Lavenne had given the man instructions to watch Count Camus as a cat watches a mouse, and Lavenne, just at this moment, was standing unobserved watching the throng passing in and out of the _salon_ where refreshments were served. He saw Vallone leave the _salon_. Vallone glanced about, saw Lavenne and came rapidly towards him. “Well,” said Lavenne, “what is it?” “Monsieur, you told me to watch Count Camus, and more especially should he use a dagger to cut fruit with.” “Yes—yes?” “He is seated at a small table with Madame Camus, Mademoiselle Fontrailles, and M. le Vicomte Jean Dubarry.” “Yes—yes?” “He has just taken a peach from a dish of fruit handed to him by a servant, and producing a knife like that which you spoke of, he cut the peach in two.” “Quick—go on!” “He handed one half of the peach to Madame Camus.” “Yes—and the other half he ate himself?” “No, monsieur. The other half he handed on his plate to Mademoiselle Fontrailles.” “Did she eat it?” “Yes, monsieur, she ate it, looking all the time at Monsieur Camus with a smile, and between you and me, monsieur, she seems to favour the Count more than a little.” Lavenne did not hear this last. Horrified at what he had heard, he felt as though some unseen hand had suddenly intervened in this game of life and death, dealing the cards in a reverse direction, and the ace of spades, not to Camus, but to Camille Fontrailles. He turned from Vallone and walked rapidly to the door of the supper-room. He entered. Dressed in a sober suit of black he had the appearance of a confidential servant, and no one noticed him, or, if they did, put him down as one of the stewards of the house superintending the service. Numerous small tables were spread about, the place was crowded and a band of violins in the gallery was playing, mixing its music with the sound of voices, laughter, and the tinkle of glass and silver. Lavenne passed the table where the Dubarry group was seated. Camille Fontrailles was chatting and laughing with the others; she had never appeared more beautiful, she was seated opposite to Camus. Lavenne swept the room with his eyes, as though he were searching for some plan of action; then he hurriedly walked to the door, crossed the reception _salon_ and passed through the door through which he had seen Sartines and Rochefort following Choiseul. He reached the door where the conference was going forward and knocked. * * * * * Choiseul paused for a moment without replying. “Let us see,” said he, “you accuse Monsieur Camus of having assaulted this girl, and you would add to that the suggestion that his accusation against you was prompted by anger at the blow you dealt him.” “I did not know that the accusation against me came from Comte Camus,” replied Rochefort, “but I must say I suspected that he had a hand in the business. Now that you tell me, I would say that most certainly the accusation was prompted by spite.”