She lifted the curtain over an alcove revealing a narrow staircase down to a dark passage. “At the bottom you will find to the left a door locked; here is the key. By that private door you can return to the public galleries. The dark passage leads to the King’s and the Queen’s private apartments. The King, or indeed any one who has the key, can come this way unknown to the spies of the ministers or of the Court. Remember, there are only two keys; the King has one, this is the other. Keep it; you may want it.”
“Want it?” he repeated, confused.
“The Vicomte,” she corrected gently, “henceforth cannot without harming himself visit publicly a bourgeoise grisette. But he will remember that in Antoinette de Pompadour he has, if he will but believe it, a true and grateful friend. If he is in trouble or in difficulty the key will show him the way and no one will be wiser. If not, it is no matter.”
“But, Madame, why should I be in trouble?”
She laughed mysteriously. “Anything, as the Vicomte well knows, can happen at Versailles. Adieu!”
And yet she lingered. “The Cordon Bleu was from the King,” she said; “accept this, pray, from me; it is the handkerchief, the famous handkerchief of the Hôtel de Ville, and it comes from my heart.” She had tossed it to him with an airy kiss blown from her jewelled fingers.
What a charming picture she made, framed in the darkness there with her heliotrope robe drawn back to avoid the dripping of the candle held above her dainty head. Un morceau de roi, parbleu!
“Remember ‘No. 101.’ Adieu.” The soft echo stole into the chill passage. The Marquise had dropped the curtain and André was alone with his thoughts.
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THE VICOMTE DE NÉRAC SAW IN THE SECRET PASSAGE
André sat down on the stairs in the dark. It is perhaps not surprising that his first thoughts were of “No. 101.” Across his path had fallen for the second time the shadow of that baleful, blood-stained mystery. So far all who had tried to run the traitor to earth had failed; but when war and peace, the King’s policy and the destinies of France, hung in the balance success in the task meant a great reward. That masked woman in the wood had baffled him. Vanity, a passionate curiosity, the spell of the mystery, patriotism, once more united to kindle his longing to succeed where all had failed. But to attempt it alone or without money or information was out of the question. To invite the co-operation of his friends in this Versailles of intrigue and counter-intrigue, of jealousy and selfishness, spelled certain failure. With Madame de Pompadour’s help alone it might be done, but that was impossible, doubly impossible. Madame was right. A De Nérac, a Croix de St. Louis, and a Cordon Bleu could not enter the service of a bourgeoise favourite, here to-day and gone to-morrow, could not defy his class, the Queen and the Court, could not outrage his own dignity. Denise would spurn him for ever. Sacrifice his love? no, a thousand times no! Still less could he return now a suppliant for the Pompadour’s favours: she who had refused his aid; he who had scorned her offer. Yet—yes, yet with what delicacy and sympathy she had atoned for her apparent insolence. No woman, not Denise herself, could have shown her gratitude with more grace and conviction. An adventuress she was maybe, but a true woman for all that, and as charming as beautiful. Name of a dog! The faint perfume of that dainty handkerchief, which had made history, subtly recalled the intoxicating flattery of her eyes, the tender gratitude of her voice. The King—André laughed softly—the King was no fool when he was conquered by Antoinette d’Étiolles. And he had her key; well, he would see about that key.