“My dear Sartines,” cried Jean as they shook hands, “I just called to see if you were going to Choiseul’s reception to-night.” “I have been invited,” replied Sartines. “And you will go?” “Yes, I think I will go—why are you so pressing?” “Well, as a matter of fact,” said Jean, “Choiseul asked me to make sure of your coming. He wishes peace all round now that the Dauphiness is to arrive so shortly.” “You are great friends with Choiseul now, you and Madame la Comtesse?” “We are at peace, for the moment. I do not trust him one hair’s breadth, but we are at peace.” “Just so,” said Sartines; “and how is Mademoiselle Fontrailles?” “As beautiful as ever.” “And as cold?” “Oh, _ma foi_!” said Jean, laughing, “I think the ice is broken in that direction—Camus——” “You mean to say she cares for Camus?” Jean laughed. “I say nothing. I only know what the Countess told me this morning. Mind this is between ourselves—well, she is Camus’, heart and soul.” “_Peste_! What does she see in that fellow?—Are you sure of what you say?” “I am sure of nothing, but the Countess is. Camille has made her her confidante. I do not know what women see in Camus, but they seem to see something that attracts them.” “But he is married—Oh, _mon Dieu_!” cried Sartines, suddenly interrupting himself and breaking into a laugh. “What am I saying—it is well known that Madame Camus is delicate—and should she die——” “Then our gentleman would be free to marry Camille,” said Jean. “No, monsieur,” replied Sartines, “I doubt if it would all be as simple as that. However, we will not consider the question of Camus’ marriage with this girl in any event. She is a fool.” “Why?” “Why? Because if the Devil had allowed her to care for Rochefort, and she had thrown in her part with him, it would have assisted to smooth matters with Choiseul. The Countess would have worked more earnestly for a _démarche_, and the Fontrailles would have kept Rochefort contented in Vincennes with a few notes sent to him there— Well, one cannot make up a woman’s mind for her and there is no use in trying. She is going to-night, I suppose, to this affair at Choiseul’s?” “Oh, you may be sure. Camus will be there.” The Vicomte went off and Sartines returned to his writing. But this was to be an eventful morning with him. Five minutes had scarcely passed when the door burst open without knock or warning, and Beauregard, who by this ought to have been on the road to Vincennes, entered, flushed and breathing hard. “Monsieur,” cried Beauregard, “Rochefort has escaped.” “Escaped! _Mordieu_! When did he escape?” “In the early hours of this morning or during the night. Here is Capitaine Pierre Cousin himself who has brought the story.” “Show him in,” said Sartines. CHAPTER II THE TWO PRISONERS