“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?”