“In your position?”
“Precisely. What do I care? I will leave Paris at my own time, and in my own way.”
“But, my dear Rochefort,” cried Jean, now very eager and friendly, “if you are pursued by Choiseul, and if you do not leave Paris at once, you will be simply playing into his hands; you will be caught, imprisoned, they may even torture you to make you tell.”
“About the presentation?”
“About anything—everything. You know Choiseul, he is pitiless.”
“Make your mind easy,” said Rochefort, “I will tell without letting them torture me. What are you all to me that I should care? Now you have used me, you have done with me, and you are anxious that I should escape, not because you care a denier for my safety, but because you fear that they may extract the story of Ferminard from me——. That is what I think of you, Monsieur le Vicomte, what I think of Madame la Comtesse, what I think of Mademoiselle Fontrailles; you can tell them so with my regards.”
He turned on his heel, pushed the door open and walked out.
He was furious. Certain that Jean had told him the truth as to Camille’s message—for Jean had indeed told the truth, and his sincerity was patent—he could have pulled the house of Dubarry down on the heads of its inmates.
Instead, however, of making such an attempt, he walked into the street and strode off without looking back.
Jean, left alone, rushed back to the room where the gamblers were still playing, drank off a glass of wine, excused himself, and then went to the servants’ quarters, ordered a carriage to be brought at once to the door, rushed upstairs, changed his clothes, and the carriage being ready, drove to the Hôtel de Sartines.