“I did my best,” Mont Rouge answered, looking into her eyes, and he added in a whisper, “my best for you. You have lost, but I have won.”
The Comtesse put her hand warningly on her lips. Her gaze lingered on Denise, pale and calm, accepting her victory as the inevitable will of fate. “My congratulations, Mademoiselle,” she said in the silky tones with which women preface the insult of a kiss to their most-feared rival.
“I will accept them to-morrow,” Denise answered, “when I have done my duty.”
While the company were chattering gaily the Chevalier carelessly and unnoticed took up the dice, first the four and the three he had thrown for Denise, and then the two and the one thrown by Mont Rouge, which were still lying on the table. As he put back the two and the one into the box which belonged to Mont Rouge he smiled. He had detected these two were loaded, yet curiously enough he said nothing. Indeed, the discovery seemed to give him positive pleasure, and he rallied the Comtesse des Forges for a good half-hour, till her husband stammered with rage and Mont Rouge was sulky with jealousy.
Just as the company were breaking up a sweating horse dashed into the stables of the palace. André flung himself from the saddle. He had ridden from “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold” at a break-neck gallop and his spurs were red. He now hurried off to Madame de Pompadour’s salon, bursting in from the secret staircase.
Madame gave him one look. “Begone! quick, hussy,” she cried to the maid who was packing. The scared girl fled from the room.
“Well?” Madame held out her arms in awful suspense.
“Is the secret despatch,” André panted, “still in your keeping?”
“Yes, yes, what of it?”
He sat down and wiped his face. “Ah! thank God!” he muttered.