“In danger?”
“Yes, but I hope to save him. He is in Paris, I do not know his address, but I shall see him to-night.”
“Ah—in danger—” said Javotte. “I shall not rest till I hear that he is safe.”
“You care for him so much as that?”
“Oh, monsieur, I care for him much more.”
Lavenne left her. “Now there is a faithful heart,” said he. “Ah, if M. de Rochefort had only the genius to see that friend of all friends, the woman who loves him!—And why not. Madame la Comtesse Dubarry was a shop-girl. She had only a pretty face. And here we have the pretty face, but so much more also.”
He dismissed Javotte from his mind, concentrating his attention on the events of the forthcoming evening, on the Duc de Choiseul’s reception, which he felt to be the point towards which all these diverse fortunes were tending. Lavenne half divined the truth that the life of society is really the agglutination of a thousand stories, each story containing so many characters working out a definite plot towards a definite, and sometimes to an indefinite, dénouement. He felt that in this especial business in which he was engaged the story, beginning with the Presentation of the Comtesse Dubarry, was about to find its dénouement at the reception of the Duc de Choiseul, and he could not help contemplating all the complex interests involved, their reaction one on the other and the manner in which they were being drawn together towards one definite point. Sartines’ fortune was at stake, Rochefort’s liberty, Camus’ life, Camille Fontrailles’ future, Javotte’s love and Choiseul’s position as a Minister.
The thing seemed to have been arranged by some dramatist—or shall we say some chemist, who had slowly brought together, one by one, all these diverse elements that wanted now only the last touch, the last drop of acid or spark of fire to produce the culminating explosion.