ROCHEFORT’S PLAN
That night, or, rather, early next morning, the Vicomte de Chartres was
returning to his house in the Rue Malaquais and had just entered the
street when, against the setting moon, he saw a form coming towards him
which he thought he recognized.
It was Rochefort.
Chartres was one of the few men in Paris whom Rochefort numbered as
his bosom friends. He could not believe his eyes at first, and when
Rochefort spoke, Chartres scarcely believed his ears.
Rochefort, of whose flight all Paris was talking, Rochefort, the man
who was supposed to be far beyond the frontier, Rochefort in the Rue
Malaquais, walking along as calmly and jauntily as though nothing had
happened.
“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rochefort as they shook hands, “what a
fortunate meeting! Where have you sprung from?”
Chartres broke into a laugh.
“Where have I sprung from? You to ask that question! On the contrary,
my dear fellow, it is for me to ask where you have sprung from?”
“Nowhere,” replied Rochefort, also laughing, “or at least from a place
I cannot talk of here in the street. I want shelter for the night and
a change of clothes; here is your house and we are both about the same
size, and I know you have always half a dozen new suits that you have
never worn. So, if you want my story, take me and clothe me, and let
me rest for a while before I set out on my mission to hunt for M. de
Choiseul.”
“To hunt for M. de Choiseul! _Bon Dieu_! Are not you aware that he is
ransacking Paris and all France for you?”
“Then we are both on the same business, and that being so, I think it
is highly probable we shall meet.”
He followed Chartres into the house, where in the library and armoury
his host lit lamps and produced wine.
The clock on the mantel pointed to two o’clock.
“And now, my dear fellow,” said Chartres, “tell me all about yourself,
where have you been, what have you been doing, and what is this
nonsense you are saying about hunting for M. de Choiseul.”
“Well, as to what I have been doing, I can answer you simply that I
have been in retirement in the country.”
“Where?”
“In the Castle of Vincennes.”
“The Castle of Vincennes!”
“Precisely. Sartines put me there to hide me from Choiseul. I would
not tell you this only that I know you are entirely to be trusted. He
did not want Choiseul to lay his hands on me, so he arrested me under
another name, but with my consent, and popped me into Vincennes, where
I have been for the last few days.”
“Yes?”
“Well, my dear Chartres, no sooner did I find myself in prison there
than I found that I did not like it.”
“I can understand that.”
“And though Sartines had put me there for my own good—so he said—and
to keep me from being imprisoned by Choiseul, it began to dawn on me
that I had been a fool.”
“Ah, that began to dawn on you.”
“I said to myself, ‘Sartines is no doubt the best soul in the world,
but the best souls are sometimes selfish.’ I said to myself, ‘Sartines
has compromised himself in a way by playing this game with Choiseul,
and hiding me from him.’ I said to myself, ‘Sartines, however kind he
may be, is not the man to compromise himself by letting me out whilst
Choiseul has any power in France.’ In fact, I felt that were I to
remain passive, I would be saved from M. de Choiseul, but I would still
be a prisoner, and that, perhaps, for years, so I determined to escape,
to go straight to Choiseul and to tell him frankly the truth about the
business for which he wished to apprehend me.”
“I have heard that you killed a man,” said Chartres.
“I did. And that man was one of Choiseul’s agents, but he was a ruffian
who was molesting a girl, and whom I caught in the act. I followed him,
he attacked me and I killed him in fair fight.”
“Can the girl give evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Then why on earth, my dear fellow, did you resist arrest that night
when M. Camus was deputed to arrest you? I had the whole story from
Monpavon.”
“I resisted arrest because I wanted to go to Paris to meet a woman who
had given me an appointment.”
The Vicomte de Chartres, who was five years older than Rochefort in
time, and fifty in discretion, moved in his chair uneasily.
He was fond of Rochefort, and nothing had surprised him more in the
last few days than the Rochefort episode. The fact that Rochefort had
killed a man was easily understandable, but that Rochefort had evaded
arrest instead of facing the business was an action that he could not
understand, simply because it was an action unlike Rochefort.
Here had a man gone against his true nature and placed himself in the
last position, that of a murderer flying from justice—for what reason?
To keep an appointment with a woman.
Unhappily the reason cleared everything up.
