The colour leaped into Denise’s cheeks. The thanks in her eyes were intoxicating.
“But if you are killed?” she murmured.
“Why, then, I suppose the Marquise de Pompadour will have the pleasure of appointing my successor.”
Denise shrank at the remorseless taunt. André’s face was pitiless.
“Do not be distressed,” he added as if he were addressing the wall. “I have a long account with the Comte de Mont Rouge and I welcome the opportunity of settling it so satisfactorily. Besides it is high time that these shameless tongues should be silenced. I do assure you that after to-morrow the Marquise de Beau Séjour will have nothing to fear—but the truth.”
Denise turned appealingly to him. “André!” she whispered softly. “André!”
For a moment his hands clenched. “Monsieur le Vicomte,” he corrected, frigidly, “who is your servant, Marquise.”
He raised the curtain with a stately reverence. In silence she walked past him, her head bowed, and in silence he saluted as became the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, to a maid of honour and a marquise. The gleam of the candles in their gilt sconces fell on her hair and neck, on the jewels on her breast. Then the curtain slowly swung between them.
When the woman of the Marquise de Beau Séjour brought in the morning cup of chocolate she found her mistress had passed a sleepless night of tears; but she was able to tell her that the Vicomte de Nérac had for the fiftieth time vindicated his superb swordsmanship, and that the Comte de Mont Rouge would not use his right arm for many weeks to come. And Denise knew that the Court had heard the last of that meeting by the Fountain of Neptune.