“His Majesty last night was closeted with his private secretaries till half-past ten. At a quarter to eleven His Majesty walked in the north gallery with the Chevalier de St. Amant. At eleven they met the Marquise de Beau Séjour leaving her Majesty’s apartments. The Chevalier spoke to her, the King did not. At ten minutes past eleven His Majesty went to bed.”
André went cold as ice at the glib report. Denise was right. There would be no peace till this woman had been hunted from her place.
“Good. That will do,” and she dismissed the official. Then she turned her chair.
“The post of master of my household is vacant,” she said. “It is the King’s pleasure that it be filled by the Vicomte de Nérac.”
“I beg pardon, Madame?” André questioned haughtily.
She calmly repeated the sentence, looking him full in the face.
“It is impossible,” he answered, with difficulty restraining his anger.
“Nothing that the King of France is pleased to command a subject can be impossible,” she rejoined almost sweetly.
André clenched his hands and held his tongue. A gentleman must needs accept an insult even from a low-born woman with the dignity due to himself.
“It is the King’s pleasure,” she proceeded with a flash of sarcasm, “but it is not mine. I do not choose to accept the services of the Vicomte de Nérac.”