“You do not wish to tell me,” Denise continued, “why you went to that cabaret?”
With the memory of the night still painfully vivid, aware how his path was beset by pitfalls, André was trying to decide whether Denise was asking as the agent of his implacable foes or for herself alone.
“You,” she began again, “are the Captain of the Queen’s Guards; you visit by stealth at an inn a wench called Yvonne, you refused to present our petition to the King, you visit a cabaret frequented by a foreigner suspected of being an English spy, under whose walls foul treason is committed, and you professed to have gone to Nérac”—she paused, and looked at him wistfully. “Why do you do these things?”
“To discover the traitor; that is my reason,” he answered.
“At the request of His Majesty?” she asked swiftly and significantly.
Should he lie to Denise? André’s troubled eyes passionately sought her face.
“I can say no more,” he replied slowly, and Denise, though she knew that he had admitted her accusation, was glad he had not told her a falsehood.
“Do you know that you are in extreme danger?” she asked.
“Yes, I know it.” He spoke with great gravity.
“I have been unjust to you,” she said quickly; “unjust and unkind. I am more than grateful for your generosity and honour in saving me by that duel. I am ready now to believe your word just because it is yours. They tell me you are the lover of Madame de Pompadour and at heart a traitor, but it is a lie—a lie!”