“For ever—for ever. No time was said. The King was dreadfully angry. He swore by St. Louis and refused to believe all Pontchartrain’s falsehoods. Oh, my friends, think of living always in the country, the horrible country, where there are so many rosy-cheeked wenches that milk cows. Pontchartrain will take to drinking milk for breakfast, I am sure, before I am dressed, and Françoise will never consent to live in our château, and I sha’n’t have any one worth a sou to wash my lace and do my hair. Ah! the King is abominably cruel and inconsiderate.”
While the ladies were bewailing her fate, St. Benôit turned to the Abbé. “How could the Duke be such a fool,” he asked savagely, “as to allow André to be attacked—André of all men?”
“The information was explicit,” the Abbé said, in a low voice. “If the attack had succeeded, we should have ruined the grisette.”
St. Benôit made an impatient gesture.
“The folly,” added the Abbé, “lay in employing fellows who could be recognised.”
“With the result,” growled St. Benôit, “that the country will enjoy the ablest head in our party. It’s simply disgusting.”
“Exactly,” commented the Chevalier drily. “I sympathise with the Duke. Only I haven’t a château to retire to, worse luck.”
The remark had been heard by the ladies, and called out a dozen questions.
“Yes, Duchess,” the Chevalier said quietly, “this afternoon I have my last audience with His Majesty. I understand I am to be dismissed—from Versailles, perhaps from France.”
“But who will take your place?” cried Mademoiselle Claire.