The room into which he ushered Javotte was as old as the street and house that contained it. Beamed and wainscoted, its only furniture a few chairs, a table, a stove and a number of volumes piled on a shelf, it had, still, a fairly comfortable appearance. Rooms have personalities, and there are some rooms tolerable to live in even when stripped almost bare of furniture, others intolerable, furnish them how you please. Lavenne’s belonged to the first order.
He took his seat at the table, pointed out a chair to Javotte, and ordered her in a good-humoured way to be quick with her business, as he had a pressing matter on hand.
“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——”