The smile vanished from her lips, they trembled, and then, just as if it had started from her lips, a little shiver went all through her. In a flash, she understood all; he had not discovered her window by some miraculous means, he had not come to see her, he did not care for her. It was her mistress for whom this visit was intended. Ever since he had kissed her in the corridor of the Hôtel Dubarry, she had dreamed of him, looked for him, fancied that he would come to seek her. He had come, but not for her. The blow to her love, her pride, and her life was brutal in its directness, yet she took it standing, and after the first moment almost without flinching. She had come of a race to whom pride had been denied, a race accustomed to the _Droit de Seigneur_, the whip of the noble and the disdain of the aristocrat, yet the woman in her found the pride that hides suffering, and can find and place its hand even on disdain. “Monsieur,” said Javotte, “I am sorry, but my mistress is from home.” Rochefort, standing by the window, had recovered himself. He guessed quite well that little Javotte had a more than kindly feeling for him, that at a look or a touch she would be his, body and soul, and that she had led him upstairs thinking that his visit was to her. But he was moving under the dominion of a passion that held his mind from Javotte as steadily as centrifugal force holds the moon from the earth. “From home?” said he. “Has she not been here, then, to-night?” “Yes, monsieur, she was here till half-past twelve, then she left for the Rue de Valois with Mademoiselle Chon Dubarry.” “Mademoiselle Dubarry was with her here, then?” “Yes, monsieur, and they left together.” He saw at once that the appointment Camille had given him was no lover’s tryst—or, at least, a lover’s tryst with a chaperon attached to it. This pleased him, somehow. Despite the fact that his heart had leaped in him whilst under the dominion of the thought that Camille had flung all discretion to the winds, the revelation of the truth that it was Javotte who was flinging discretion to the winds came to him as a satisfaction, despite the check to his animal nature. Camille was not to be conquered as easily as that. She had waited for him till half-past twelve, there was some comfort in that thought; the question now arose as to what he should do. It was clearly impossible to knock the Dubarrys up at that hour in the morning. He must wait, and where better than here; he wanted a friend to talk to, and whom could he find better than Javotte? There was a chair by the bed, and he sat down on the chair, and then what did he do but take Javotte on his knee.