THE GATHERING STORM
Lavenne, when he left the Hôtel de Sartines, made straight for the Rue
St. Dominic. He wanted to find Rochefort and he fancied that Javotte
might know of the Count’s whereabouts.
He stopped at the door of the house where Camille Fontrailles’
apartments were, rang and was admitted by the _concierge_.
Scarcely had he made the inquiry as to whether Mademoiselle Javotte
were at home when Javotte herself appeared descending the stairs and
ready dressed for the street.
“Why, monsieur,” said Javotte, “it is strange that you have called at
this moment, for in a very short time you would not have found me. I am
leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes, monsieur, and at this moment I am going to call a _fiacre_ to
remove my things to a room I have taken in the Rue Jussac close to
here.”
He accompanied her into the street.
“And why are you leaving?” asked Lavenne. “Have you quarrelled with
your mistress?”
“No, monsieur, she quarrelled with me.”
“Well, well,” said Lavenne, “these things will happen. I called to ask,
did you know of the whereabouts of M. de Rochefort?”
“No, monsieur, I do not, and strangely enough, it was concerning M. de
Rochefort that my quarrel arose with Mademoiselle Fontrailles.”
“Aha! that is strange. Tell me about it.”
“It was this way, monsieur. That night when M. de Rochefort had the
dispute with M. de Choiseul, he took shelter here. He came to see
Mademoiselle Fontrailles, she was not here, he asked for shelter and
I gave it to him. He slept in my room, whilst I took the room of my
mistress. Well, it appeared that the _concierge_ talked, and yesterday
Mademoiselle Fontrailles asked me what I meant by harbouring a man here
for the night. I was furious; before I could reply two gentlemen were
announced, M. Dubarry and Count Camus.
“Count Camus was the man who insulted me that night when M. de
Rochefort rescued me, and when the gentlemen were gone I said to
Mademoiselle, ‘I would sooner harbour a gentleman here for the night
than allow a ruffian to kiss my hand.’
“She asked me what I meant. I told her, and I told her that M. de
Rochefort had smacked Comte Camus’ face.
“Her face fired up so that I knew the truth at once. She is in love
with him, monsieur, and I was so furious at the false charge she had
made about me that I lost all discretion. I said, ‘It is easy to see
your feelings for that man; as for me, though I am only a poor girl, I
would choose for a lover, if not a gentleman, at least not a cur-dog
who snaps at women’s dresses and who runs away when kicked by a man.’”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She boxed my ears, monsieur. She is infatuated. Ah, monsieur, what
is it that she can see in a man so horrible to look at, so evil, and
so cruel; for he is cruel, and I swear to you the sight of him makes
me shudder, and would make me shudder even if I had not personally
experienced his baseness.”
“I do not know,” replied Lavenne; “nor can I possibly say why this man
should affect two persons so differently. He is, as you say, a terrible
man, and your innocence, or what is kindly in your nature, is revolted
by him; as for your late mistress, why, we must suppose there is
something in her nature that is attracted by him. But she is treading
on dangerous ground, for should Madame Camus die and should she marry
him, she would find herself under the thumb of a very strange master.
Now, listen to me, Mademoiselle Javotte. I have still in my pocket
that letter which you gave me, and I hope to make it useful to M. de
Rochefort. What is the number of the house in the Rue Jussac which will
be your new abode?”
“No. 3, monsieur.”
“Well, it is important for me to know your address as I may want you. I
may even want you to-night, so be at home.”
“I will, monsieur—and M. de Rochefort?”
Lavenne smiled.
“Set your mind at rest. He is in danger, very great danger, but I hope
to save him.”
“In danger?”
“Yes, but I hope to save him. He is in Paris, I do not know his
address, but I shall see him to-night.”
“Ah—in danger—” said Javotte. “I shall not rest till I hear that he
is safe.”
“You care for him so much as that?”
“Oh, monsieur, I care for him much more.”
Lavenne left her. “Now there is a faithful heart,” said he. “Ah, if
M. de Rochefort had only the genius to see that friend of all friends,
the woman who loves him!—And why not. Madame la Comtesse Dubarry was
a shop-girl. She had only a pretty face. And here we have the pretty
face, but so much more also.”
He dismissed Javotte from his mind, concentrating his attention on the
events of the forthcoming evening, on the Duc de Choiseul’s reception,
which he felt to be the point towards which all these diverse fortunes
were tending. Lavenne half divined the truth that the life of society
is really the agglutination of a thousand stories, each story
containing so many characters working out a definite plot towards a
definite, and sometimes to an indefinite, _dénouement_. He felt that
in this especial business in which he was engaged the story, beginning
with the Presentation of the Comtesse Dubarry, was about to find its
_dénouement_ at the reception of the Duc de Choiseul, and he could not
help contemplating all the complex interests involved, their reaction
one on the other and the manner in which they were being drawn together
towards one definite point. Sartines’ fortune was at stake, Rochefort’s
liberty, Camus’ life, Camille Fontrailles’ future, Javotte’s love and
Choiseul’s position as a Minister.
The thing seemed to have been arranged by some dramatist—or shall we
say some chemist, who had slowly brought together, one by one, all
these diverse elements that wanted now only the last touch, the last
drop of acid or spark of fire to produce the culminating explosion.