Marie went to give the order, and Gaudin developed his plan briefly, but clearly, to Lachaussée. It was, to mix with the attendants at the carouse, furnished with the phial, which Sainte-Croix took from the box and gave him; then, watching his opportunity, he was to mix a few drops of its contents with the wine of the brothers. Assuming the dress which Françoise soon brought, Lachaussée left the apartment, leaving Sainte-Croix and the Marchioness to await the result.
The room in which François and Henri d’Aubray with their country friends were assembled was large and handsome. Lights sparkled upon the table, and played brilliantly among the flasks, cups, and salvers which covered it, in all the rich profusion of one of those luxurious suppers, which, although not carried to perfection until the subsequent reign, were already admirably organised, and most popular among the gay youth of the Parisian noblesse.
François d’Aubray was seated at the head of a long table; his stern and somewhat sullen features contrasting strongly with the boyish and regular face of his younger brother Henri, who sat on his right. The company consisted almost entirely of provincial aristocracy—those whose estates joined that of D’Aubray at Offemont, in Compiègne. There was more of splendour than taste in their costumes; the wit was coarser, too, and the laughter louder than Parisian good-breeding would have sanctioned.
‘And so you have run down your game at last,’ said the Marquis of Villeaume, one of the guests, to François.
‘Yes—thanks to Desgrais,’ was the reply. ‘Sainte-Croix is at this moment in the hands of the lieutenant-civil, and, if I know aught of his affairs, he will not soon reappear to trouble the peace of our family.’
‘Mon dieu! François, you are too severe,’ gaily interrupted Henri. ‘Gaudin de Sainte-Croix is a bon garçon, after all; and I am half inclined to quarrel with you for tracking him down as if he were a paltry bourgeois.’
‘Henri,’ said François, turning sharply towards him; ‘no more of this. Our sisters honour must not be lightly dealt with. Sainte-Croix is a villain, and deserves a villain’s doom.’
‘A truce to family grievances!’ roared a red-faced Baron, heavily booted and spurred; one of those Nimrods who were quite as ridiculous, and much more numerous in the France of Louis Quatorze, than their imitators of the ‘Jockey Club’ of the present day. ‘Debtor-hunting is a bourgeois sport compared to stag-hunting, after all; the only amusement for young gentlemen.’
‘Where is Antoine Brinvilliers?’ asked another guest of François. ‘He ought to be very grateful to you, for your care of Madame la Marquise’s reputation.’
‘Once for all, messieurs,’ said François, who turned crimson at the implied taunt: ‘no more words of our sister, or our family concerns, or harm may come of it.’