“And His Majesty?”
“Is one moment furiously angry, at another plunged in the deepest dejection, at another jesting. This accursed treachery appalls him. No wonder. But, as the business of last night affects the ministers more than himself, he is angry with them alone. Cursed dullards, he called them in this very room, infamous bunglers. I think,” she added, smiling, “His Majesty will presently see it is his interest to give some of them change of air and occupation. Who knows, the Vicomte de Nérac may be Minister for War yet.”
André laughed grimly. That would be a triumphant retort indeed to the Court that hoped to prove him a traitor and a libertine.
Madame de Pompadour ceased to smile. Fear and anxiety made her voice and eyes grave. “‘No. 101,’” she said, “has given the King occasion to call his ministers dullards and bunglers. If to-morrow, thanks to ‘No. 101,’ the King should have reason to call me that and worse, you and I are ruined. You follow me?”
“Perfectly, Madame.”
“Eh bien! it is necessary for His Majesty to communicate with the Jacobites. That, unhappily, is not my affair. His Majesty wills it so, and I, who alone know this, must obey. This is the despatch.”
André took the sheet of paper. “It is in your handwriting, Madame!” he exclaimed, in sharp astonishment.
“Yes, I wrote it at the King’s dictation this morning. Have you forgotten I, alone, am his confidential secretary now?” She quietly folded the paper, sealed it with her own private seal, and wrote a direction on the cover.
“You wish me to be the bearer?” André asked quickly.
“Three persons alone,” she replied quietly, “know of this despatch and its contents—the King, you, and I. The King cannot deliver it. It must, therefore, be you or I. With ‘No. 101’ out there or here in the palace we cannot trust any messenger. That is the price you and I have to pay for the power we have won.”