“Jean, are you sure of the carriage?” “_Mordieu_, yes. Vaudrin is ours entirely.” “Will it be possible to have the arms altered in this short time?” “He will do it. I will call upon him to-morrow morning at six o’clock.” “Well,” said the Comtesse, “I accept. I accept everything—your advice, Monsieur de Rochefort, and your sacrifice, Camille. But it is a debt I can never repay.” This sweet sentence was suddenly broken upon by a shriek of laughter from Jean. Dubarry rarely laughed, but when he did so it took him like convulsions—a very bad sign in a man. He flung himself on a couch and slapped his thigh. “Their faces,” cried he, “when you appear, when the usher cries, ‘Madame la Comtesse de Béarn, Madame la Comtesse Dubarry.’ Choiseul’s face!” “And Polastron’s!” cried the Comtesse, catching up the laugh. “And de Guemenée’s!” Mademoiselle Fontrailles clasped her hands and laughed too. One might have fancied that they were quite assured of their victory over the profound and duplex Choiseul. They were laughing like this when a man-servant appeared. He had knocked at the door, but as he had received no answer and his business was urgent, he entered. “Madame,” said the servant, “Monsieur de Sartines has arrived, and would speak a word with you on a matter of importance.” “Monsieur de Sartines,” said the Comtesse, rising, “at this hour! Show him in.” Everyone rose, and as they stood waiting, the little clock on the mantel chimed the hour. It was two o’clock in the morning. A minute passed, and then the servant returned, opening wide the door. “Monsieur de Sartines.” Sartines bowed to the Comtesse, and then, individually, to each present. He showed scarcely any surprise at the presence of Rochefort. Sartines was the burning centre of this conspiracy to present the Comtesse Dubarry at Court in the teeth of all the opposition of the nobles, and he wished his part in it to be as secret as possible; yet he did not question Rochefort’s presence. He knew quite well that, Rochefort being there, he must have joined hands with the Comtesse. He was a man who never wasted time. “Madame,” said he, “I have grave news to tell you.” “Aha!” said the Comtesse, “more bad news. But stay, perhaps we know it. Is it the plot to rob me of my carriage and my hairdresser?” “No, madame, I know nothing of any plot to rob you of your carriage. It is about the Comtesse de Béarn I have come to speak. Did she not receive a present to-day?” “Yes, a basket of flowers from an old lady who belongs to her province. A Madame Turgis.” “Yes,” said de Sartines, “and a Secret Service agent has just brought me news that amidst the flowers in that basket was a note.” “A note!” “A letter, I should say, giving the Comtesse de Béarn a full and true account of the little plan by which she was induced to come to Paris.”