“Many of his followers do not know how friendly, Monseigneur.”
The Marquis smiled.
“Mon Dieu, that is what I would like to know myself,” he said,—“how friendly.”
“A matter you cannot discover, Monseigneur, I cannot hope to.”
M. de Pomponne leant on the table, the candlelight full on his handsome, florid face, his glittering, splendid clothes.
“It must be discovered,” he said, and took his chin in his hand thoughtfully.
St. Croix glanced past him, through the open door, at the distant lady in blue.
“His Highness hath not shown himself unfriendly.”
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“He is politic, extraordinarily prudent for his age. I saw him the other day. He was courteous, protested his duty to His Majesty; still, he refuses our help?”