“It is this way, monsieur,” said Javotte. “I did not tell you all this morning, simply because what I left untold relates to an affair of which I am rather ashamed in one way, and not the least ashamed of in another.” “And this affair?” “Relates to the opening of a letter addressed by Monsieur de Choiseul to a lady in Compiègne.” “And who opened the letter?” “I did, monsieur.” “And how did it fall into your hands?” Javotte explained how Rochefort had found it in the saddle-bag of the horse he had used in his escape from Versailles. “He would not open it himself, monsieur. He gave it to me to deliver to the lady at Compiègne; when I said to him, ‘Monsieur de Choiseul would open the letter were it one of yours,’ he only replied—‘You see, I am not Monsieur de Choiseul, but simply Monsieur de Rochefort.’ That was the reply of a great noble; but I, monsieur, am simply a servant, and, what is more, the servant of Monsieur de Rochefort’s interests, seeing that he saved me from those men of Monsieur de Choiseul, who might have killed me. I do not love Monsieur de Choiseul and——” “You do love Monsieur de Rochefort,” finished Lavenne, with a laugh. Javotte flushed, her eyes sparkled, as though the words had been an insult, then she calmed down. “Perhaps you are right, monsieur, perhaps you are wrong. In any case, my feelings have nothing to do with the matter.” “Pardon me,” said Lavenne, “you are right. I have been indiscreet. Let us forget it—and accept my apology. Now, as to this letter. May I ask you to tell me its contents?” “I can do better, monsieur, I can show you the letter itself.” She took the letter from her breast and handed it to Lavenne, who spread it open on the table before him and began to read, his elbows upon the table and his head between the palms of his hands. It was a terrible document for Choiseul to have put his name to. Written in a moment of fury immediately after the presentation of Madame Dubarry, it consisted of only twelve lines. Yet it told of the failure of his plot against Dubarry, and it spoke of the King in a sentence that was at once indecent and almost treasonable. “_Mordieu_!” said Lavenne. “What a letter! What a letter! What a letter!” He glanced at the back of it, then he cast his eyes again over the contents.