They had dimly guessed why they had been summoned, and their bitter fears were confirmed by the sight of Denise, whom André had brought with him.
“The Comte de Mont Rouge,” André began without ceremony, “was arrested last night by myself. The reason will be found in these three letters, copies of which I now give you.”
Denise alone was surprised. André had been given something at the Barrier of St. Louis after all. The letters proved to have been written by Mont Rouge, the Duke, and the Comtesse.
“If I chose,” André continued, “all of you three might now be in the Bastille, noble though you be. But the Marquise de Beau Séjour, who has not read those letters, has asked me to spare you because you were once her friends. I have agreed.”
“I shall not forget your indulgence, Mademoiselle,” the Comtesse burst out, beside herself with vindictive rage.
“Nor will Madame de Pompadour,” André answered drily. “The originals of those letters are now in her possession in a sealed envelope. She does not yet know what they contain; may I hope you will never make it necessary for her to ask for permission from the Marquise de Beau Séjour to break that seal? You may not find either the King or Madame as indulgent as the lady whom you have wronged.”
“Mademoiselle,” said the Duke, after a pause, “the pleasantest task for a gentleman in life is to confess to a lady that he has been a fool, when the folly has been inspired by herself. You will give me that pleasure now.”
And with his finished smile he had kissed her hand and bowed himself out of the room. Not so Mont Rouge.
“You shall give me satisfaction, Vicomte,” he growled sulkily.
André looked him all over with a quiet scorn. “Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “the Vicomte de Nérac does not cross swords with traitors nor with men who use loaded dice.”