Denise’s lips paled. Her hand unconsciously crept to her throat. “What sort of information?” she asked in a dry whisper.
“That, Mademoiselle, must be my secret. But I do not jest when I say that you can ruin Madame de Pompadour to-day, but you will also most certainly ruin the Vicomte de Nérac at the same time. Am I to keep silent or to reveal the whole truth to the Comte d’Argenson and the President of the Council of Ministers?”
Denise stood pale and trembling. Her eyes looked on her questioner with a dumb piteousness cruel to behold.
“You have answered me, Marquise,” he replied after an agitating pause. “I shall hold my tongue, and forgive me, I beg, that I have been so merciless. But love is merciless and blind.” He took her hand. “If you doubt that a parvenu can love you better far than he loves himself, think of my silence. When I am driven from Versailles do not forget that I refused to speak the truth of one who regards me as his enemy, at your bidding. Adieu!”
In the doorway he paused to look back. For a moment he wavered. Denise had stumbled to a chair and was crying softly. “Soit!” he muttered, throwing up his head, “Soit!” and humming a reckless catch he strode down the gallery.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HEART OF THE POMPADOUR
After he had left Denise the Chevalier walked for some time in the empty gallery up and down, up and down, striving to master the strong emotion within. But when at last he made his way into the gardens he was once more the jaunty dare-devil cynic whose fine blue eyes had made many a Court beauty feel that even the veteran Vicomte de Nérac had lessons to learn in the art of courtship. By the same Fountain of Neptune where he had met Denise the Chevalier now found a woman waiting, as indeed he expected. Yet, greeting scarcely passed between them.
“You were right,” he began with bitter brevity, “and you have had your way.”
The woman pondered on the reply. “Yes,” she said presently. “I knew I was right. She loves him. And you?” she added, with a swift touch of anxiety.
“I shall finish what I have begun,” he answered with calm determination. “It will cost me my life, perhaps, but,” his tone was savagely reckless, “revenge is better than love.”