“Well, her health is still bad.” “Will she be here to-night?” “You will see. Ask me no more about her. Besides, I have something else to talk of. Your man, whom you put out of action the night before last, has been found.” “The man I killed?” “Yes.” “Well,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I don’t envy the finder—that is to say, if he has any sense of beauty.” “Rochefort,” said de Sartines, “it would not trouble me a _dernier_ were forty like him found every morning in the streets of Paris; but, in this case, you have to be on your guard, for he was found, not by one of my agents, but by one of Choiseul’s. The news came to me through Choiseul.” “Ah!” said Rochefort, becoming serious. “Is that so?” “With a request that I should investigate the matter. If that were all it would be nothing; the danger to you is that Choiseul, no doubt, has started investigating the matter for himself.” Sartines, having delivered himself of this warning, turned to the Comte d’Egmont, who was passing, and walked off with him, leaving Rochefort to digest his words. Rochefort for a moment was depressed; he did not like the idea of this dead man turning up, arm-in-arm, so to speak, with Choiseul. He had no remorse at all about the ruffian, but he had a lively feeling that, should Choiseul discover the truth, he would avenge the death of this villain, deserved even though it was. Then he put the matter from his mind, and passed with the throng through the Hall of Mirrors towards the _salon_, where the presentations took place. On the way he passed Camus, who, with his wife, was speaking to the Comte d’Harcourt. Madame Camus was rather plain, older than her husband, and afflicted with a slight limp—an impediment in her walk, to quote M. de Richelieu. Camus’ marriage with this woman was a mystery. She was the third daughter of the Comte de Grigny, who owned a château in Touraine, and little else, if we except numerous debts. She was plain, without dowry, and had a limp. It may have been the comment of Froissart on women so affected, or that her plainness appealed to him in some curious way; the fact remained that Camus had married her, and—so people said—was heartily sick of his bargain. The Hall of Mirrors gave one eyes at the back of one’s head; and Camus, though his back was half-turned to Rochefort, saw his mirrored reflection approach and pass; but he did not take the slightest notice of his enemy, continuing his conversation, whilst Rochefort passed on towards the wide-open door of the Salon of Presentations.