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.”