It was exactly—arguing from the reason—the thing that Rochefort might
be expected to do.
“But did you not consider that for the sake of keeping this confounded
appointment you were risking everything—losing everything. _Mon Dieu_!
it makes me shudder. Did you not think, my dear man, did you not think?”
“Ah, think!” said the other, “a lot you would think were you in that
position. Had he deputed any man for the business but Camus, it might
have been different; but to be told, in effect, by Camus, a man I
despise, that I was not to go to Paris, but to remain at Versailles,
a prisoner of Choiseul’s, well, it was too much! No, I did not think.
There is no use in saying to me what I ought to have done. I ought, of
course, to have followed Camus like a lamb, faced Choiseul like a lion,
and cleared the matter up. As it was, I showed the front of a lion to
Camus and the tail of a fox to Choiseul. That was bad policy—but it
was inevitable. It seems to me, Chartres, that the whole of this was
like a play written by Fate for me to act in. Camus had been my friend.
After I had rescued that girl, of whom I told you, from Choiseul’s
ruffianly agent, Camus tried to assault her and I struck him in the
face. That was Fate. He did not return the blow or seek a duel, he
wanted revenge, and behold, when Choiseul put out his hand for someone
to arrest me, whom should he employ but Camus—that also was Fate. The
girl I served is the servant of the woman I spoke of, and the woman was
the friend of Choiseul’s dearest enemy, the Comtesse Dubarry. That was
Fate. To serve the woman I mixed myself up with the business of the
Presentation, and so have given Choiseul an extra grudge against me.
That was Fate. And stay—just before my row with Camus, he had imparted
to me a plot which Choiseul was preparing against the Dubarry, a plot
which I refused to mix myself with and the gist of which I disclosed to
the Dubarry. There again was Fate.”
“_Mon Dieu_!” said Chartres, “what a tangle you have got yourself into.
But tell me this, does Choiseul know that you disclosed this plot of
his to the Dubarry?”
“He is sure to know. Camus is certain to have told him that he
disclosed the business to me, and as I visited the Dubarry’s house that
same night, and as I believe his agents were watching the house—there
you are.”
“You visited the house of the Dubarry the same night that Camus told
you of the plot—why did you do such a foolish thing?”
“Fate. I escorted the girl I had rescued home to see her safe—and what
house did she bring me to but the house of the Dubarrys. I was giving
her a kiss in the passage when Jean Dubarry appeared, he invited me
in, I came, the woman I spoke of was there, and at the sight of her,
knowing that she was the Countess’ friend, I flung in my part with the
Dubarrys and told of the plot. I was not breaking a trust, I had made
no promise of secrecy, the thing had disgusted me—and I told.”
“And the name of this woman for whose sake you have got yourself into
this dreadful mess?”
“Ah, now you are asking me to tell something that I would not tell to
anyone but yourself—it was Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”
“Mademoiselle Fontrailles—why only yesterday——”
“Yes?”
“Well, I heard—it is said—but I don’t know how much truth there is in
the story, that she is in love with Camus.”
Rochefort laughed.
“Camus again and Fate again.”
“But there may be no truth in it. Some fool told me, I forget who,
Joyeuse, I think. You know how stories run about Paris.”
“It is true,” said Rochefort, “it is the only thing wanting to make
the business complete. Whilst I have been tucked away at Vincennes,
Monsieur Camus has improved his time. You know the way he has with
women. Well, I do not care; that is to say about the girl, but I will
make things even with Camus.”
“First, my dear fellow, make things right with Choiseul, that is to
say, if you can. And if I were you, I would not trouble about Camus or
the girl. She will be punished enough if she has anything to do with
him.”
“Well, we will see,” said Rochefort. “We will see, when I have finished
with Choiseul. Is he in Paris?”
“No, he is at Versailles, but he is coming to Paris to-morrow, or
rather to-day, since it is now nearly three o’clock in the morning. I
know he is coming, simply because he has invited me to a reception at
his house in the Faubourg St. Honoré.”
“Ah, he is holding a reception. When?”
“This very day at nine o’clock in the evening.”
“Good. I will go to it.”
“You will go to it—but he will arrest you!”
“Not in his own house. I would be his guest.”
“But you have not been invited, and so you would not be his guest.”
