table—yes, in your house; he intended to poison his wife. I have been watching him for some time. He poisoned Atalanta, the King’s hound, with poison which he had prepared for his wife, and which the dog ate by accident. Woe is me! I should have seized him to-day, but the evidence was not complete. I had arranged things otherwise, but God in His wisdom has brought my plans to nothing.”

“_Bon Dieu_!” said Rochefort, all thoughts about himself swept away. There was something shocking in Lavenne’s face and voice and words. Choiseul, mystified, understanding only half of what had happened, yet comprehending the depth of the tragedy of which his house had been chosen for the stage, stood waiting, half dreading the re-appearance of Sartines, too proud to cross-question a subordinate and at heart furious at this scandal which had thrust itself upon his hearth.

He had not to wait long.

Steps sounded outside, the door opened and Camus entered, closely followed by Sartines. Camus, not comprehending the urgent summons, was, still, pale about the lips, and his manner had lost its assurance.

Sartines shut the door.

“That is the man,” said Lavenne, stepping forward and suddenly taking command of the situation.

Lavenne, in a flash, had altered. He seemed to have increased in size; something ferocious and bullying lying dormant in his nature broke loose; advancing swiftly on Camus he seized him by the collar as he would have seized the commonest criminal and absolutely shouting in his face, held him tight clutched the while:

“I arrest you, your game is lost. The antidote for the poison you have just given an unfortunate woman! Confess, save her, and you may yet save your neck. You refuse? You would struggle? Ah, there——”

He flung himself on Camus as if he would tear the secret from him, but he was not searching for the secret, but for the dagger, which he found and plucked from him, flinging it to Sartines.

Camus, who had not spoken a word, struggled furiously, white, gasping, terrific, proclaiming his infamy by his silence, knowing that all was over, and that this terrible man whom he had never seen before, this man who had lain hidden in his path and who had seized him like Fate, was his executioner.

The struggle lasted only half a minute, then Camus was on the floor and Lavenne, with the whipcord which he always carried, was fastening the wrists of his prisoner. There was no appeal, no defence, or questions or cross-questions. Just a prisoner bound on the floor, and Lavenne, now calm, rising to address his master.

“Shall I remove him, monsieur?”

“But the antidote,” said Sartines.

“There is no antidote, monsieur,” said Lavenne, “else he would have confessed to save his life.” He gave a down glance at Camus. Camus, white and groaning, lay like a man stricken by a mortal blow, and then Choiseul, glaring at him, spoke.

Choiseul, who had not moved nor spoken, suddenly found speech. Filled with fury at the whole business, not caring who was poisoned as long as the affair did not occur in his house, stricken in his dignity and hating the idea of a scandal, he turned to Sartines.

“Take that carrion away,” he burst out. “Away with him by that door which opens on the kitchen premises. Go first, Sartines, and order all the servants to remain away from the yard where you will have a carriage brought. Then you can remove him to La Bastille. Monsieur de Rochefort, kindly help in the business—and Monsieur de Rochefort, all is cleared between us. Go in peace and avoid politics. Now do as I direct. No scandal, no noise—not a word about all this business which is deeply discreditable to our order. We poison in secret, it seems; well, in secret we shall punish.”

“Monsieur,” said Sartines, delighted that the Rochefort business was over and done with, “I shall do exactly as you direct. It is best. Lavenne, open that door and give me your assistance with this.”

Lavenne opened the door and they carried Camus out. Not one word had he spoken from first to last. Rochefort followed. When he reached the door, he turned and bowed to Choiseul, Choiseul returned the bow. Rochefort went out and shut the door behind him and the incident was closed.

* * * * *

Then Choiseul, taking the letter from his pocket re-read it, lit a taper and burned it in the grate. He stamped on the ashes and, leaving the room, returned to the _salon_ on which the passage opened.

Some of the guests were taking their departure, amongst them the Dubarry party.

“We were looking for Monsieur Camus,” said Jean Dubarry, “but he seems to have vanished.”

“Ah, Comte Camus,” replied Choiseul, “I saw him early this evening, but I have not seen him since.”

“Sartines came and fetched him off,” said Jean.

“Then perhaps he has gone off with Sartines,” said Choiseul, “and now you are carrying off Mademoiselle Fontrailles so early in the evening. Ah, Mademoiselle Fontrailles, you are carrying away with you all the charm you have brought to my poor _salons_, and leaving behind you the envy of all the roses of Paris who have been eclipsed by the Flower of Martinique.”

He bowed profoundly to the laughing girl and to Chon Dubarry.

Then he went to the card-room.