As De Nérac rode slowly back the Marquise’s words rang in his ears—“This is the second time in three months. There will be a third before long.” The third had already come, and as usual like a thief in the night. Confound “No. 101”! Confound the Chevalier de St. Amant!
He was in no mood to go to bed. He would walk in one of the galleries until he had eased himself of all the black thoughts and fears, until he could see a path through the thickets into which fate had plunged him.
A party of his friends was still playing at dice, and as André passed through the room they stared at his muddy riding boots in amused surprise.
“You have news?” cried the Comte de Mont Rouge.
“Yes,” André retorted curtly, “bad news which you will learn later.”
“What the devil has he been doing?” he heard St. Benôit exclaim as André sharply left the room.
“I will tell you,” Mont Rouge laughed. “He has already begun to do the dirty work of that grisette.”
“What do you mean?” St. Benôit demanded.
“She is going to make him master of her household.”
“De Nérac? Master of the Pompadour’s household? Impossible!” A dozen voices protested, and the dice-boxes ceased to rattle.