CHAPTER III

A COUNCIL OF WAR

The Vicomte led the way along a corridor with painted walls and a ceiling wherefrom impossibly fat cupids pelted one in gesture with painted roses.

He opened a door, and with a courtly bow, ushered Rochefort into a small room exquisitely furnished, and lit by a swinging crystal lamp of seven points burning perfumed oil. This house of the Dubarrys had once belonged to Jean de Ségur, a forbear of General Philippe de Ségur, that ardent Royalist who, at the sight of Murat’s dragoons galloping through the gate of the Pont Tournant, forgot his grief at the destruction of the old _régime_, and became a soldier of Napoleon’s.

It was furnished regardless of expense. Boucher had supervised the paintings that adorned the ceilings, the Maison Grandier had produced the chairs and couches, Versailles had contributed porcelain idols, bonbonnières, and a hundred other knicknacks. Ispahan and Bussorah had contributed the carpets, at a price, through the great Oriental house of Habib, Gobelins the tapestry, Sèvres the china, and the glass manufactory of the Marquis de Louviers the glass. It was for this house, perhaps, rather than for Luciennes, that the Comtesse had refused Fragonard’s exquisite panels, “The Romance of Love and Youth,” a crime against taste which, strangely enough, found no place in the _procès-verbal_.

Dubarry, excusing himself for a moment, closed the door, and Rochefort glanced round the room wherein he found himself.

Everything was in white or rose; the floor was of parquet, covered here and there with white fur rugs; on the rose-coloured silk of one of the settees lay a fan, as if cast there but a moment ago; and a volume of the poems of Marot, bound in white vellum and stamped with the Dubarry arms and their motto, “_Boutez en avant_” lay upon a chair, as if just put down in haste.

A white-enamelled door, half-hidden by rose-coloured silk curtains, faced the door by which he had entered, and from the room beyond, Rochefort, as he paced the floor and examined the objects of art around him, could hear a faint murmur of voices. Five minutes passed, and Rochefort, having glanced at the fan, peeped into the volume of poems, set the huge Chinese mandarin that adorned one of the alcoves wagging his head, and wound up and broken a costly musical-box, turned suddenly upon his heel.

The door leading into the next room had opened, and a woman stood before him, young, plump, fair-haired and very pretty, exquisitely dressed.

It was the Comtesse Dubarry.

Behind her, Jean Dubarry’s gross figure showed, and behind Jean the dark hair of a girl, who was holding a fan to her face as though to conceal her mirth or her features—or both.

“Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort, Madame la Comtesse Dubarry,” came Jean’s voice across the Countess’s shoulder, and then the golden voice of the woman, as she made a little curtsey:

“Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort. Why, I know him!”

Rochefort bowed low. He had met Madame Dubarry at Versailles—that is to say, he had made his bow to her with the thousands of others who thronged the great halls, but he had never hung about the ante-chambers of her special apartment with the other courtiers. He fancied her recognition held more politeness than truth, but in this he was mistaken. Madame Dubarry knew everybody and everything about them. She had a marvellously retentive and clear memory, and an equally quick mind. An ordinary woman in her position would have been lost in a week.

“And though I have had no proof of his friendship before, I know him now to be my friend. Monsieur Rochefort, I thank you.”

She held out her hand, which he touched with his lips.

Raising his head from the act, he saw the girl with the fan looking at him; she had lowered the fan from her face. It was Mademoiselle Fontrailles!

“Madame,” said he, replying to the Comtesse, “it was nothing. If I have served you, it has been through an accident, yet I esteem it a very fortunate accident that has enabled me to use my sword in your service.”

Though he ignored Mademoiselle Fontrailles, his heart had leaped in him at the recognition. It seemed to him that Fate had willed that he should find his interests entangled in those of the beautiful woman who had smitten him in more ways than one. But, as yet, he did not know whether it was to be an entanglement of war or peace, an alliance or a feud.

“Camille,” said the Comtesse, “this is Monsieur de Rochefort.” She smiled as she said the words, and Rochefort, as he bowed, knew instantly that the Flower of Martinique had told of the incident at the ball, nor did he care, for the warm glance in her dark eyes and the smile on her lips said, as plainly as words: “Let us forget and forgive.” From that moment he was Dubarry’s man.

