At the end of the salon a little knot of excited courtiers had gathered, and in their midst stood the Vicomte de Nérac.
For a minute or two he halted, gazing about him with a slightly dazed air. The brilliant lights, the jewels and bare shoulders of the ladies, the uniforms and stars of the men, the rattle of the dice and the clatter of a hundred idle tongues seemed to awe him, familiar though he was with the scene. It was pleasant in this heavily-perfumed air with the flash of the candelabra on his riding cloak, faded uniform, and dusty boots, and on his tanned face, to mark the singularly bracing and vivid contrast that he presented to the luxurious idlers of his world. His eye had fallen on Denise. His shoulders straightened, his lips tightened, unconsciously.
“Depend on it,” St. Benôit whispered to the Duke. “André’s appearance has something to do with this damnable treachery.”
“Or,” added the Duke quietly, “with the schemes of that fishy grisette. The post of the master of her household is vacant.”
André was soon basking in the smiles of his lady friends, proud to welcome a hero who had saved an army of France. Ten minutes showed that he knew nothing of the mysterious affair at Vincennes, and he could only repeat that he had been summoned to Versailles by the express commands of his Sovereign. Why and for what he was ignorant.
The ladies in particular as they babbled watched him closely. Eighteen months of campaigning had not robbed his smile of its charm nor his dark eyes of their eloquent reserve. He was still the André de Nérac who had made more husbands jealous, more women rivals, than even the Duc de Richelieu. For Mademoiselle Claire, for Mademoiselle Eugénie, and the other maids of honour he had a bow and the finished compliment so dear to Versailles; he had even a friendly nod for the Chevalier de St. Amant. But to Denise’s curtsey a cold and correct salute in silence was all he deigned to reply. The rebuke made the eyes of the Comtesse des Forges very bright; indeed, it set the Salon de la Paix gossiping when he withdrew to remove the stains of his hard riding.
“This will ruin everything,” St. Benôit muttered, for he had both fears and plans in his head. So that when André and Denise suddenly met in the half-lights of the empty gallery neither knew the meeting was due to a friendly schemer.
The quick flush in Denise’s cheeks (she ravished the gay blades of Versailles by scorning powder and paint), the dropping of her grey eyes, sent a thrill into the soldier’s heart, but he kept a resolute silence.
“Madame your mother,” Denise began with an effort, “will be proud to welcome you back. Do you stay long at Versailles?” she added hurriedly, when he simply bowed.
“I do not know, Mademoiselle; I await His Majesty’s commands.”