But the one person whom he did not desire to meet found him out by accident at that moment.
“Vicomte,” the Comtesse des Forges called softly, “will you do me a favour?”
André smiled with skilful hypocrisy. The Comtesse was looking her best, and her heavy-lidded eyes were bright with admiration and an exquisite suggestion of self-surrender. “A favour,” she repeated, “which is also a secret. You will promise not to betray me.”
André took her hand to his lips for answer. The jewel on the lady’s breast gently rose and fell, echoing tenderly the coy trembling of her fingers. It was not the first time these two had played with passion, heedless of the future, but André swiftly recognised that this evening it would not be play, pastime, or pleasure.
“We have a petition to the King,” the Comtesse said in her silkiest tones, “a petition from the Court praying His Majesty to dismiss that woman, and we want you to present it. His Majesty will listen to you more than to any other.”
André still held her hand; the devotion in his face was intended to conceal his thoughts. For the crisis that he feared had come. This petition to the King from the Court was also an ultimatum to himself from his friends.
“It will be useless,” he said gently, “the petition.”
“No—no! You can succeed with the King—you! André,” she pleaded with a thrill of genuine passion, “do it to please me. You know I can be grateful.”
“I cannot,” he replied, controlling himself, “not even to please you, Gabrielle.”
“You will desert your friends and me—me?” she asked, a menace creeping into her languorous voice. “André, it is impossible, surely impossible.”