THAT night, or, rather, early next morning, the Vicomte de Chartres was returning to his house in the Rue Malaquais and had just entered the street when, against the setting moon, he saw a form coming towards him which he thought he recognized.
It was Rochefort.
Chartres was one of the few men in Paris whom Rochefort numbered as his bosom friends. He could not believe his eyes at first, and when Rochefort spoke, Chartres scarcely believed his ears.
Rochefort, of whose flight all Paris was talking, Rochefort, the man who was supposed to be far beyond the frontier, Rochefort in the Rue Malaquais, walking along as calmly and jauntily as though nothing had happened.
“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rochefort as they shook hands, “what a fortunate meeting! Where have you sprung from?”
Chartres broke into a laugh.
“Where have I sprung from? You to ask that question! On the contrary, my dear fellow, it is for me to ask where you have sprung from?”
“Nowhere,” replied Rochefort, also laughing, “or at least from a place I cannot talk of here in the street. I want shelter for the night and a change of clothes; here is your house and we are both about the same size, and I know you have always half a dozen new suits that you have never worn. So, if you want my story, take me and clothe me, and let me rest for a while before I set out on my mission to hunt for M. de Choiseul.”
“To hunt for M. de Choiseul! Bon Dieu! Are not you aware that he is ransacking Paris and all France for you?”
“Then we are both on the same business, and that being so, I think it is highly probable we shall meet.”