“Yes.”
“She is ruined.” She paused. “And they will ruin you too. Let me save you; I can.”
“No,” he said, very quietly, “you cannot.” Denise looked at him, trembling. “You can only save me if I now at once go on my knees to my foes. To you I would gladly do it, for I have wronged you, and I love you, but to them, never! never!”
Her head bowed in appealing silence.
“The Marquise de Pompadour,” he drew himself up, “the Marquise honoured me with her friendship when she was powerful. Now that she is fallen and in misery I will not be such a dastard as to save myself by helping to ruin her. No, I will not!”
“You are mad,” she cried incoherently. But his chivalry fired her heart.
“You must do as you think right, Denise,” he said gently, “and so must I. It is cruel for me—how cruel—no, I must not speak.” He broke off and returned to the Œil de Bœuf.
The crowd was denser than ever. Monsieur le Dauphin had just passed through the heated, suffocating room and was now in the royal bed-chamber. Suddenly the subdued babel of tongues ceased as if by magic. The doors were opening. Dukes, ministers, nobles, lackeys pushed and fought to get to the front. The King was dead! Resolutely the Swiss Guards stemmed the surging tide. Ha! the King’s physician. Dead silence.
“Nobles of the realm, and gentlemen,” cried the physician, “I am happy to say that the sacred person of His Majesty is no longer in danger.” A dull roar as of inarticulate wild beasts rose and fell. “With God’s help the King of France will, we trust, be shortly restored to perfect health.”
The doors were closed again. The Comte de Mont Rouge wiped his brow.