“I had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle Fontrailles at Monsieur de Choiseul’s to-night,” said he, “in the company of my friend, Madame de Courcelles.” Then, turning sharply to the Comtesse: “Madame, there are so many coincidences at work to-night, that it seems to me Fate herself must have some hand in the matter. Now, mark! I go to Monsieur de Choiseul’s, and I meet Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who is your friend; as if the alchemy of that friendship had touched me, on my walk home through the streets, I had the honour to be of service to you by protecting your messenger; I offer her my protection and escort and I find myself at your house; I meet the Vicomte Dubarry, and he invites me in to talk over the matter, and here, again, I meet Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”

He bowed to the girl, who bowed in return with a charming little laugh, whilst Jean Dubarry closed the door, and pushed forward chairs for the ladies to be seated.

“But that is not all,” continued Rochefort, addressing his remarks again to the Comtesse; “for if it has been my good luck to have served you in the matter of the letter, it will perhaps be my good fortune to assist you on a matter more serious still. You know, or perhaps you do not know, that I am a man of no party and no politics, yet it would be idle for me to shut my eyes to the finger that points my way, and my ears to the voice that whispers to me that my direction is the direction of the Rue de Valois.”

He bowed slightly, and his bow included Mademoiselle Fontrailles. The Comtesse had been looking at him attentively all this while, and her quick mind divined something of importance behind his words.

“Monsieur Rochefort,” said she, indicating a chair, whilst she herself took her seat on a settee by the side of Mademoiselle Fontrailles, “you have something to tell me. I have the gift of second sight, and I guess that this something is of importance; in my experience, I find that the important things are always the unpleasant things of life, so put me out of my anxiety, I pray you.”

“I will, madame; you have divined rightly. My news is unpleasant, simply because it relates to a conspiracy against you.”

“Ah! ah!” said Jean Dubarry, who had not taken a seat, but was standing by the mantelpiece, snuff-box in hand. “A conspiracy.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, a conspiracy.”

“Against my life?” asked the Comtesse, with a laugh. “It would be a bright idea for some of them to attack that instead of my poor reputation. Unfortunately, however, these gentlemen are incapable of a bright idea.”

“No, madame, they do not propose to take your life; they propose to steal your coachman, your hairdresser and the robe that you are to wear to-morrow evening.”

Jean Dubarry almost dropped his snuff-box; he swore a frightful oath; and the Countess, fully alive to the gravity of the news, stared open-eyed at Rochefort. Mademoiselle Fontrailles alone found words, other than blasphemies, to express her feelings.

“Ah, the wretches!” said she. “I thought they would leave no stone unturned by their vile hands.”

“Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, finding voice, “are you certain of what you say?”

“Why, madame, they invited me to take a part in the business.”

“And you refused?”

“I refused, madame, not because I was of your party—in fact, to be perfectly plain, at that moment I was rather against you—I refused because I considered the whole proceeding a trick dishonouring to a gentleman; and I told Monsieur Camus my opinion of the business in a very few words.”

“Comte Camus? Was he the agent who brought you this proposition?”

“He was, madame. I can say so now openly, since we are no longer friends. We quarrelled on a certain matter to-night, and if you are desirous of knowing the details of our little quarrel, Javotte will be able to supply them.”

But the Comtesse had no ears for anything but the immediate danger that threatened her, and Rochefort had to tell the whole story from the beginning to the end.

“Death of all the devils!” cried Jean Dubarry, when the story was finished. “What an escape!”

“The question is,” said Madame Dubarry, “have we escaped and shall we be able to prevent these infamous ones from carrying out their plan?”

“Prevent them!” cried Jean. “I will pistol the first man that lays hands on the carriage. I will lock the hairdresser up in the cellar till the moment comes when he is wanted. As for the modiste, we will arrange that she will be all right. Prevent them! _Mordieu_! Yes, we will prevent them.”

“Excuse me,” said Rochefort, “but if I may be allowed to give my advice, I would say to you, do not prevent them; let them carry out their plan.”

“And let them take my carriage?”

“And the dress!” cried Mademoiselle Fontrailles.

“And the hairdresser!” put in Jean.

“Precisely,” said Rochefort. “With that power which is at your disposal, madame, can you not have a new dress created, a new carriage obtained, and a new hairdresser found in the course of the few hours before us? My reason is this. Should they fancy that their plan is successful they will try nothing else. Should we thwart them openly, I would not say at what they would stop.”

“Certainly,” cried Jean, “there’s truth in that. Can we not find a carriage, a dress and a coiffeur! Let us think—let us think!” He walked up and down the room, twisting his ruffles.

“No one can dress my hair like Lubin,” said the Countess.

