Madame kneeled down beside him. “What is it?” she asked, in a caressing voice, “does the King want it?”
“The King has already left Versailles; he is now on his way to Rambouillet.”
A cry of despair was wrung from her. “Then I am indeed ruined,” she moaned. “You have come to tell me so. Ah!” she sobbed, her head in her hands on his knees.
“No,” he raised her up. “I have come to save you.”
She stared at him stupefied, incredulous.
“Yes, Madame. You must leave Versailles at once, but you must go to Rambouillet.”
“You are mad or drunk.” She pushed him away angrily.
“No-no.” He almost forced her into a seat and began to talk rapidly and with intense conviction. Madame listened at first sullenly, then gradually became interested, then excited; the lights began to blaze in her eyes, the colour rose in her cheeks. She interrupted sharply with questions. When André had finished she sat thinking.
“By God! I will do it.” She had sprung to her feet. She was once again the Queen of Love, unconquerable, immortal. “I can do it and I will.”
“Leave the rest to me, Madame,” André said.