It was a good idea, though risky; Rochefort, however, took risks; he was of the temper of Jean Bart, who, it will be remembered, once reefed his sails with seaweed, trusting to the wind to blow them loose at the proper moment. In the Rue St. Dominic he paused at the house indicated in the letter. It was a medium-sized house of good appearance, and all the windows were in darkness, with the exception of the second window on the first floor. He stopped and looked up at this window. To knock at the door would mean rousing the porter. He was quite prepared to do that, but the lit window fascinated him, something told him that the person he sought was there. He looked about to see if he could find a pebble, but the moon had gone and the roadway was almost invisible in the darkness; he rubbed the sole of his boot about on the ground, but could find nothing, so taking a louis from his pocket and taking careful aim, he flung it up at the window. The casement was open a few inches, and, as luck would have it, the coin instead of hitting the glass, entered, struck the curtain and fell on the floor. He waited for a moment, and was just on the point of taking another louis from his pocket, when a shadow appeared on the curtain, the curtain was drawn aside, and the window pushed open. He could see the vague outline of a form above the sill, and then came a woman’s whisper: “Who is it?” “Rochefort,” came the answer. He dared not say more, fearing that it might be some servant: then, as the form disappeared with the word, “Wait,” he knew that all was right. He searched for the door, found it, and stood waiting, his heart beating as it never had beaten before. Choiseul, Camus, his own position, everything, was forgotten. He heard a step in the passage and then the bolts carefully withdrawn; he could scarcely believe in his luck: Camille Fontrailles, with her own hand, was opening the door for him, at dead of night, secretively, and in a way that cast everything to the winds. Next moment he was in the hall, holding a warm hand in the darkness, whilst the other little hand of the woman who had admitted him was replacing the bolts. “Come,” whispered a voice. He followed, still holding her hand and led as a blind man is led, up the stairs, to a landing, to a door. The woman pushed the door open, and they entered a room lit by a lamp and with the remnants of a fire in the grate. The light of the lamp struck on the woman’s face. It was Javotte. Rochefort dropped her hand, stared round him, and then at the girl who was standing before him with a smile on her lips. Never had Javotte looked prettier. Though a girl of the people, she had a refinement of her own; compared to Camille, she was the wild violet compared to the cultivated violet, the essential charm was the same; but to Rochefort, suddenly disillusioned, she had neither charm nor grace. “You!” said he, drawing back and walking towards the window.