But André only smiled, and press him as they might he refused to say more.
“Well,” said the Comtesse, “if you will go to-night, my dear De Nérac, to the ball at the Hôtel-de-Ville you will learn whether I am not right.” And after André had taken his leave she turned to St. Benôit, with genuine concern. “England,” she said, “has demoralised our dear friend. The English have made him incredibly vulgar. As if the King of France would so far forget himself or be so impertinent to us as to introduce into our Versailles a bourgeoise. There would be a revolution.”
“I can see you, Madame,” he answered, “giving the lady her footstool.” He kneeled mockingly at her feet. “God bless my soul! you might as well expect me to kiss the hand of your fille de chambre. André was joking; he knows if the King were to bring her to Court she would not stay a week.”
“A week!” Madame threw up her noble head. “Not twenty-four hours.”
But André, who had heard the crystal’s story, had his good reasons. Already fertile schemes were fermenting in his brain; his ambition, too, was daily soaring upwards, and he dimly guessed that in this strange circling of Fortune’s wheel the opportunity for which he thirsted would at last come. And so like the rest of the gay world he went that night to the grand ball given by the municipality of Paris at the Hôtel-de-Ville in honour of the marriage of the Dauphin; for the King had promised to be present, and it was to be one of those rare occasions when the noblesse had consented to rub shoulders with the middle class in doing honour to the royal bride and bridegroom. Coming events were in the air. André felt, though why he could not say, that to-night would somehow prove a decisive turning-point in the history of himself and of France.
For the purpose of dancing, the court of the Hôtel-de-Ville had been converted into a ballroom, superbly festooned and illuminated, and the crowd that had gathered was immense. Nobles of the realm, great ladies, peers, peeresses, and the Court here jostled in the wildest confusion with the gentlemen of the robe, with aldermen, shopkeepers, and even flower girls and the danseuses of the royal ballet. The company was supposed to be masked, but many had already discarded the flimsy covering; and for all who still wore it the disguise was the merest affectation. Most of the ladies of the middle class had donned fancy attire, but the noblesse for the most part showed their quality by refusing to imitate the canaille. André of course was content with his uniform of the Chevau-légers de la Garde, that beautiful and famous livery of scarlet with white facings, silver buttons, spurs of gold, and hat with white plumes which in itself conferred an enviable distinction, and about his neck, more proudly still, he carried that Croix de St. Louis, whose possession sufficed to make any soldier happy.
For a few minutes he stood gazing at the brilliant spectacle presented by the moving throng,—one vast arena of human beings in which the uniforms, the stars and ribbons, the jewels, the bright eyes, and the fair shoulders were blended into a magic and inspiring panorama, over which floated the tender music of harp, violin, and flute. And as he moved slowly forward kissing noble hands, receiving gentle congratulations, or looking into eyes to which in past days he had whispered devotion in the Œil de Bœuf or beneath the balmy fragrance of a fête champêtre at Rambouillet his ambition soared still higher. But dance he would not; he had come to watch, to teach, and to learn. The Chevalier to his joy was not here; he had been despatched, André discovered with grim satisfaction, on special business of the King. But yonder was Denise, holding a miniature court. As André edged his way towards her, her glance fell on the familiar uniform, and it plainly said: “Here at least let us forget the past—I have forgiven you—come let us be friends as we were before.” And André replied to her graceful reverence with his stiffest bow, as he had deliberately come to do, and then moved slowly off, but not before he had marked with a lover’s joy the pained surprise in Denise’s eyes, the angry flush that coloured her cheek. But the lesson must be completed. A partner must be found and at once. He paused—looked about him—started.
“You, Madame!” he ejaculated, checking his astonishment, for Denise was watching him.
“I, Monsieur le Vicomte,” was the serene reply. “This is more fun than spelling the truth from a crystal,” and she laughed wickedly.
Yes, it was indeed the wise woman from “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold,” wearing her diamond cross and dressed in adorably pale blue satin, just such a colour as her eyes covered by the pale blue mask. Strangest of all, André felt at that moment there was not a woman in all this throng who carried herself with more of the true air of the noblesse than did this young sorceress, who plied a charlatan’s trade for hire.