DENISE’S ANSWER
THE Queen’s ladies had been entertaining their friends, and the
antechamber was well filled with a company of the most fashionable
and powerful of the _noblesse_, particularly of those high-born
ladies and gentlemen who devoted whatever time they could spare from
breaking the Ten Commandments with a dulcet courtesy to the amusement
of political intrigue. Strangely enough the Queen’s friends were
drawn from three very different types--there were the “devout,” _les
dévots, les rigoristes_, to whom the free-thinking of the fashionable
philosophers coming to be the mode in the Faubourg St. Germain was
_anathema maranatha_, my lords of the hierarchy of the bishops, with
the high-born women who were their obedient pupils; there were the
“fribbles,” the great seigneurs with their wives and sisters and
daughters privileged morally as well as politically if only the breach
were made within their own class and with due regard to etiquette and
good manners, the men and women born within the purple who sincerely
believed that “God could scarcely condemn a person of that quality”
for what would be mortal sin in a _bourgeois_; and there were the
“snobs,” the women above all of the inferior _noblesse_ remorselessly
struggling upwards who snatched at the splendid opportunity a queen’s
cause and a minister’s cause offered. Monsieur the Dauphin, mesdames
the princesses of the blood were known to hate Madame de Pompadour, to
be plotting her overthrow; that was enough. Surely with royalty lay the
social future.
“Yes, to be sure,” the Abbé St. Victor was explaining with the smile
of the lay _roué_ to the Duchesse de Pontchartrain, “the King’s sin
would be only one-half as heinous if Madame de Pompadour were simply a
widow or even a demoiselle”; he took a pinch of snuff and regretfully
shrugged his shoulders.
“Or if she were really vulgar,” the Duchess interposed with the pouting
staccato which she knew became her best. “I wonder if all _bourgeoise_
women are like her. She is not vulgar, alas! and really it is her duty
to be vulgar. Pontchartrain says she dresses better than I do.”
“That is mere outward show,” the Abbé remarked, “as well as being not
true.”
“I wonder,” the Duchess asked with an air of profundity, “if a woman
can be vulgar inside without being vulgar outside.”
“She is not a Christian,” Mademoiselle Eugénie pronounced. “That is
enough for me.”
“But she goes regularly to mass,” objected the puzzled Duchess.
“To show her fine dresses to the Duke de Pontchartrain,” Mademoiselle
retorted with sour severity. “Clothes, Madame, have nothing to do with
religion.”
“For heaven’s sake,” cried the Duchess, alarmed, “don’t say so to
Pontchartrain. It would put the most embarrassing ideas into his head.”
The Abbé tittered into his lace handkerchief till he was checked by the
ferocious glare of the _dévotes_ at his elbow. “You will see how vulgar
the Pompadour can be,” he said hurriedly, “when you have turned her
out.”
“Inside out or outside in?” asked the Comtesse des Forges to annoy
Mademoiselle Eugénie.
“Oh, do let it be soon,” the Duchess pleaded, “whichever way it is.”
The Abbé nodded mysteriously. He was as pleased as the rest of the
company that afternoon with the progress of the great plot.
“You saw His Majesty’s confessor?” The Duke de Pontchartrain had drawn
Denise into a corner. “Is it satisfactory?”
“Eminently so. His Majesty listened with great attention, and was much
impressed, his reverence thought.”
“Good.” The Duke studied Denise’s eyes and figure. What a magnificent
_coryphée_ she would have made, to be sure, and how the diamonds he
had just given to that perfidious minx Babette would have suited her.
“The ministers,” he added quietly, “have followed the confessor’s
remonstrances up, I hear. They urged how unpopular the lady was in
Paris. His Majesty likes popularity, you know, with the _canaille_.”
“Yes,” said Denise, “everything is going as we could wish.”
Her eyes, like the Duke’s, had unconsciously crossed the room, where
André was talking to the Comtesse des Forges.
“We miss Mont Rouge,” his Grace remarked carelessly. “He was a valuable
friend to the cause.” Like the rest of the Court the Duke was ignorant
of what had brought about the duel, but the sudden colour in Denise’s
cheeks and her silence confirmed his shrewd suspicions. “And,” he added
with the same carelessness, “I am not sure that De Nérac is--what shall
I say?--altogether a friend.”
