“A note!”
“A letter, I should say, giving the Comtesse de Béarn a full and true account of the little plan by which she was induced to come to Paris.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Madame Dubarry. “If the old fool only gets to know that, we are ruined! I know her as well as if I had constructed her. Once her pride and self-esteem are touched, she is hopeless to deal with.”
“At what hour did this basket of flowers arrive?” asked de Sartines.
“At four o’clock.”
“It has been in her private apartments ever since?”
“Yes.”
De Sartines looked at the clock on the mantel.
“Ten hours and seven minutes. Well, madame, if in that time the Comtesse de Béarn has not discovered the note, you are saved. Go at once, madame, to her apartments, and if you can capture the accursed basket and its contents, for Heaven’s sake do so. We must give her no chance to find it in the morning.”
Madame Dubarry left the room without a word. She passed through the next room and down a corridor, where, taking a small lamp from a table, she turned with it in her hand to a narrow staircase leading to the next floor. Here she paused at a doorway, listened, and then, gently opening the door, entered the Comtesse de Béarn’s sitting-room.