“I hope not.” André found it wiser to jest too.
“Ma foi! I should like to try.”
André kissed her fingers with the unconscious grace that was vainly imitated by all the young courtiers of Versailles. “I could only succumb to your equal, Marquise,” he said, “but such a woman does not exist. Therefore I shall succeed.”
“You must; you must.”
“Madame, the paper will be delivered safely or I shall never return.”
The thoughts of both had soared away in the sudden silence, and across the unconquerable dreams of ambition and love there fell the sinister, blood-stained mystery of the unknown traitor and darkened the room.
“God keep you, my friend,” Madame murmured. “God keep you safe!”
CHAPTER XXII
ON SECRET SERVICE
The clock in André’s room struck eleven. André pulled the curtains back and surveyed the night. Serene, flawlessly serene, as an October night at Versailles can be. Satisfied that his pistols were properly primed, that the precious despatch was still in his pocket, he blew out the lights and then by a rope ladder swung himself out of the window. His experience at “The Gallows and the Three Crows” had warned him that for his foes to discover the King’s commission was for Madame de Pompadour and himself ruin, death, and dishonour. And he was determined the Court should not so much as know he had left the palace. So at midday he had given out that he was ill, had even sent for a physician, and then had quietly slept till the hour had come. And now that he had successfully given them the slip the Captain of the Queen’s Guards laughed as a truant schoolboy might have done. A few lights still twinkled into the October air, some from behind shutters, others through the open glass. André paused to survey the majestic front of the palace as it faces the broad terrace that commands the gardens, that terrace where to-day the bare-legged French children scamper and the chattering tourists stroll—those gardens where, could he have known it, was to be played out the tragi-comedy of The Diamond Necklace and the downfall of the descendants of Le Roi Soleil. And he was asking himself, would he ever see Versailles again?
Up there to the right was the window of Denise’s room. If only he could have said two words of farewell before he rode out to battle with the unknown! Hush! the shutters were being fretfully thrown back. Yes, that figure in white was Denise looking out, as so many in their sorrow or passion have looked out, to the passionless stars for an answer, and in vain. His blood throbbed feverishly, until Denise, ignorant that in the darkness below her a heart as cruelly torn as her own was beating wistfully, wearily closed the shutters, and went back to a sleepless bed.