“The same miracle,” smiled the Abbé, “never happens twice, alas!”
“And the King was never so well as to-day,” added St. Benôit, remorsefully.
Denise had already withdrawn. Deep as was her resentment against Madame de Pompadour, strong as was her desire by self-sacrifice, if need be, to atone for what she now felt was a sin, the conversation of her friends never failed to offend her tastes and her conscience. She was working for a cause, they were simply bent on vengeance.
The Chevalier met her in the gallery as he thoughtfully strolled away.
“Courage, Mademoiselle,” he stopped to say. “I cannot win your love; perhaps I may yet be permitted to help to make you happy,” and he glided off before she could ask what he meant or speak a word of all the things she longed to say.
The young man had guessed aright. That afternoon Louis dismissed him in royally curt words, intimating at the same time that he desired to see him no more at Versailles or Paris. The Chevalier simply bowed, and the King now sat alone in his private Cabinet de Travail busy with his secret correspondence and somewhat troubled in mind. Madame de Pompadour had had her way, but the Chevalier de St. Amant, Louis was aware, left his service with a dangerous store of knowledge. And Louis was in fact penning a secret order to the police for his immediate arrest and detention in the fortress of Vincennes when the rings of the curtain over the door behind him rasped sharply. Some one had unceremoniously entered.
The King turned angrily at this extraordinary defiance of his express command that he was to be disturbed by no one. One glance, and the pen dropped from his hand.
“You recognise me, Sire?” said the intruder slowly.
“Dead—dead,” the King muttered. His fingers had clenched, his face was ashy grey.
“I was dead, but I have come back as I promised. The dead do not forget.”