“She has apartments in the Rue St. Dominic, monsieur, where she lives with her nurse.”
“Yes, monsieur, an old Indian woman, who is as black as my shoe.”
The lively Javotte was proceeding to a vivacious description of her black sister from Martinique when a step on the stairs checked her; she vanished with the glasses, and Rochefort, turning, found himself face to face with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who had just entered the hall.
They bowed to one another ceremoniously. It seemed to Rochefort that, beautiful as she had appeared on the night before, she was even more beautiful by daylight, here in the deserted hall of the Hôtel Dubarry.
“Well, mademoiselle,” said he, “and how are things progressing?”
“Marvellously, monsieur; but do not let us talk here of state secrets.” She led the way into the little room where they had parted but a few hours before.
“The carriage has been arranged for, your coiffeur will, I am sure, prove a success; he has arrived, and the Vicomte Jean has put him under lock and key, with a pocketful of louis to play with, and the promise of an equal amount when his work is done; my poor dress is now being altered and promises a perfect fit. We are saved, in fact, and thanks to you.”
“No, mademoiselle, thanks to luck; for if I had not gone to Choiseul’s ball I would not have met you.”
“You mean, you would not have discovered the plot to steal the carriage and the dress.”