He passed now from group to group, nodding to this person and talking to that; and everywhere he found an air of inattention, an atmosphere of restlessness, such as may be noticed among people who are awaiting some momentous decision. They were, in fact, awaiting the decision of Fate as to the presentation of the Dubarry. Among the majority of the courtiers nothing was definitely known, but a great deal was suspected. Rumours had gone about that it was now absolutely certain that the presentation would not take place, and all these rumours had come, funnily enough, not from the Choiseuls, but from the Vicomte Jean. The Choiseul faction, or rather the head centre of it, said nothing; for them the thing was assured. They had robbed the Comtesse, not only of her dress, her coiffeur and her carriage, but of her sponsor. Camus, who had stolen the carriage, had followed Rochefort into the Hall of Presentations, and was now speaking to Coigny, Choiseul’s right-hand man. Coigny, who when he saw Camus had experienced a shock of surprise at seeing him so early, interrupted him. “The carriage?” “It is quite safe,” replied Camus. “The deed is accomplished.” “But how are you here so soon?” “Oh, _ma foi_!” said Camus, “am I a tortoise? Having placed the thing in the coach-house of a well-trusted friend, I went home, dressed, and came on here.” “Ah, but suppose this well-trusted friend of yours were to betray you at the last moment, harness his horses to the precious carriage, and drive it to the Rue de Valois?” Camus laughed. “Can you drive a carriage without wheels? It took seventeen minutes only to remove the wheels and make firewood of them with a sharp axe, to knock the windows to pieces, strip out the linings, and rip to pieces the cushions. If the Dubarry drives to Versailles in that carriage—well, my friend, all I can say is, the vehicle will match her reputation.” “Thanks!” said Coigny. “You have worked well, and you have Choiseul’s thanks.” He moved away, drawn by the sight of another of his confederates who had just appeared. It was the Marquis Monpavon, twenty years of age, cool, insolent, a bully and scamp of the first water, with a smooth, puerile, egg-shaped face that made respectable fingers itch to smack it. “The dressmaker?” said Coigny. “She was charming,” replied Monpavon. “I have quite lost my heart to her. I have made an arrangement to meet her to-morrow evening at the corner of the Rue Picpus.” “But the dress?” “What dress?” “The Dubarry’s! Good God! You did not forget about the dress?” “No,” replied Monpavon. “I did not forget about the dress. The next time you see that dress will be on a mermaid in the Morgue. It is now in the Seine. What’s more, it is in a sack, which also encloses a few stones.” “Thanks, Monpavon. I will tell Choiseul.” He hurried away, attracted by another new-comer. This time it was Monsieur d’Estouteville, an exquisite, who seemed to have no bones, so indolently did he carry himself.