“A woman, a haughty, petted beauty,” she murmured, “and my bitterest foe. Are you aware that Mademoiselle Denise is the soul of the party that would destroy me, the close friend of the Chevalier de St. Amant, and no friend to you.”
“Yes, I know it all.”
Madame de Pompadour came close to him. “She is not worthy of you,” she said quietly, “she does not love you.”
“Madame, I love her.”
“And if I refuse to forego my just vengeance on her?” she awaited his answer with anxiety wreathed in tempting smiles.
“I will share her fate if she will permit it,” he answered simply.
“Chivalrous fool!” she retorted, and she was not wholly jesting. “No woman is worth the sacrifice of such a man as you.”
“Pardon, Madame. Every man who loves a woman perhaps is a fool, but the folly is a folly inspired by God and it leads to heaven.”
The answer surprised her and for the moment she faltered between tears and laughter. “I will not ask again,” André said in a low voice, “for I trust you, Marquise. Adieu!”
She hardly heeded his salute, and André was already in the dark on the secret stairs when he felt a sharp touch on his shoulder. “Be loyal to me, too!” she whispered pleadingly into his ear. “Give me your hand,” and she laid it on her breast. In the darkful hush André could feel the fierce beating of that insurgent, ambitious heart.