“Nor did I offer it to you,” said he, placing his hand on her shoulder. “One does not offer money to a friend—or only as a loan—I meant you to give it to some footman or other as a reward for his services. But should you ever need a loan, my little Javotte, why, then, Rochefort will be your banker, offering you his life and his services without interest. But there is one thing he will never lend you—and can you guess what that thing is?” “No, monsieur.” “His friendship—for it is yours, now and always.” Javotte bowed her pretty head as if in confirmation and acknowledgment. Still holding the letter in her hand, she turned it over, glancing now at the superscription, now at the seals. Then, moving towards the chair, she sat down. Rochefort watched her, wondering what was in her mind, and waiting for her to speak. “Monsieur,” said Javotte at last, “you ask me to take this letter to its destination. To do so, I must first read the address, and I find it is addressed to Mademoiselle La Bruyère. You say Monsieur de Choiseul is the writer of it. You say Monsieur de Choiseul is pursuing you. Well, monsieur, is it not possible that, in parting with this letter, you are parting with a weapon that may be very useful to you?” “Oho!” said Rochefort, laughing, amused at Javotte’s seriousness and her air of subtlety and intrigue, as though some dove were suddenly to assume the garb of a serpent’s wisdom. “What is this you say?” “Simply, monsieur, that Mademoiselle La Bruyère is one of the greatest enemies of Madame la Comtesse Dubarry. I have heard my mistress say that she obtained her place in the entourage of the Dauphiness In order to poison the mind of the Dauphiness against her. Here is Monsieur de Choiseul writing to Mademoiselle La Bruyère——” “Ah!” cried Rochefort, striking himself on the forehead, and speaking as though oblivious of Javotte’s presence, “I see. Choiseul writes a despatch to Mademoiselle La Bruyère—and last night of all nights, immediately after the presentation, to tell her, without doubt, of the plan and its failure—and the plan was directed against his Majesty as well as against the Countess. Certainly, that letter may prove a very terrible weapon against Choiseul.” “And you will use it, monsieur?” “The letter?” “Yes, monsieur, the letter.” “I—no, I cannot use it. I do not even know that it would help me. I may be wrong even in my suspicion. The thing may have no value at all; how do I know that it is not a love-letter?”—he laughed at the idea of Love coupled with the idea of Choiseul—“or about some private matter? No, it is impossible. I cannot open Monsieur de Choiseul’s letter to see if it concerns me, and even were I to open it, and were I to find the blackest conspiracy under the handwriting of Choiseul, I could not use it against him.”