Glad was he of the chance to scrutinise her curiously at his ease, for she had a name powerful at Versailles. She was a woman he might be glad to have a word from, but he was well aware that her profession was nevertheless the same as his own, and that if she were more successful it was largely because she was less scrupulous.
He had heard her history, more than once, for it made a piquant story,—one not in the least to her credit, and containing incidents that it had needed a clever woman to get the better of, even at the Court of France.
He wondered what use de Pomponne could have for this lady at the Hague. The United Provinces seemed a field where her talents could find but little scope.
The entrance of M. de Pomponne disturbed both his reflections and his study of the slender lady with the chessmen.
The Marquis was not in the best of humours. He nodded to his visitor and flung himself into a chair, biting his glove.
His first remark was to complain that the candles were in need of snuffing. A servant was summoned and this remedied, then he deigned to look at St. Croix.
“This tool of yours, this Van Mander, has turned out very ill.”
St. Croix flushed.
“There has been no harm, Monsieur,” he said, secretly nettled.
“I am not so sure—first he returns you my letter to the Prince——”