Sartines knew from the expression on Choiseul’s face that Rochefort was saved, unless Camus, by some trickery, were to turn the tables. Everything rested now with what Camus would do and say.
He was taking a pinch of snuff when Lavenne’s knock came to the door.
Lavenne entered. His face was absolutely white.
“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, disregarding the other two, “send at once for Monsieur Camus. Mademoiselle Fontrailles has been poisoned—he may know some antidote, but it will have to be forced from him.”
“Good God!” said Sartines, instantly guessing the truth. “He has given her the poison instead of his wife.”
“Yes—yes, monsieur—but send quick.”
“I will fetch him myself,” cried Sartines, rushing from the room.
Choiseul, amazed, found his speech.
“What is this you say?” he asked. “Poisoned, in my house? Explain yourself!”
“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “Comte Camus has poisoned a lady at the supper-table—yes, in your house; he intended to poison his wife. I have been watching him for some time. He poisoned Atalanta, the King’s hound, with poison which he had prepared for his wife, and which the dog ate by accident. Woe is me! I should have seized him to-day, but the evidence was not complete. I had arranged things otherwise, but God in His wisdom has brought my plans to nothing.”