“You expect me to believe that?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “No,” she answered, “the truth told by women is never believed, least of all at Versailles by men.”
André ran his eye over her. As in the past, so now something in her voice and figure reminded him of some one else, but of whom he could not recall. “Madame,” he said earnestly, “I urge you to tell the truth. You were never in such danger as you are now.”
“Perhaps not. But I am not in such peril as you are, Monsieur le Vicomte.”
Instinctively he turned sharply round. The woman laughed and the laugh maddened him, for they were alone and the door had been locked by himself.
“My friend,” she said quietly, “you are being spied on. To-morrow the ministers, the Comtesse des Forges, and the Comte de Mont Rouge will know how the Vicomte de Nérac, who gave out he was going to visit Madame his aged mother, has spent the evening in the company of Mr. George Onslow and disreputable women. I feel sure the Marquise de Beau Séjour will hear it, too, with additions.”
“Well,” said André, stonily.
“Monsieur le Vicomte also is known to frequent the society of one Yvonne. Innocent peasant girls, when put on the rack, are sometimes obliged to tell lies, poor things, but lies useful to those who rack them. The Marquise de Beau——”
“Hold your tongue.”
“No, I will not. Monsieur le Vicomte is also the lover of Madame de Pompadour. You deny it? Then why go in the darkness with the King’s private key to her apartment? The noble whose arm you slit will enjoy taking that delightful scandal about the Captain of the Queen’s Guards to the King, and the King—mon Dieu! the King—” she laughed bloodthirstily, nor was it necessary to finish the sentence.