He glanced at the clock. It pointed to half-past eleven. A swift horse would take him in less than an hour to Paris. He turned to the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Sartines.
“To Paris, monsieur,” replied Rochefort, with a bow.
CHAPTER X
THE ORDER OF ARREST
AT a quarter past eleven, that is to say, a quarter of an hour before Rochefort received the note from Mademoiselle Fontrailles, Choiseul, who had kissed the hand of the Dubarry, congratulated her on her dress, compared her to a rose in an epigram that had the appearance of being absolutely new, and watched her vanishing with his Majesty triumphantly towards the apartments lately occupied by the Princess Adélaïde, and now occupied by the favourite—at a quarter past eleven, Choiseul, furious under his mask of calm, turned towards his own apartments.
The fixed smile on his face never altered as he bowed to right and left, and as he passed along through the crowd several members of the assemblage detached themselves from the mass and fell into his train.
Choiseul’s apartments in the Palace of Versailles were even more sumptuous than those relegated to the use of the Dubarry. He passed from the corridor to the salon, which he used for the private reception of ambassadors, and all that host of people, illustrious and obscure, which it was the duty of the Minister to receive, in the name of France.
This salon was upholstered in amber satin and white and gold, with a ceiling of yellow roses and joyful cupids. Ablaze with lights, as now, the place seemed like a great cell, the most gorgeous and the most brilliantly lit in that great honeycomb, Versailles.