“Can we? Can we? Vicomte, I am not a coward nor a fool, but I feel in the poisonous air of this Court, surrounded by deadly enemies, my fate at the mercy of the King’s caprice, that I am fighting not with flesh and blood but with a foe mysterious, superhuman, invincible. And I repeat, should the King’s secret be betrayed by ‘No. 101’ to my enemies I am ruined.”
“I am confident,” André answered, “that not only can I baffle that traitor but that I can discover him.”
Madame de Pompadour studied his calm, handsome face. Then the room seemed suddenly to swim in the glories of a golden dawn. “My friend,” she cried, holding out both her hands impulsively, “I believe you. Did not Fontenoy teach me you are a man?”
“And it taught me—” he began softly.
“Hush!” she rippled over into an adorable coquetry. “You are not the King yet, not yet, though—” it was the vivandière of Fontenoy whose saucy eyes and curtsey finished the sentence.
“When you are victorious, Madame,” André said, “I shall ask for one favour.”
“Tut! only one! Dare I grant it beforehand?”
She was now the refined Marquise of a remorselessly critical Versailles.
“You can take your revenge on the Court, Madame, as you please, but you must spare,” she put down her fan and waited anxiously, “the Marquise de Beau Séjour.”
There was silence for a minute.