“By G-Gad,” stammered Des Forges, “another s-slap for the fishy g-grisette—eh?”
“She’s going, yes, she’s going; God be praised!” muttered the Abbé St. Victor.
“What did I tell you?” St. Benôit cried, “more than ever we must keep De Nérac on our side,” and Mont Rouge sulkily assented.
The Duke de Pontchartrain thoughtfully stroked his lace ruffles. “I am puzzled,” he remarked aside to St. Benôit; “I wonder if it really means that the King has thrown over the grisette, or whether—” he paused.
“Well?” St. Benôit demanded impatiently.
“De Nérac is deep, devilish deep,” the Duke mused, “and so is the King. If De Nérac is not on our side it will play old Harry with our plot to have him ruling the roost in her Majesty’s apartments.”
But his friends laughed his suspicions away. De Nérac had insulted the Pompadour and he had been rewarded with the captaincy of the Queen’s Guards. What could be better?
Meanwhile André, having executed his commission and been flattered by the joyful reception of the news by the Queen’s ladies, was somewhat grimly reflecting in the Hall of the Queen’s Guards on this new turn of fortune’s wheel. Truly the Pompadour was a wonderful woman. She had promised to arrange and she had kept her word. To be placed in an office which must daily bring him into touch with Denise was better than he had ever dreamed. A genius the Pompadour as he had said, and this was the woman whom the priests and ministers and courtiers hoped to expel. Poor blind fools! They little knew the whole truth. Yes, his star was in the ascendant. The Machiavellian game must be played out; it promised victory and Denise.
The rustle of a dress roused him. It was Denise, and surely that was the Chevalier de St. Amant parting from her.
“You have heard the King’s will, Mademoiselle,” André said quietly.