“Fate, my dear Chartres, seems to me to be hitting at these two, and I reckon the blows I have received, not as blows aimed directly against me, but as blows I have received indirectly and by contre coup.”
“You are becoming a philosopher,” said Chartres, laughing.
“Well, we will see,” replied Rochefort. “I believe I am on the winning side, the indications are with me—well, do you still refuse to take me with you to Choiseul’s?”
“No, my dear Rochefort, I do not refuse, simply because I cannot—and for this reason: The thing you propose is distasteful to me, but it is a matter of urgency with you, and though you may be wrong, still, if the case was reversed, I know you would do for me what I am going to do for you. I will take you to Choiseul’s.”
“Thank you,” said Rochefort. “I will never forget it to you. And now as to clothes. I am unable to go or send for anything to my place, can you dress me as well as take me to this pleasant party of Choiseul’s?”
“Without doubt. My wardrobe is at your disposal—and now, if you will have no more wine, it is time to go to bed. I will have a bed made up for you.”
He called a servant and gave instructions as to the preparation of a room. As they were going upstairs, Rochefort remembered Ferminard, with whom he had parted outside the walls of Paris.
Ferminard had refused to enter by the Porte St. Antoine, preferring to make his way round to the Maison Gambrinus and take shelter there. Rochefort had entered by the Porte St. Antoine, not on his legs, but by means of a market gardener’s cart which they had overtaken. He had given the gardener a few francs for the lift, and, pretending intoxication, had entered Paris lying on some sacks of potatoes, presumably asleep and certainly snoring.
Having been shown to his bedroom, Rochefort undressed and went to bed, where he slept as soundly as a child till Germain, Chartres’ valet, awoke him at nine o’clock.