“I had hoped you had forgotten those words; you are cruel,” she interrupted, “you who have shown——”
“Say no more,” he exclaimed joyfully. “I have forgotten and I ask you to forgive. I was rude as well as cruel. Yes, I have come back as I swore I would to prove that I might be worthy of your regard, your love, Denise.”
He gently touched her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Of my love,” she said quietly, “you must not speak, if you please. But my regard you have already won in Flanders. And, André,” she continued earnestly, “there is work for you to do here. You will help us—us who would—ah!”
She broke off sharply, for one of the ushers of the King’s bed-chamber had swiftly come upon them.
“Monsieur le Vicomte,” he said, “His Majesty desires you to wait upon him at once in the salon of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour.”
“But—” André looked at his travel-stained cloak and boots.
“His Majesty desired Monsieur le Vicomte to attend just as he was.”
“Adieu,” Denise whispered, “and do not forget to-night that you are a noble and soldier of France.”
André turned angrily to obey, for the message from those pleading grey eyes had stirred all the fierce pride of his class. Confound this bourgeoise woman who ordered nobles to dance attendance in her salon!