He told her to come and sit on his knee whilst he explained all his worries and troubles, and she came and sat on his knee like a child. She would have resisted him now as a lover, yet there in that bedroom, in that deserted house, she let him caress her without fear and without thought. There was something great about Rochefort at times, when he forgot Rochefort the _flaneur_ and Rochefort the libertine, or perhaps it would be nearer the mark to say there was nothing little about him, and nothing base. “It is this way, Javotte,” said he. “Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, of whom you have no doubt heard, is pursuing me, and I am running away from Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, and as I am not used to running away, I run very badly, but still I do my best. Now, you remember the other night when those bad men attacked you?—well, when I chased them away, I followed one of them and he threw a knife at me and I killed him. He was an agent of Monsieur de Choiseul, who, having discovered that I killed his agent, would like very much to kill me. He tried to arrest me at the Palace of Versailles some hours ago, and the agent he employed was Monsieur Camus, the same man whose face I smacked before you——” “Oh, monsieur,” said Javotte, “that is an evil man; his face, his very glance, took the life away from me.” “Just so,” said Rochefort; “and I struck that evil man in the stomach, and left him kicking his heels on the steps of his Majesty’s palace, whilst I made my escape. I got a horse and came to Paris, but I cannot stay in Paris. To-morrow I am going to the Rue de Valois to keep that appointment with your mistress, which I failed to keep to-night. Well, I may be taken prisoner or killed before I reach the Hôtel Dubarry. In that case, you will tell your mistress all, and that the fault was not mine, in that I did not arrive here in time. You will be my friend in this, Javotte?” “Yes, monsieur,” replied Javotte, “I will, indeed, be your friend.” She who had hoped only to be his lover cast away that hope, or imagined that she cast away that hope, in taking up the reality of friendship. “I trust you,” he said; “and now to another thing. I have here a letter belonging to Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul; it is addressed to a lady at Compiègne, it was in the saddle-bag of the horse which I took to carry me to Paris, and it must be delivered to the lady it is intended for.” He took the letter from his pocket and gave it to Javotte, who had now risen and was standing before him. “You must find someone to take it for me, and that someone will expect to be paid for his trouble, so here are two louis——” “Monsieur,” said Javotte, “I do not need money.” Rochefort returned the coins to his pocket and stood up. He had not offered Javotte money for herself, but he should not have offered it at all. The brutality that spoils a butterfly’s wing may be a touch that would not injure a rose-leaf.