“I only know that he is in Paris somewhere. My dear Coigny, I could have given him no better guardian than the guardian he has chosen for himself—drink.”
“Oh, you made him drunk!”
“Oh, no. It was a happy accident. It was this way. I had him brought to my house on an urgent summons. He was shown into a room where some wine was set out, quite by accident, and when I came to interview him with a purse full of gold for his seduction, I found he had been at the wine. He was talkative and flushed. Now, said I to myself, why should I pay five thousand francs for what I can obtain for a bottle of wine or two? So I ordered up some Rousillon, and made him drunk.”
“Ah!”
“He quite forgot that he was a hairdresser at the end of the first bottle; before he had finished the second, he grew quarrelsome, and would have drawn his sword.[A] Then he fell asleep, and my servants took him and laid him out by the wall that borders the Cemetery of the Innocents. It was then half-past six o’clock. No man, not even his Majesty’s physician, could turn him into a hairdresser again before to-morrow morning. So, you see, by a stroke of luck I saved five thousand francs, and avoided the implication in this affair that a bribe given to a barber might have occasioned all of us.”
“Good!” said Coigny. He knew quite well that the apparently boneless d’Estouteville was one of the elect of chicanery, was as good a swordsman almost as Beauregard, and could outslang a fish-fag on the Petit Pont were he called to the test; but he had not expected such a brilliant piece of work as this. “Good. I will tell Choiseul that story. By the way, you are expected in his private apartments after this affair is over. You will not find him ungenerous, I think. Tell Monpavon and the others that they are expected also.”
He walked away to where the Duc de Choiseul was standing, talking to some gentleman. It was now after ten, and the King had not yet appeared, though the hour for the presentation had arrived. He drew the Minister aside, and informed him of the reports he had just received from d’Estouteville, Monpavon and Camus; and Choiseul was in the act of congratulating him when the whole brilliant assemblage turned as if touched by a magician’s wand; conversation died away, and silence fell upon the Chamber of Presentations.
The King had entered by the door leading from his apartments. He wore the Order of the Golden Fleece. Glancing from right to left, he advanced, followed by his suite, till, seeing Choiseul, he paused whilst the Minister advanced, bowing before him.
Choiseul saw that his Majesty was in a temper. He knew quite well that the King had made his appearance thus late, not because of laziness or indifference, but simply because he had been waiting the arrival of Madame Dubarry. The King, in fact, had been kept informed of all the guests who had arrived. Ten o’clock was the hour for the presentation, and now at a quarter past ten, his Majesty, never patient of delay, had left his apartments to seek the truth for himself.
“The Comtesse is late, Choiseul,” said the King.