“Well, my dear Chartres, you know how Choiseul always permits a friend
of his to bring a friend to his receptions. You must take me with you.”
“Take you with me! My dear fellow, you are asking what is quite
impossible.”
“Why?”
“Why—well, to be frank with you, it is necessary for me to stand well
with Choiseul, and if I were to do that I would damage my position at
Court.”
“What I like about you,” said Rochefort, “is your perfect frankness.
Another man would have excused himself, said that he had already
invited a friend, and so forth; but you state your own selfish reason,
and that is precisely what I would have done in your place. Well, I can
assure you that you will not damage your position in the least. First
of all, I am going to make peace with Choiseul; secondly, if I fail,
you can tell him that the whole fault was mine and that you understood
from me that I had put myself right with him. I will bear you out in
that. There is no danger to you, and think what fun it will be to see
his face when I appear.”
Chartres hung on this fascinating prospect for a moment.
“All the same,” said he, “I think, in your own interests, you are
wrong—the whole thing is mad.”
“So is the whole situation, my dear man. I want to get a word alone
with Choiseul. I cannot reach him in any other way. If I went to see
him at Versailles I would be taken by the guards and I would only see
him across drawn swords. If I went to interview him at his house the
_concierge_ would pass me to the major-domo, and the major-domo would
show me into a waiting-room, and Choiseul, ten to one, when he heard
I had called, would order my arrest without even seeing me. No. This
reception of his was arranged by Fate for me, of that I feel sure, as
sure as I am that I will make things even with Camus before to-morrow.”
“You seem to count a good deal on Fate, yet it seems to me she has not
treated you very kindly.”
“Ah,” said Rochefort, laughing, “that is because you do not know how
she treated me in the Castle of Vincennes. I assure you, I have made
entire friends with the lady——” He paused for a moment and then
looked up at Chartres.
“When we talk of Fate, my friend, we always refer to our own persons
and fortunes; when we receive a buffet in life we never consider that
the shock may come to us, not directly from Fate, but indirectly as
the result of a blow struck at some other person, just as at the Lycée
Louis le Grand, one boy would strike another so that he would fall
against the next, and he against the next. Well, Fate in this case is
decidedly on my side, since she protected me till now at Vincennes
and gave me my release on the day of Choiseul’s reception, and threw
me into your arms in the Rue Malaquais. If she is with me she cannot
be with the persons who are against me, that is to say, Camus and the
Fontrailles, if she cares for Camus.
“Fate, my dear Chartres, seems to me to be hitting at these two, and I
reckon the blows I have received, not as blows aimed directly against
me, but as blows I have received indirectly and by _contre coup_.”
“You are becoming a philosopher,” said Chartres, laughing.
“Well, we will see,” replied Rochefort. “I believe I am on the winning
side, the indications are with me—well, do you still refuse to take me
with you to Choiseul’s?”
“No, my dear Rochefort, I do not refuse, simply because I cannot—and
for this reason: The thing you propose is distasteful to me, but it is
a matter of urgency with you, and though you may be wrong, still, if
the case was reversed, I know you would do for me what I am going to do
for you. I will take you to Choiseul’s.”
“Thank you,” said Rochefort. “I will never forget it to you. And now as
to clothes. I am unable to go or send for anything to my place, can you
dress me as well as take me to this pleasant party of Choiseul’s?”
“Without doubt. My wardrobe is at your disposal—and now, if you will
have no more wine, it is time to go to bed. I will have a bed made up
for you.”
He called a servant and gave instructions as to the preparation of a
room. As they were going upstairs, Rochefort remembered Ferminard, with
whom he had parted outside the walls of Paris.
Ferminard had refused to enter by the Porte St. Antoine, preferring
to make his way round to the Maison Gambrinus and take shelter there.
Rochefort had entered by the Porte St. Antoine, not on his legs, but
by means of a market gardener’s cart which they had overtaken. He
had given the gardener a few francs for the lift, and, pretending
intoxication, had entered Paris lying on some sacks of potatoes,
presumably asleep and certainly snoring.
Having been shown to his bedroom, Rochefort undressed and went to bed,
where he slept as soundly as a child till Germain, Chartres’ valet,
awoke him at nine o’clock.