“I am sure of nothing, but the Countess is. Camille has made her her confidante. I do not know what women see in Camus, but they seem to see something that attracts them.”
“But he is married—Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Sartines, suddenly interrupting himself and breaking into a laugh. “What am I saying—it is well known that Madame Camus is delicate—and should she die——”
“Then our gentleman would be free to marry Camille,” said Jean.
“No, monsieur,” replied Sartines, “I doubt if it would all be as simple as that. However, we will not consider the question of Camus’ marriage with this girl in any event. She is a fool.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because if the Devil had allowed her to care for Rochefort, and she had thrown in her part with him, it would have assisted to smooth matters with Choiseul. The Countess would have worked more earnestly for a démarche, and the Fontrailles would have kept Rochefort contented in Vincennes with a few notes sent to him there— Well, one cannot make up a woman’s mind for her and there is no use in trying. She is going to-night, I suppose, to this affair at Choiseul’s?”
“Oh, you may be sure. Camus will be there.”
The Vicomte went off and Sartines returned to his writing.
But this was to be an eventful morning with him. Five minutes had scarcely passed when the door burst open without knock or warning, and Beauregard, who by this ought to have been on the road to Vincennes, entered, flushed and breathing hard.