The Vicomte de Chartres, who was five years older than Rochefort in time, and fifty in discretion, moved in his chair uneasily.
He was fond of Rochefort, and nothing had surprised him more in the last few days than the Rochefort episode. The fact that Rochefort had killed a man was easily understandable, but that Rochefort had evaded arrest instead of facing the business was an action that he could not understand, simply because it was an action unlike Rochefort.
Here had a man gone against his true nature and placed himself in the last position, that of a murderer flying from justice—for what reason? To keep an appointment with a woman.
Unhappily the reason cleared everything up.
It was exactly—arguing from the reason—the thing that Rochefort might be expected to do.
“But did you not consider that for the sake of keeping this confounded appointment you were risking everything—losing everything. Mon Dieu! it makes me shudder. Did you not think, my dear man, did you not think?”
“Ah, think!” said the other, “a lot you would think were you in that position. Had he deputed any man for the business but Camus, it might have been different; but to be told, in effect, by Camus, a man I despise, that I was not to go to Paris, but to remain at Versailles, a prisoner of Choiseul’s, well, it was too much! No, I did not think. There is no use in saying to me what I ought to have done. I ought, of course, to have followed Camus like a lamb, faced Choiseul like a lion, and cleared the matter up. As it was, I showed the front of a lion to Camus and the tail of a fox to Choiseul. That was bad policy—but it was inevitable. It seems to me, Chartres, that the whole of this was like a play written by Fate for me to act in. Camus had been my friend. After I had rescued that girl, of whom I told you, from Choiseul’s ruffianly agent, Camus tried to assault her and I struck him in the face. That was Fate. He did not return the blow or seek a duel, he wanted revenge, and behold, when Choiseul put out his hand for someone to arrest me, whom should he employ but Camus—that also was Fate. The girl I served is the servant of the woman I spoke of, and the woman was the friend of Choiseul’s dearest enemy, the Comtesse Dubarry. That was Fate. To serve the woman I mixed myself up with the business of the Presentation, and so have given Choiseul an extra grudge against me. That was Fate. And stay—just before my row with Camus, he had imparted to me a plot which Choiseul was preparing against the Dubarry, a plot which I refused to mix myself with and the gist of which I disclosed to the Dubarry. There again was Fate.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Chartres, “what a tangle you have got yourself into. But tell me this, does Choiseul know that you disclosed this plot of his to the Dubarry?”
“He is sure to know. Camus is certain to have told him that he disclosed the business to me, and as I visited the Dubarry’s house that same night, and as I believe his agents were watching the house—there you are.”
“You visited the house of the Dubarry the same night that Camus told you of the plot—why did you do such a foolish thing?”