“Ah, madame!” said Dubarry, “this was ill done. Had you known what personal issues to yourself were involved, you would have been more careful!” Then, lest she should lose all restraint over herself, and fling the lamp in her hand at the head of the scalded one, she rushed from the room, seized the basket of flowers, and with basket in one hand and lamp in the other reached the ground floor, taking this time the grand staircase. She broke into the room, where de Sartines and the others were seated, flung the basket on a chair, so that it upset and the contents tumbled pell-mell over the floor, and broke into tears. Everyone knew. “Has she found out?” cried Jean. “Madame,” said de Sartines, waving the Vicomte aside, “calm yourself; all may not yet be lost.” “Ah, monsieur, you do not know,” sobbed the unfortunate woman. “Not only has she found out, but she has scalded her leg, so that the affair is now absolutely hopeless.” She told her tale, and as she told it her sobs ceased, her eyes grew bright, and she finished standing before them with clenched hands and sparkling eyes, more beautiful than ever. Mademoiselle Fontrailles had been collecting the flowers; there was no sign of a letter among them. Jean Dubarry, white and beyond speech and unable to vent his spleen on anything else, had cuffed the China mandarin on to the floor, where it lay shattered. Rochefort, carried away by the tragedy, was cursing. De Sartines only was calm. “It is impossible, then, for her to appear at Versailles?” said he. “Utterly, monsieur.” “Well, madame,” said de Sartines, “courage; all is not yet lost.” “Ah, Monsieur de Sartines,” said the Comtesse, “what do you mean? Do you not know as well as I do that, failing the Comtesse de Béarn, the thing is impossible? Even were I to find someone qualified to take the place of this old woman, there would still be all the formalities of the application. Monsieur de la Vrillière would have to inquire into the antecedents of the lady, and Monsieur de Coigny would have to receive the request, only to lose it for Monsieur to find and cancel on account of the delay.” “Madame,” cut in de Sartines, “the plan which has just occurred to me has nothing to do with the finding of a substitute. Madame la Comtesse de Béarn shall present you; or, let us put it in this way: to-morrow evening at ten o’clock you will be presented to his Majesty at the Court of Versailles. I am only mortal, and therefore fallible; but if you will leave the matter in my hands the thing shall be done, always saving the direct interposition of God.” “You are, then, a magician?” cried the Comtesse. “No, madame; or only a white magician who works through human agency.” “Ah, Monsieur de Sartines,” cried the Comtesse, hope appearing again in her eyes, “if you can only help me in this, I shall pray for you till my dying day!”