His mind travelled to the thought of Denise. He had sworn to win her; he loved her, his beautiful Marquise de Beau Séjour, for was she not what the wife of a De Nérac should be—fair, noble, and pure? The scandalous tongues of the Court rendered her the homage of silence. She was the type to him of what France, the France for which he fought, could be. Did not there burn in her soul the inspiring flame of patriotism, duty, and high endeavour which she, as he, owed to her lineage and to God?
Well, well, to-morrow would bring counsel. He rose to grope his way to the locked door. Mon Dieu! What was this?
The door was opening stealthily. Some one was coming in. The King? Of course. André softly flew up the stairs and crouched in the folds of the curtain. If the King was coming to the Pompadour he was lost, but caught as he was in this dark corridor it was his only chance of concealment.
A light from a hand lamp flickered into the darkness. Ah! that was not the King’s step; nor did the King hum gay songs under his breath. Ho! ho! an adventure! Madame’s key was worth the owning after all.
As he lived, the Chevalier de St. Amant, a rose between his lips, hat cocked jauntily, his slim, boyish figure instinct with an abandoned grace. Pooh! he was the King’s private secretary and the royal key had been given him by his master for his own purposes. This was very interesting and mightily droll.
André drew a deep breath. The door at the top of the stairs at the other end of the passage had quietly opened. Some one with a lamp was standing awaiting the Chevalier. A woman! Yes, the light fell with a gleam on the folds of her dress, on the jewel on her breast. The gay young dog to use his royal master’s key in this way. What adorable audacity!
The woman held up the lamp with a familiar gesture. Denise! By God it was Denise!
One choking moment and then André turned stone-cold. Denise, his Denise! Mechanically he wiped the perspiration from his brow as he stared spellbound. Denise!
The Chevalier doffed his hat, kissed her hand, took the lamp from her, and once more André was alone in the darkness, gnawed by impotent and implacable rage, jealousy black and hot as hell.
But what did it mean—in heaven’s name what did it mean? And the Chevalier? Ah, if it had not been his Denise!