Rochefort turned to the breakfast that was now served to him, and as he ate continued to grumble. If only some of these people whom he hated would come, that he might insult them; if only one of Choiseul’s agents, or even a dozen of them, would come to arrest him, so that he might fight his way to the door and fight his way out of Paris; but no one came, till—as he was in the middle of his meal—an inconspicuous and quietly-dressed man entered, looked round, saw M. de Rochefort sitting at his breakfast, and came towards him. It was Lavenne. Lavenne came up to the table, bowed, and taking an empty chair at the opposite side of the table, sat down. “Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Lavenne, “I have come to arrest you.” He spoke with a friendly smile, and in a manner so urbane, and even deferential, that Rochefort was quite disarmed. He broke into a laugh as though someone had told him a good joke, refilled his glass, took a sip, and placed the glass down again. “Oh, you have come to arrest me, Monsieur Lavenne; good. But where is your sword, and where are your assistants?” “Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I never carry a sword, and I always act single-handed.” “Ah, you always act single-handed—So do I. _Mordieu_! Monsieur Lavenne, it is a coincidence.” “Call it a happy accident, monsieur.” “As how?” “Simply because, monsieur, that as I come to do you a service, and to do it single-handed, your thanks will be all mine and I shall not have to divide it with others.” “Now, upon my faith,” cried Rochefort, laughing and filling a glass with wine, “you have a way of putting things which is entirely new; and what I have observed in you before does not lose in value at all, I assure you, on further acquaintance. May I offer you this glass of wine? To your health—a strange wish enough, as I believe before many minutes are over—as many minutes, in fact, as I take in finishing my breakfast and rising from this table—I shall have the honour of spitting you on my sword.” “To your health, monsieur,” replied Lavenne, perfectly unmoved and raising the glass to his lips. “One can only do one’s duty, and as it is my duty to arrest you, I must take the risk of your sword, which I believe, monsieur, not to be sharper than your tongue to those who have offended you; a risk which I reckon as slight, inasmuch as I have no intention of offending you.” “Eh! no intention of offending me, and yet you talk of arrest!” “That is the fault of our language, monsieur, which compels us sometimes to use words which carry unpleasant meanings to express our thoughts. Now the word Arrest is not a pleasant word, yet in my mouth and used at this table, it is not unpleasant—It means, in fact, Protection.” “And how?” “It is necessary for you to leave Paris immediately, monsieur—is that not so?” “I am going.”