His way lay through the Rue de Provençe, a street that might have been named after its inhabitants, for here, amidst the early morning stir of life, you might hear the Provençal patois, the explosive little oaths, the shrill tongues of the women of the Camargue; and here you might buy Arles sausages, and Brandade, from swarthy shopkeepers with red cotton handkerchiefs tied round their heads and with gold rings in their ears, and here you might see the Venus of Arles in the flesh at every corner. He passed from here into the Rue d’Artois, and then into the Rue de Valois. Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte was at home, and Rochefort, following the servant, passed into the hall and was shown into the identical room where, only the night before last, he had assisted at the council of war, and where the Countess had protested her devotion to him and the Vicomte Jean had sworn eternal friendship. The servant had drawn the blinds, and the morning light entered, illuminating the place and striking the white and gold decorations, the painted ceiling and the crystal of the candelabrum. The chairs were set about just as they had been left by the last persons who had occupied the place, and on one of the chairs was lying a woman’s glove. From the next room could be heard voices; men’s voices, laughter and the clink of money. The Vicomte Jean and some of his disreputable companions were, no doubt, playing at cards, had been playing, most likely, all night, or, at all events, since news came that the presentation was a success, for the Vicomte had not turned up at Versailles, he had been too busy in Paris arranging matters. Now, as Rochefort listened, he heard the servant entering to announce a visitor; the voices of the card-players ceased, then came the sounds of voices grumbling. A minute later, and the door giving on the corridor opened, and Jean Dubarry made his appearance. He had never looked worse. His face was stiff from drink and sleeplessness, his coat was stained with wine, and one stocking was slipping down and wrinkled. He had been taking huge pinches of snuff to pull himself together, and the evidence of it was upon him. “Ha, Rochefort,” cried the man of pleasure. “You are early, hey! You see me—I have not been to bed—when the good news came by special messenger, I had some friends here, they are here still——” He yawned and flung himself on a couch, stretched out his legs, put his hands in his pockets, and yawned again. “Your special messenger did not come quicker from Versailles than I did,” said Rochefort. “Dubarry, I’m in the pot this time. I have always avoided politics, but they have got me at last, it seems.” “What are you saying?” asked Dubarry. “I am saying that Choiseul is after me.” “Choiseul after you!” echoed Dubarry, rousing himself. “What is this you say? What has he found out? _Dame_! I thought all this business was happily ended, and now you come and disturb me with this news—what is it?”