“Oh,” replied Jeanne, “if you write a business letter, you will get one in reply. That is your own affair.”
“You are right, countess; you always see what is best.” He then wrote a letter, so full of loving reproaches and ardent protestations, that Jeanne, when he gave it to her to read, thought, “He has written of his own accord what I never should have dared to dictate.”
“Will it do?” asked he.
“If she loves you. You will see to-morrow: till then be quiet.”
“Till to-morrow, then.”
On her return home Jeanne gave way to her reflections. This letter was just what she wanted. How could the cardinal ever accuse her, when he was called on to pay for the necklace? Even admitting that the queen and cardinal met, and that everything was explained, how could they turn against her while she held in her hands such proofs of a scandalous secret? No, they must let her go quietly off with her fortune of a million and a half of francs. They would know she had stolen the diamonds, but they never would publish all this affair; and if one letter was not enough, she would have seven or eight. The first explosion would come from the jewelers, who would claim their money. Then she must confess to M. de Rohan, and make him pay by threatening to publish his letters. Surely they would purchase the honor of a queen and a prince at the price of a million and a half! The jewelers once paid, that question was at an end; Jeanne felt sure of her fortune. She knew that the cardinal had a conviction so firm that nothing could shake it, that he had met the queen. There was but one living witness against her, and that one she would soon cause to disappear. Arrived at this point, she went to the window and saw Oliva, who was watching in her balcony. She made the accustomed sign for her to come down, and Oliva replied joyfully. The great thing now was to get rid of her. To destroy the instrument that has served them is the constant endeavor of those who intrigue; but here it is that they generally fail; they do not succeed in doing so before there has been time to disclose the secret. Jeanne knew that Oliva would not be easy to get rid of, unless she could think of something that would induce her to fly willingly. Oliva, on her part, much as she enjoyed her nocturnal promenades at first, after so much confinement, was already beginning to weary of them, and to sigh once more for liberty and Beausire.
The night came, and they went out together; Oliva disguised under a large cloak and hood, and Jeanne dressed as a grisette; besides which the carriage bore the respectable arms of Valois, which prevented the police, who alone might have recognized Oliva, from searching it.
“Oh! I have been so ennuyée,” cried Oliva, “I have been expecting you so long.”
“It was impossible to come and see you, I should have run, and made you run, a great danger.”
“How so?” said Oliva, astonished.