“Do you remember the night before Fontenoy,” St. Benôit continued, “when our friend André de Nérac saved the army from foul treachery? Well, I never could get the whole truth from him, but he allowed me to infer that the Chevalier was playing a very fishy part in the business.”
“Impossible,” protested the Duchess. “The Chevalier is on our side—the Queen’s side—the right side.”
“The Marquise de Beau Séjour, I suppose,” sneered the Comtesse, “is guarantee for that.”
“That is not worthy of you, dear lady,” St. Benôit corrected gently, looking into her great blue eyes as he had looked twelve months ago. “Mademoiselle de Beau Séjour is Mademoiselle de Beau Séjour. It will take more than a parvenu Italian chevalier to make her forget she is of the same quality and sex as the Comtesse des Forges. But I would wager a diamond bracelet to a sou that either the Chevalier is at the bottom of this dirty business—or,” he delicately sniffed at his lace handkerchief as one who feared infection, “or that woman.”
“Poisson-Pompadour, a fishy grisette,” sniggered Des Forges, playing on the name, “at the b-bottom of a f-fishy business—eh?”
“The Abbé can give us news again,” remarked Mont Rouge sweetly. “He attended the grisette’s toilet this morning.”
“Impossible!” the Comtesse exclaimed with sincere anger.
“He blushes, our dear friend,” pursued the remorseless Mont Rouge, “blushes a rose de Pompadour. Ha! ha!” The hit went home. Rose de Pompadour was the new colour invented in honour of the King’s favourite at the world-famed royal manufactory at Sèvres.
“The Duc de Pontchartrain was there too,” retorted the Abbé sulkily.
“That,” pouted the Duchess, “is a worse insult to me than if——”