“Excuse me,” said Rochefort, “but I believe there is a man whom I know who is a genius in the art. He is unknown; but the day after to-morrow, should you employ him, I believe he will be known to all Europe.”

“As to the dress,” said Mademoiselle Fontrailles, “you know, dear madame, that I was to be presented also. And our figures, are they not nearly the same?”

“_Dame_!” cried Jean, hitting himself a smack on the forehead. “I have the carriage! It is at Vaudrin’s, in the Rue de la Madeleine. I saw it yesterday. It has been made to the order of the Comtesse Walewski, who, it seems, has not arrived yet; and all it requires is that the Dubarry arms should be painted over those of the Comtesse. We only want a loan of it, and five thousand francs will pay the bill.”

The Comtesse turned to Rochefort.

“Monsieur Rochefort, I can trust your taste as I trust your friendship. All I ask you as a woman is this: Are you sure of your hairdresser?”

“Absolutely, madame; he is an artist to the tips of his fingers. I will stake my reputation on him.”

The Comtesse inclined her head. She turned to Mademoiselle Fontrailles.

“Camille, have you thought that this act of generosity will ruin your presentation, for if I am to wear your dress, which is divinely beautiful and has cost you a hundred thousand francs, how, then, are you to appear before his Majesty?”

“Madame,” said the girl, “I will have a cold; my presentation will be put off, that is all. And I esteem it a very small sacrifice to make for one who has benefited my family so deeply. Besides, madame, even if my presentation never occurred, it would not give me a sleepless night. The world has very few attractions for me.”

Her dark eyes met those of Rochefort for a moment. There are seconds of time that carry in them the essence of years, and it seemed to Rochefort, in these few seconds, that some magic in the dark gaze of the eyes that held him had seized upon his mind, indelibly altering it.

The Comtesse’s only reply was to lay her hand in a caressing way upon the beautiful arm of her friend. She turned to Jean:

“Jean, are you sure of the carriage?”

“_Mordieu_, yes. Vaudrin is ours entirely.”

“Will it be possible to have the arms altered in this short time?”

“He will do it. I will call upon him to-morrow morning at six o’clock.”

“Well,” said the Comtesse, “I accept. I accept everything—your advice, Monsieur de Rochefort, and your sacrifice, Camille. But it is a debt I can never repay.”

This sweet sentence was suddenly broken upon by a shriek of laughter from Jean. Dubarry rarely laughed, but when he did so it took him like convulsions—a very bad sign in a man. He flung himself on a couch and slapped his thigh.

“Their faces,” cried he, “when you appear, when the usher cries, ‘Madame la Comtesse de Béarn, Madame la Comtesse Dubarry.’ Choiseul’s face!”

“And Polastron’s!” cried the Comtesse, catching up the laugh. “And de Guemenée’s!”

Mademoiselle Fontrailles clasped her hands and laughed too. One might have fancied that they were quite assured of their victory over the profound and duplex Choiseul. They were laughing like this when a man-servant appeared. He had knocked at the door, but as he had received no answer and his business was urgent, he entered.

“Madame,” said the servant, “Monsieur de Sartines has arrived, and would speak a word with you on a matter of importance.”

“Monsieur de Sartines,” said the Comtesse, rising, “at this hour! Show him in.”

Everyone rose, and as they stood waiting, the little clock on the mantel chimed the hour. It was two o’clock in the morning. A minute passed, and then the servant returned, opening wide the door.

“Monsieur de Sartines.”

Sartines bowed to the Comtesse, and then, individually, to each present. He showed scarcely any surprise at the presence of Rochefort.

Sartines was the burning centre of this conspiracy to present the Comtesse Dubarry at Court in the teeth of all the opposition of the nobles, and he wished his part in it to be as secret as possible; yet he did not question Rochefort’s presence. He knew quite well that, Rochefort being there, he must have joined hands with the Comtesse. He was a man who never wasted time.

“Madame,” said he, “I have grave news to tell you.”

“Aha!” said the Comtesse, “more bad news. But stay, perhaps we know it. Is it the plot to rob me of my carriage and my hairdresser?”

“No, madame, I know nothing of any plot to rob you of your carriage. It is about the Comtesse de Béarn I have come to speak. Did she not receive a present to-day?”

“Yes, a basket of flowers from an old lady who belongs to her province. A Madame Turgis.”

“Yes,” said de Sartines, “and a Secret Service agent has just brought me news that amidst the flowers in that basket was a note.”

“A note!”

