“Yes,” she continued, “Mademoiselle la Marquise for the future. And if you would know the reason ask your conscience, the conscience of one who was once a noble and soldier of France.” André would have spoken, but she made a peremptory sign with her hand. “It is the second time,” she resumed, “I have been bitterly disappointed. Our world believes that you have had the courage to refuse the temptation of that woman, that the King’s reward was due to your courage and your loyalty. Unhappily I know better. You are Captain of the Queen’s Guards because it is the wish of the Marquise de Pompadour.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“You deny it?” She paused. “That, Monsieur le Vicomte, unfortunately does not make it less true. But do not be alarmed. I shall not betray your secret. And if you will, let my silence be due to the friendship of the past, a friendship that you yourself by your own act have severed.”
She turned her back on him. But André had swiftly opened the door for her.
“It would be impertinent for me to ask for a hearing,” he said slowly. “That you will not betray my secret as you are pleased to call it is very kind. In return, Mademoiselle, I promise that I will not betray yours.”
Their eyes met. André faced her unflinchingly.
“My secret?” Denise demanded, but she could not quite control her voice.
“Your secret, Marquise.” He bowed low.
He had the bitter satisfaction, if satisfaction it was, to see a faint thrill of fear—or was it trouble?—pass into her eyes. And now that he was alone he strode about the room letting his anger master him, once more a prey to all the black doubts and fears. There was only one explanation—that the Chevalier had wormed out the truth, and for his own purposes had hastened to share his knowledge with Denise. The Court was hoodwinked, but they were not. Cruelest of all, he could not deny it, and the disdain in the face and figure of the woman he loved had cut more sharply than her words. He clenched his fist. He could not go back now—no, he had chosen his path; but the day would come, he swore, when he should prove that it was his love and the ambition that it inspired which had driven him to defy the Court, his class, and herself.
There was work to be done which could not wait. He galloped away into the woods. “Yvonne,” he called out, dismounting at the stables of “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold.”