“No, Monsieur Lavenne, nothing political at all has taken place in the house. Monsieur de Sartines told me to be especially watchful of any friends of Monsieur de Choiseul, or messengers, and to do my utmost to intercept any letter from the Duc. Not a scrap of paper of that description have I seen.”
“Well, you have done your duty evidently with care, and I shall note that in my report. I have come to take your place, as you guessed by this; so now take yourself off to the major-domo, get leave of absence to see your mother, and say that your cousin, Charles Jouve, is prepared to take your place, that he is an excellent servant, and has the highest testimonials; then come back here and tell me what he says.”
“Yes, Monsieur Lavenne.”
“What sort of a man is this major-domo, and what is his name?”
“His name is Brujon, Monsieur Lavenne, and he is rather stupid, fond of talk, and very fond of his glass of wine.”
“Good! He is a gossip?”
“You may say that.”
“Well, off you go; and use all your wits, now, so that he may accept me in your place.”
Jumeau left the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Lavenne sat on the bed waiting his return, and glancing about him at the poorly furnished room, dimly lit by a candle tufted with a “letter,” like a miniature cauliflower.
In five minutes, Jumeau returned.