The lively Javotte was proceeding to a vivacious description of her black sister from Martinique when a step on the stairs checked her; she vanished with the glasses, and Rochefort, turning, found himself face to face with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who had just entered the hall. They bowed to one another ceremoniously. It seemed to Rochefort that, beautiful as she had appeared on the night before, she was even more beautiful by daylight, here in the deserted hall of the Hôtel Dubarry. “Well, mademoiselle,” said he, “and how are things progressing?” “Marvellously, monsieur; but do not let us talk here of state secrets.” She led the way into the little room where they had parted but a few hours before. “The carriage has been arranged for, your coiffeur will, I am sure, prove a success; he has arrived, and the Vicomte Jean has put him under lock and key, with a pocketful of louis to play with, and the promise of an equal amount when his work is done; my poor dress is now being altered and promises a perfect fit. We are saved, in fact, and thanks to you.” “No, mademoiselle, thanks to luck; for if I had not gone to Choiseul’s ball I would not have met you.” “You mean, you would not have discovered the plot to steal the carriage and the dress.” “But for you the plot would have lain in my mind unrevealed. I have a horror of Court intrigue. As it is, I have set myself against Choiseul, and killed one of his agents, and thwarted his best hopes; but I count all that nothing in your service.” Mademoiselle Fontrailles gazed at him steadily as he stood there with this patent declaration of homage on his lips, and all the laughter and lightness gone from his happy-go-lucky and defiant face. She guessed now from his face and manner what was in his mind, and that the slightest weakening on her part would bring him down on his knee before her. “I thank you, monsieur,” said she. “And now to the question of the Comtesse de Béarn.” “Ah!” said Rochefort, inwardly cursing the Comtesse de Béarn, “I had forgotten the Comtesse. And how is she this morning?” “She is still very bad.” “And to-night?” “She will be quite unable to attend at Versailles.” Rochefort was about to make a remark when the door leading to the adjoining room opened, and Madame Dubarry herself appeared, young, fresh, triumphant and laughing. “Did I hear you speaking of the Comtesse de Béarn?” asked she, as she extended her hand to Rochefort. “Yes, madame, and I am grieved to hear that she is still indisposed.” “Then, monsieur, you have heard false news. Madame la Comtesse has nearly recovered, and will be quite well enough to act for me to-night.” Mademoiselle Fontrailles smiled, and Rochefort, not knowing what to make of these contradictory statements, stood glancing from one to the other of his informers.