“They told me,” Denise began, “it was here. We threw with dice as to who should find it. We were determined to punish and destroy Madame de Pompadour. I took my chance, and——”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted impatiently, for he had already divined Denise’s motives.
“To save you before,” Denise went on, “I let her escape and sinned against my conscience, for that woman polluted Versailles, your life and mine. I owed reparation; this was to be my reparation. You were ruined, André, dismissed, disgraced. I cared no longer for life—for anything. You I could not save, but her I could punish, for she had broken my heart and shattered your career in her selfishness. That is why I came—willingly, gladly. It was a duty to my cause—to myself.”
André knew nothing of the scheme of Mont Rouge, of the loaded dice whereby the love of a wicked woman, the Comtesse des Forges, turned to hatred, and a defeated rival’s vengeance, had foisted on Denise the task of braving alone the perils and the disgrace and of completing the plot of the Court; but what he did know showed him that the Court, too, like himself, had been the victims of the man and the woman he had spied on at the inn. But, unlike himself, the Court would gain its vengeance.
“I performed a duty,” Denise was saying, “and instead, André, I have ruined you. Your enemies have stolen the despatch.”
Voices at the foot of the stairs. No time for explanation now. But, thank God! Denise did not know the truth nor of Madame de Pompadour’s and the King’s return. One glance at the agony in her face, the agony of a woman who loved, and André was again inspired to a noble decision.
“You are mistaken,” he said with perfect calmness. “I was here to watch, I confess, in the interests of His Majesty; we had hoped to catch quite another person, but it is you, Denise, whom my foes have lured into the trap—our trap. I ask you for my sake to leave me to explain all to Madame. Sweetheart”—he was pleading now as he had never pleaded to any woman before—“sweetheart, do not inflict on me the pain of giving you into the hands of Madame. You will not; you cannot do it.”
The glorious lie, aided by the power of his love over her, prevailed. Denise took his key, and just in time André had drawn the curtain when Madame de Pompadour flung the door open. Face and figure were all aglow with the triumphant victory she had won. She had returned to place her heel on the necks of the defeated, to drink the cup of vengeance to the dregs.
André very quietly kissed her hands and removed her cloak. The peace and happiness in his eyes, his self-sacrifice had already brought him, showed that love had by its own divine alchemy created for him a new heaven and a new earth. He could face the future with a tranquil confidence and bliss that surprised himself.
“Mon cher,” Madame cried, “I—no, you—have won. The King is mine. I shall never lose him now.” Her eyes ran over the room—fell on the open escritoire. “Well, you have the traitor?”