“His Majesty has signified that for the present he will conduct his private correspondence by himself. It is the first step. The next will be that His Majesty no longer needs my services in any capacity, that I am free,” he laughed with gentle bitterness, “to leave Versailles. Yes, Mademoiselle, I can no longer help your cause.”
“That—that woman—” Denise began.
“Certainly. This is her doing. I stood between her and such secrets as His Majesty was pleased to entrust to me, secrets not known to ministers and to the Court. So long as I was private secretary that woman was not the King’s master. But when I am finally dismissed she will rule the King body and soul.”
“Oh, cannot it be stopped?”
“No, Marquise. I am not as his grace of Pontchartrain a great noble, not even a Comptroller-General. I am the King’s creature, just as she is. His Majesty made me, His Majesty can unmake me to-morrow.”
“This is dreadful,” Denise murmured. “Without your help, your information, your private influence with the King, we shall be beaten, humiliated, ruined. You have been a true friend to our cause, Chevalier.”
The young man bowed. “I have done my best,” he said with unmistakable sincerity; “that Madame de Pompadour should triumph cuts me to the heart. But when I am obliged to leave Versailles her victory will not be my only grief.”
Denise looked up at him. His tone had completely altered.
“I shall leave you, Mademoiselle,” he said simply, “and I love you. Ah! it is the truth, the bare truth. You are a great noble, I am only the Chevalier de St. Amant, a parvenu tolerated by the Court merely because he is useful to them. It is presumption in me to dare to love you. But even a parvenu’s heart can love. This cause is sacred to me because not your beauty, nor your nobility, nor your wealth, but the womanhood that is the greatest gift of God to you has taught me what you are—has taught me that your service can be all that a man could desire.”
“Monsieur——” Denise began, but the words failed her.