“Jean, are you sure of the carriage?”
“Mordieu, yes. Vaudrin is ours entirely.”
“Will it be possible to have the arms altered in this short time?”
“He will do it. I will call upon him to-morrow morning at six o’clock.”
“Well,” said the Comtesse, “I accept. I accept everything—your advice, Monsieur de Rochefort, and your sacrifice, Camille. But it is a debt I can never repay.”
This sweet sentence was suddenly broken upon by a shriek of laughter from Jean. Dubarry rarely laughed, but when he did so it took him like convulsions—a very bad sign in a man. He flung himself on a couch and slapped his thigh.
“Their faces,” cried he, “when you appear, when the usher cries, ‘Madame la Comtesse de Béarn, Madame la Comtesse Dubarry.’ Choiseul’s face!”
“And Polastron’s!” cried the Comtesse, catching up the laugh. “And de Guemenée’s!”
Mademoiselle Fontrailles clasped her hands and laughed too. One might have fancied that they were quite assured of their victory over the profound and duplex Choiseul. They were laughing like this when a man-servant appeared. He had knocked at the door, but as he had received no answer and his business was urgent, he entered.
“Madame,” said the servant, “Monsieur de Sartines has arrived, and would speak a word with you on a matter of importance.”