“What is it?” said Louis, advancing.
“An infamous report. Aid me, sire, for now it is no longer my enemies that accuse me, but my friends.”
“Your friends!”
“Yes, sire; M. le Comte d’Artois, M. de Taverney, and M. de Charny affirm that they saw me at the ball at the Opera.”
“At the ball at the Opera!” cried the king.
A terrible silence ensued.
Madame de la Motte saw the mortal paleness of the queen, the terrible disquietude of the king and of all the others, and with one word she could have put an end to all this, and saved the queen, not only now, but in the future, from much distress. But she said to herself that it was too late; that they would see, if she spoke now, that she had deceived them before when the simple truth would have been of such advantage to the queen, and she should forfeit her newly-acquired favor. So she remained silent.
The king repeated, with an air of anguish, “At the ball at the Opera! Does M. de Provence know this?”
“But, sire, it is not true. M. le Comte d’Artois is deceived; M. de Taverney is deceived; M. de Charny, you are deceived, one may be mistaken.”
All bowed.