“That will keep him going till things clear up,” said Rochefort. “He is faithful enough, but without money he would be driven to seek another master. And now good-bye, little one, nay, not good-bye—_au revoir_. We will meet soon again, of that I am sure, and in happier circumstances.” “Are you going to the Rue de Valois, monsieur?” “I am going to the Rue de Valois, and that as quick as my feet can take me.” “But, monsieur, have you not thought of the danger?” “What danger?” “Oh, _ma foi_! What danger? If Monsieur de Choiseul is pursuing you, will he not have the streets watched?” “Undoubtedly; but as Paris is under Monsieur de Sartines, Monsieur de Choiseul must first put Monsieur de Sartines in motion. Now, Monsieur de Sartines is my friend and he will delay, I am perfectly sure; he will be bound to act, but he will not be bound to break his neck running after me. So I feel pretty safe till noon.” Javotte sighed. She said nothing more, but accompanied him down the stairs to the door, which she unlatched for him. The _concierge_, a discreet person, no doubt observed this letting out of a man whom he had not let in. However, that was nothing to him, and as for Javotte, she did not think of the matter, so filled was her mind with other things. Having closed the door on Rochefort, she came up again to her room, and taking the letter from the drawer in the bureau looked at it long and attentively. Rochefort had refused to open it, but Javotte had no scruples at all on the matter. She argued with herself thus: “If I were to open this from curiosity, I would be on the level with those spying servants whom I detest, like Madame Scudery’s maid or the maid of Madame du Close. But I am not doing it from curiosity. I am doing it for the sake of another person, who is too proud and too fine to take precautions for himself. And who is Monsieur de Choiseul that one should trouble about opening his letters? Does he not do the very same himself—and who is Mademoiselle La Bruyère that one should not open her letters? Does she not do much worse in many and many a way? And what are they writing to one another about, these two? Well, we will see.” She procured a knife and heated it over the still burning lamp in her mistress’ bedroom. Then, with a dexterity which she had often seen exhibited in the Dubarry _ménage_, she slid the hot knife under the seals of the letter. * * * * * Meanwhile, Rochefort was walking briskly towards the Rue de Valois. It was a perfect morning, the sky was stainless and the new-risen sun was flooding the city with his level beams, pouring his light on the mansions and gardens of the Faubourg St. Honoré, on the churches and spires of the cité, on the Montagne Ste. Genevieve and on the grim, black towers of the Bastille.