Choiseul might remain in power for years, and at this thought the sweat moistened M. de Rochefort’s hands, wetting the big sou which he still held, and which, like some magician, whilst talking of Liberty to him, had shown him, as in a vision, his foolishness and his false position.
Sartines had put him under “protection” at Vincennes, not for his—Rochefort’s—sake, but for his—Sartines’—convenience.
So many charming people in this world are wise after the event; it is chiefly the hard-headed and unpleasant and prosperous people whose wisdom, practical as themselves, saves them and makes them prosper. If Rochefort could only have gone back in his life; if he could only have carried his present wisdom back to the night of the Presentation, how differently things might have shaped themselves as regards his interests—or would he, in the face of everything, have pursued the path pointed out to him, as the old romance-writers would have said, “by Love and Folly”?
I believe he would, for M. de Rochefort had amongst his other qualities, good and bad, the persistence of a snail. Not only had Love urged him that night to strike Camus and escape on the horse of Choiseul’s messenger, but Persistence had lent its powerful backing to Love. This gentleman hated to break his word with himself, and, as a matter of fact, he never did. If he had promised himself to repent of his sins and lead a virtuous life, I believe he would have done so.
He was longing to promise himself now to escape from this infernal prison into which Folly had led him.
“Well, M. de Rochefort,” came the voice of Ferminard, “it is not for me to say whether you are right or wrong, but seeing that you are here, and safe under the protection of M. de Sartines, there is nothing to be done but have patience.”
“Mordieu, patience! To be told that always makes me angry. Monsieur Ferminard, if you use that word again to me I will stuff up that hole with my blanket.”
“Pardon,” said Ferminard. “The word escaped from me, and now, monsieur, if you have done with that big sou.”
“Here is your sou,” replied the other, replacing the coin in the hand of Ferminard that was thrust through the opening, “and now, M. Ferminard, I am going to sit down on my bed and try if sleep will not help me to forget M. de Sartines, M. de Choiseul, myself, and this infernal castle where stupidity has brought me. Bon soir.”
“Bon soir, monsieur,” replied Ferminard.