They both talked in English as English was talked in London, without a trace of a foreign accent. Now if one thing was certain Yvonne did not know a word of English, for he had tried her by many pitfalls in the past and she had simply showed boorish but natural ignorance. Nor could it be the crystal-gazer, for he remembered her English was not the English of the salons. Once only did they drop into French, and then André was more puzzled than ever. Onslow spoke it extraordinarily well, yet his accent betrayed him at once; the girl, however, revealed to a noble’s sensitive ear the idiom and tone so much more difficult to acquire than mere accent of the Faubourg St. Germain. Had the Comtesse heard that sentence she would have said it might have been spoken by the Duchesse de Pontchartrain. Strange, but true.
Much of the conversation was quite unintelligible. There was a reconciliation to begin with, and André marvelled at the subtle way in which the woman soothed the man’s anger, and then with enchanting nuances of provocation, of look, of gesture, quietly reduced him to helpless and adoring submission. And George Onslow was not the only man in the room who at the end of that half-hour felt as clay in her hands. They talked, too, of incidents, of persons, of things which to André were a closed book. But the main substance was perfectly clear and deliriously enthralling to the concealed hearer. That very night the secret despatch in Madame de Pompadour’s handwriting, which the Court had tried to win by murder, was to be stolen from the escritoire in which it still reposed, and in which the King’s sudden illness and the ignorance of its existence by all save Madame herself and André had permitted it to stay. Onslow apparently had wormed out the fact of its existence; the woman now informed him of its hiding-place, and together they planned for its theft, that it might be used by the English Government to blast and ruin the King, with whom that Government was still at war. It would also ruin the Jacobites, which was not less important in English eyes. That it would ruin Madame de Pompadour neither Onslow nor the woman seemed to consider nor care about. Why should they? What were Madame and the hatred of a court to the English or they to her?
But André also learned many other things that were as interesting. It was George Onslow who had informed the anti-Pompadour party of the errand which had led to the attack on André himself. And André gathered that it was with the help of some one at Versailles whose name was not mentioned, for he was always spoken of as “Lui,” that the theft was to be executed. A double-edged business, in fact, this plot. The stolen despatch would do the work of the English Government, but it would also do the work of the Court. When its contents were made public Madame would be ruined automatically. Hence the connivance of “Lui” and his friends in the scheme.
The completeness of their information, the cold-blooded way in which they arranged to a nicety the smallest detail, appalled André. They both knew exactly where Madame was lodged, how to get there, and how to escape, of every fact concerned with the King’s illness and of Madame’s certain flight, on which the success of the plot hung. Who exactly was to be the thief he could not make out; that apparently had already been arranged, but George Onslow was to be at the palace, and he was then to make his way to this inn, whence he and his accomplice were to vanish their own way into the friendly slums of Paris, that would shelter every crime committed against itself and France.
“And the Chevalier?” Onslow had asked.
The woman replied in a low voice: “Have as little to do with the Chevalier as possible. He is not to be trusted in this business. He is no friend of mine and no friend of yours. But,” she paused, “he is far too much a friend of De Nérac.”
At the mention of his own name André almost betrayed his presence, because the warning drew from Onslow a deep “Ah!” and a look of undying hatred, jealousy, and fear. But what had thrilled him quite as much as the look and speech itself was the suppressed emotion in the speaker’s voice. He had only heard a woman speak like that once in his life, when he and Denise had parted at the foot of the Pompadour’s stairs an hour or two ago and he had refused to let her save him.
“Take care of De Nérac,” the woman added slowly, “he ruined you once, and if he can he will ruin you again. De Nérac is the only man who has beaten me. Nor am I the only woman who has found that out to her cost.”
Onslow thrust out his hand. “What does that say?” he demanded with a curious mixture of bravado, curiosity, and fear.
She studied the lines carefully. “Before long you and he will meet,” she answered, “and only one will survive: which,” she paused, “rests with God.”