Coigny went to the side door giving entrance to the apartments, opened it, and ushered in a number of gentlemen who had been standing outside. First came Camus, the chief of the executive of the broken-down conspiracy; after him Monpavon, cool, smug and impudent as ever, and after him, d’Estouteville, a trifle flushed; after these, the others who had helped in one way or the other in the great fiasco, as Monpavon had already named the business. Seven gentlemen in all entered to receive Choiseul’s felicitations on their failure to outwit a woman, and Choiseul’s tongue in a matter of this sort was sure. “Ah, Monsieur Camus!” said he. “Good evening. Good evening, Monsieur Monpavon; Monsieur d’Estouteville, good evening. Ah! I see Monsieur d’Est, Monsieur Beaupré, Monsieur Duras—well, gentlemen, we have not succeeded in lending as much colour to his Majesty’s presentation to-night as I might have wished. We have not been very brilliant, gentlemen. Monsieur Monpavon, I believe you have a very small opinion of women. Their value, of course, viewed philosophically, is an academic question; but viewed practically—well, viewed practically, the brains of those women you despise, Monsieur Monpavon, have a certain value, though you may not imagine it. Yes, Monsieur d’Estouteville, the brain of a woman has proved itself a better article to-night than all the brains in Versailles. Monsieur Camus, what explanation have you to offer?” He expected to see Camus discomfited, but the dark, pitted face of the Count showed nothing of his feelings. “Monsieur,” said Camus, “we have been betrayed.” “That is very evident,” said Choiseul. “_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur Camus, what next will you come here to tell me? That the sun does not shine at night?” “Monsieur,” said Camus, “I have not yet finished. I know the name of the man who has betrayed us.” “Ah, you know his name!” “Yes, monsieur.” “And this man?” “It is the Comte de Rochefort.” “Rochefort!” “Monsieur, it is Rochefort, and no other. He alone knew of our plan.” “Who told him?” “I did, monsieur.” “You told him?” “He was my friend. I reckoned him a man of honour. I swore him to secrecy.” As he told this lie his hand went to his pocket and produced a piece of paper. “And entrusted him with the full details of the business in hand. He refused to assist, we quarrelled. It was just after we left your ball last night, and we parted in the Rue de Chevilly.