“You really think so?”
“I am sure of it,” she replied. “The negotiations for peace have commenced, but the war still goes on. This black, infernal treachery is here in Versailles, in our midst, for the prize to a traitor at this critical time is worth a king’s ransom. It is maddening, maddening—believe me, the man or woman who lays bare the mystery will do the King and France a service never to be forgotten. And His Majesty can be grateful.”
André’s ambitious heart throbbed responsive to the skilful touch.
“I mean to discover the traitor. I foiled him at Fontenoy. I will foil him again, but,” she paused, “a woman cannot do it alone. When the King wrote to me before I came to Versailles, ‘Discret et Fidèle’ was his motto. I want to-day a friend who will be ‘discret et fidèle,’ a man without fear, loyal, ingenious, and brave.”
André raised his head sharply. The thoughts were coming fast; he began to see dimly, to hope, to dream.
“I confess,” she pursued, “that I thought the Vicomte de Nérac might be that man, my man. But it is impossible, impossible.”
“Why, Madame?” He was leaning eagerly across the table.
“Why?” She laughed softly. “Because the Marquise de Pompadour is a bourgeoise, a heartless, selfish, intriguing wanton, and she can find many who will serve her, who will write ballades to her eyes and sonnets to her bosom, and then behind her back will scribble the foul libels that the soldiers sang at Fontenoy. But the Court, the Queen, the Dauphin, the bishops and priests, the libertines and the dévots, the ministers and the great ladies are leagued in hate against me. It is true, is it not?”
And André could not answer.
“So long as I have the King on my side I am safe. But this palace is a labyrinth of intrigue. If the King grows weary I shall be fortunate to leave Versailles a free woman. And by my ruin those of my service will be ruined too. The task I mean to perform is doubly dangerous—there is the Court and there is ‘No. 101.’ Yes, it is no task for the Vicomte de Nérac.”