“Why do you think that?” Denise asked almost proudly.
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “My fancy, I suppose,” he answered lightly. “Perhaps, however, our dear, captivating friend yonder will convert him. She could convert St. Anthony if she really tried, eh?”
Denise knew that under this persiflage the Duke was studying her closely and she was greatly relieved that he now bowed himself away. For all his affectation of being a man of pleasure and nothing more she had divined his keen ability and wide knowledge of life. He had talked to test her and she was angry that she could not meet his searching gaiety with the polished impenetrability that was his unique gift. She bitterly resented, too, that André should stand there basking in the languishing eyes of the Comtesse des Forges, who was never happy save when she was making her stammering nincompoop of a husband unhappy. Two days had passed since that painful evening when he had parted from her in the Salle des Gardes de la Reine. He had proved his chivalry; he had triumphantly vindicated her honour; why did he not give her the opportunity to show that his conduct had appealed both to her pride and her heart? Why had he not come to ask and to receive forgiveness? Was it as gossip whispered, that he really preferred the Comtesse des Forges? Or was it, as the Duke had plainly hinted, because he really preferred, what was far worse, the service and rewards of Madame de Pompadour? And reward him the mistress could, poor Denise was thinking; for to the surprise of the Court the King had simply ignored the duel, though in other similar cases both victor and vanquished had been forbidden Versailles for a season. And André was still Captain of the Queen’s Guards. Denise’s foot beat on the floor. Yes, in the King’s private salon André had a powerful protector, herself and her friends a dangerous enemy, yet her pride and gratitude alike forbade her to reveal the truth to her allies—to the Queen, to the ministers, to the dévots, to the nobles working together for a common end.
André saluted her as he passed out. On the threshold he paused to nod quietly to the Chevalier de St. Amant, who was entering. The young man was as gaily dressed as usual, but his boyish face was grave and sad. He whispered something to the Duke de Pontchartrain.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed his Grace, “impossible!”
“I wish it were,” said the Chevalier, “but it is quite true.”
“Dismissed! The Comptroller-General dismissed!” St. Benôit repeated, and the news flew round the room. “But why? Why?”
“It is an intrigue,” the Chevalier explained. “Messieurs Paris, the bankers, who are related to the Pompadour, have refused to do any further business with the Comptroller-General. And so His Majesty has dismissed not the bankers but the minister.”
“You mean,” remarked the Comtesse des Forges, “that the Pompadour has dismissed the Comptroller-General?”
“Exactly.”