“Why do you think that?” Denise asked almost proudly.
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “My fancy, I suppose,” he answered
lightly. “Perhaps, however, our dear, captivating friend yonder will
convert him. She could convert St. Anthony if she really tried, eh?”
Denise knew that under this persiflage the Duke was studying her
closely and she was greatly relieved that he now bowed himself away.
For all his affectation of being a man of pleasure and nothing more she
had divined his keen ability and wide knowledge of life. He had talked
to test her and she was angry that she could not meet his searching
gaiety with the polished impenetrability that was his unique gift. She
bitterly resented, too, that André should stand there basking in the
languishing eyes of the Comtesse des Forges, who was never happy save
when she was making her stammering nincompoop of a husband unhappy.
Two days had passed since that painful evening when he had parted from
her in the Salle des Gardes de la Reine. He had proved his chivalry;
he had triumphantly vindicated her honour; why did he not give her the
opportunity to show that his conduct had appealed both to her pride
and her heart? Why had he not come to ask and to receive forgiveness?
Was it as gossip whispered, that he really preferred the Comtesse des
Forges? Or was it, as the Duke had plainly hinted, because he really
preferred, what was far worse, the service and rewards of Madame de
Pompadour? And reward him the mistress could, poor Denise was thinking;
for to the surprise of the Court the King had simply ignored the duel,
though in other similar cases both victor and vanquished had been
forbidden Versailles for a season. And André was still Captain of the
Queen’s Guards. Denise’s foot beat on the floor. Yes, in the King’s
private salon André had a powerful protector, herself and her friends
a dangerous enemy, yet her pride and gratitude alike forbade her to
reveal the truth to her allies--to the Queen, to the ministers, to the
_dévots_, to the nobles working together for a common end.
André saluted her as he passed out. On the threshold he paused to nod
quietly to the Chevalier de St. Amant, who was entering. The young man
was as gaily dressed as usual, but his boyish face was grave and sad.
He whispered something to the Duke de Pontchartrain.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed his Grace, “impossible!”
“I wish it were,” said the Chevalier, “but it is quite true.”
“Dismissed! The Comptroller-General dismissed!” St. Benôit repeated,
and the news flew round the room. “But why? Why?”
“It is an intrigue,” the Chevalier explained. “Messieurs Paris, the
bankers, who are related to the Pompadour, have refused to do any
further business with the Comptroller-General. And so His Majesty has
dismissed not the bankers but the minister.”
“You mean,” remarked the Comtesse des Forges, “that the Pompadour has
dismissed the Comptroller-General?”
“Exactly.”
The consternation was general. “It is no laughing matter,” the Duke de
Pontchartrain pronounced. “This is the first time that that woman or
any woman in her position has interfered with high affairs of state. It
will not be the last.”
“Ah, I knew she must be vulgar inside,” cried his Duchess triumphantly.
“It is a pity she dresses so well. The bankers pay, I suppose.”
“It is an outrage,” Mademoiselle Eugénie said. “The Court must protest.”
“My dear lady,” answered the Duke with his most finished scorn, “when
a king owes twenty million livres to a pair of money-lenders and wants
twenty million more you will find that it is they, not the Court, who
can protest.”
“And that is not all,” the Chevalier proceeded grimly. “His Majesty
has been pleased to promise the reversion of the Comptroller-General’s
place to the Marquis de Vaudières.”
“Impossible! Impossible!” The consternation increased, for the Marquis
till a few weeks before had been better known as Abel Poisson, Madame
de Pompadour’s brother.
“Charming,” said the Duke, “if His Majesty must make marquises from the
gutter at the bidding of a grisette it is only fair he should enable
them to be masters of the public finances and to pay their way by
plunder. What is His Majesty’s next whim, Chevalier?”
“What it will be to-morrow, Monseigneur, I cannot say. The King has
been pleased to do no more to-day than what I have said.”