“A letter, I should say, giving the Comtesse de Béarn a full and true account of the little plan by which she was induced to come to Paris.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_!” cried Madame Dubarry. “If the old fool only gets to know that, we are ruined! I know her as well as if I had constructed her. Once her pride and self-esteem are touched, she is hopeless to deal with.”

“At what hour did this basket of flowers arrive?” asked de Sartines.

“At four o’clock.”

“It has been in her private apartments ever since?”

“Yes.”

De Sartines looked at the clock on the mantel.

“Ten hours and seven minutes. Well, madame, if in that time the Comtesse de Béarn has not discovered the note, you are saved. Go at once, madame, to her apartments, and if you can capture the accursed basket and its contents, for Heaven’s sake do so. We must give her no chance to find it in the morning.”

Madame Dubarry left the room without a word. She passed through the next room and down a corridor, where, taking a small lamp from a table, she turned with it in her hand to a narrow staircase leading to the next floor. Here she paused at a doorway, listened, and then, gently opening the door, entered the Comtesse de Béarn’s sitting-room.

On a table near the window stood the fateful basket of flowers. The folding-doors leading to the bedroom were slightly open, and the intruder was approaching to seize the basket, when a sound from the bedroom made her pause, a low, deep groan, as if from someone in mortal pain.

“Help!” cried a muffled voice. “Who is that with the light? Ah! how I suffer!”

Without a word the Comtesse passed to the folding-doors, opened them, and next moment was in the bedroom. On the bed, half-covered with the clothes, lay the Comtesse de Béarn, on the floor near the stove lay a chocolate-pot upset, and the contents staining the parquet.

“_Mon Dieu_!” cried Madame Dubarry. “What has happened?”

“Ah, madame!” cried the old woman, “I am nearly dead. Here have I lain for hours in my misery. The pot of chocolate which I was heating on the stove upset—and look at my leg!”

She protruded a leg, and Madame Dubarry drew back with a cry. Foot and ankle and the leg half-way up to the shin bone were scalded in a manner that would be unpleasant to describe; but it was not the scalded leg that evoked Madame Dubarry’s cry of anguish. It was the knowledge that her presentation was now hopeless. For the Comtesse de Béarn to undertake the journey to Versailles with a leg like that was clearly impossible.

The Choiseuls had taken all precautions, their bow had many strings. This was the fatal one. The old woman on the bed, though suffering severely, could not suppress the gleam of triumph that showed in her eyes, now fixed on those of the Comtesse.

“Ah, madame!” said Dubarry, “this was ill done. Had you known what personal issues to yourself were involved, you would have been more careful!” Then, lest she should lose all restraint over herself, and fling the lamp in her hand at the head of the scalded one, she rushed from the room, seized the basket of flowers, and with basket in one hand and lamp in the other reached the ground floor, taking this time the grand staircase. She broke into the room, where de Sartines and the others were seated, flung the basket on a chair, so that it upset and the contents tumbled pell-mell over the floor, and broke into tears.

Everyone knew.

“Has she found out?” cried Jean.

“Madame,” said de Sartines, waving the Vicomte aside, “calm yourself; all may not yet be lost.”

“Ah, monsieur, you do not know,” sobbed the unfortunate woman. “Not only has she found out, but she has scalded her leg, so that the affair is now absolutely hopeless.” She told her tale, and as she told it her sobs ceased, her eyes grew bright, and she finished standing before them with clenched hands and sparkling eyes, more beautiful than ever.

Mademoiselle Fontrailles had been collecting the flowers; there was no sign of a letter among them. Jean Dubarry, white and beyond speech and unable to vent his spleen on anything else, had cuffed the China mandarin on to the floor, where it lay shattered. Rochefort, carried away by the tragedy, was cursing. De Sartines only was calm.

“It is impossible, then, for her to appear at Versailles?” said he.

“Utterly, monsieur.”

“Well, madame,” said de Sartines, “courage; all is not yet lost.”

“Ah, Monsieur de Sartines,” said the Comtesse, “what do you mean? Do you not know as well as I do that, failing the Comtesse de Béarn, the thing is impossible? Even were I to find someone qualified to take the place of this old woman, there would still be all the formalities of the application. Monsieur de la Vrillière would have to inquire into the antecedents of the lady, and Monsieur de Coigny would have to receive the request, only to lose it for Monsieur to find and cancel on account of the delay.”

