The Abbé tittered into his lace handkerchief till he was checked by the ferocious glare of the dévotes at his elbow. “You will see how vulgar the Pompadour can be,” he said hurriedly, “when you have turned her out.”
“Inside out or outside in?” asked the Comtesse des Forges to annoy Mademoiselle Eugénie.
“Oh, do let it be soon,” the Duchess pleaded, “whichever way it is.”
The Abbé nodded mysteriously. He was as pleased as the rest of the company that afternoon with the progress of the great plot.
“You saw His Majesty’s confessor?” The Duke de Pontchartrain had drawn Denise into a corner. “Is it satisfactory?”
“Eminently so. His Majesty listened with great attention, and was much impressed, his reverence thought.”
“Good.” The Duke studied Denise’s eyes and figure. What a magnificent coryphée she would have made, to be sure, and how the diamonds he had just given to that perfidious minx Babette would have suited her. “The ministers,” he added quietly, “have followed the confessor’s remonstrances up, I hear. They urged how unpopular the lady was in Paris. His Majesty likes popularity, you know, with the canaille.”
“Yes,” said Denise, “everything is going as we could wish.”
Her eyes, like the Duke’s, had unconsciously crossed the room, where André was talking to the Comtesse des Forges.
“We miss Mont Rouge,” his Grace remarked carelessly. “He was a valuable friend to the cause.” Like the rest of the Court the Duke was ignorant of what had brought about the duel, but the sudden colour in Denise’s cheeks and her silence confirmed his shrewd suspicions. “And,” he added with the same carelessness, “I am not sure that De Nérac is—what shall I say?—altogether a friend.”