“Madame,” cut in de Sartines, “the plan which has just occurred to me has nothing to do with the finding of a substitute. Madame la Comtesse de Béarn shall present you; or, let us put it in this way: to-morrow evening at ten o’clock you will be presented to his Majesty at the Court of Versailles. I am only mortal, and therefore fallible; but if you will leave the matter in my hands the thing shall be done, always saving the direct interposition of God.”

“You are, then, a magician?” cried the Comtesse.

“No, madame; or only a white magician who works through human agency.”

“Ah, Monsieur de Sartines,” cried the Comtesse, hope appearing again in her eyes, “if you can only help me in this, I shall pray for you till my dying day!”

“Oh, madame,” replied de Sartines, with a laugh, “I would never dream of imposing such a task upon the most beautiful lips in the world. I only ask you now to work with me, for this immediate end.”

“And what can I do?”

“Carry on all your preparations for to-morrow night. Monsieur Rochefort has explained to me the plot for the stealing of the carriage, the dress and the coiffeur. Let the Vicomte attend to the carriage, let Mademoiselle Fontrailles supply you with her dress, and let your most trusted servant fetch the coiffeur that Monsieur Rochefort knows of.”

“I will fetch him myself,” said Rochefort.

“No, Rochefort,” said de Sartines, “I have need of you for something else. May I put my reliance on your obedience in this crisis?”

“Implicitly, Sartines,” replied the Comte. “Call upon me for what you will. _Mordieu_! I have fought many a duel, but never has a fight stirred my blood like this. I will act any part or dress for any part except the part of spectator.”

“I will find enough for you to do, and now I must be going. It is after three o’clock, and if you will take a seat in my carriage, I will give you a lift on your way home, and explain what I want.”

“And I will see you again, monsieur?” said the Comtesse, addressing the Minister of Police.

“Not till after the presentation, Madame, when I hope to have the honour of kissing your hand. You understand, I have nothing to do with this affair. You must even abuse me to your friends, who are absolutely sure to be in communication with your enemies. And now, if I were you, I would send for your physician to attend to Madame de Béarn’s leg.”

He bade his adieux.

Rochefort, having scribbled the name of the coiffeur on a piece of paper supplied by Jean, gazed into the eyes of Mademoiselle Fontrailles, as he lifted his lips from her hand. He fancied that her glance told him all that he wished, and more than he had hoped.

In the hall Sartines enveloped himself in a black cloak, put on a broad-brimmed hat, and, followed by Rochefort, entered the carriage that was waiting in the courtyard. It was a carriage, perfectly plain, without adornment, such as the Minister used when wishing to mask his movements.

“You did not come in your own carriage, then?” said Rochefort, as they drove away.

“Oh, dear, no,” said Sartines. “My carriage is still waiting at Choiseul’s. I slipped away, having already sent an agent for this plain carriage to meet me at the third lamp-post on the right, as you go up the Rue St. Honoré from the Rue du Faubourg.”

“You had an agent in attendance, then?”

“My dear Rochefort, three of Choiseul’s servants are my agents, and it was from one of them that I learned of this precious plot about the basket of flowers. You live in the Rue de Longueville!”

“Ah, you know my new address!” said Rochefort, laughing.

“I know everything about you, my dear Rochefort. Now, will you put your head out of the window, and tell the coachman to drive to the Rue de Longueville? I cannot go back to the Hôtel de Sartines at once. I must crave the shelter of your apartments; we are being followed.”

“Followed?”

“_Mordieu_, yes! The Dubarrys’ house has been watched all day. When I drove up in this carriage, I saw one of Choiseul’s agents, who, without doubt, tried to question my coachman whilst I was in the house; a perfectly useless proceeding, as my coachman is Sergeant Bonvallot. I know quite well, now, that there is a man running after us, so do as I say.”

Rochefort put his head out and gave the direction.

“My faith!” said he, as he resumed his place, “but they are keen, the Choiseuls.”

“They are more than that. You cannot guess at all the way this matter has stirred the whole court. Of course, when the thing is over and done with, and the presentation an accomplished matter, the Comtesse will not be able to number her friends. But she is lost if Choiseul succeeds, and if she succeeds Choiseul is lost. Once give her an accredited place at court, and the breaking of Choiseul will be only the matter of a few months.”

“Sartines,” said the young man with that daring which gave him permission to say things other men would not have dreamed of saying, “you are not doing this for love of the Dubarry?”

“I?” said de Sartines. “I am doing it to break Choiseul.”

The carriage which had entered the Rue de Longueville stopped at a house on the left, and the two men got out.