“And a very pretty day’s work it has been,” his Grace replied. “Well,
ladies, I have only one piece of advice to offer you. Smile, smile,
smile, for if you protest Madame la Marquise de Pompadour will turn
her attention to you. Do not forget that she has a pretty _bourgeoise_
daughter eight years old to whom the post of maid of honour to her
Majesty would be a delightful and profitable education.”
He saluted the company, and taking most of the men with him withdrew,
for the situation was sufficiently grave to demand an instant
conference.
All the heart and gaiety had already been struck out of the ladies. The
Chevalier’s dejected air, so strange to his careless and irrepressible
spirit, was the most telling comment on the menace in his news. To the
angry indignation and rapid questions of the ladies he now replied with
melancholy brevity. The King was infatuated and obdurate, and Madame
de Pompadour was plainly determined to make him the instrument of her
vulgar vengeance.
“She has captured the King,” the young man remarked in his gloomiest
tones. “She will now coerce the Queen. Her ambition is to be mistress
of the robes and thus to rule all Versailles.”
The mere suggestion of such an outrage on precedent and etiquette made
the ladies speechless with horror. A _bourgeoise_ mistress of the
robes! It was unthinkable--blasphemous. As if her Majesty in dressing
could take even the simplest garment except from the hands of a
princess of the blood or of a duchess.
“You forget, Madame,” the Chevalier remarked drily, “that the King’s
will is law. _Le Roi gouverne par lui-même._”
They were the words of Louis XIV. To-day they can still be read as the
motto of Le Roi Soleil in the centre of the superb ceiling of that
Galerie des Glaces at Versailles which enshrines for all generations
the imperial ambitions of the king who made it. Arrogant words, but
true.
The antechamber became gradually deserted. The Chevalier stood at the
window watching the gathering gloom. His dejection was not acting. His
boyish face was almost tragic in its gravity. Presently he rose and
began to pace up and down, wrestling with his thoughts, until he became
suddenly aware that Denise had re-entered and was looking at him in
questioning silence.
“Mademoiselle,” he advanced to meet her. “I have no comfort for you.
Before long I shall be bidding you adieu for ever.”
Her eyes invited an explanation, but she said nothing.
“I speak seriously,” he proceeded. “You and your friends, Mademoiselle,
are aware that I am with you heart and soul in the desire to overthrow
this woman who will ruin us all. I have been able in the past, as you
know, to do some service to the cause by bringing you information that
I learned as His Majesty’s confidential secretary. At your request I
have to the best of my power abstained from appearing publicly to be
of your party, for His Majesty is suspicious and jealous. But I fear
from to-day my services must end.”
“Why?” The single word revealed both anxiety and sympathy.
“His Majesty has signified that for the present he will conduct his
private correspondence by himself. It is the first step. The next will
be that His Majesty no longer needs my services in any capacity, that I
am free,” he laughed with gentle bitterness, “to leave Versailles. Yes,
Mademoiselle, I can no longer help your cause.”
“That--that woman--” Denise began.
“Certainly. This is her doing. I stood between her and such secrets
as His Majesty was pleased to entrust to me, secrets not known to
ministers and to the Court. So long as I was private secretary that
woman was not the King’s master. But when I am finally dismissed she
will rule the King body and soul.”
“Oh, cannot it be stopped?”
“No, Marquise. I am not as his grace of Pontchartrain a great noble,
not even a Comptroller-General. I am the King’s creature, just as she
is. His Majesty made me, His Majesty can unmake me to-morrow.”
“This is dreadful,” Denise murmured. “Without your help, your
information, your private influence with the King, we shall be
beaten, humiliated, ruined. You have been a true friend to our cause,
Chevalier.”
The young man bowed. “I have done my best,” he said with unmistakable
sincerity; “that Madame de Pompadour should triumph cuts me to the
heart. But when I am obliged to leave Versailles her victory will not
be my only grief.”
Denise looked up at him. His tone had completely altered.
“I shall leave you, Mademoiselle,” he said simply, “and I love you. Ah!
it is the truth, the bare truth. You are a great noble, I am only the
Chevalier de St. Amant, a parvenu tolerated by the Court merely because
he is useful to them. It is presumption in me to dare to love you. But
even a parvenu’s heart can love. This cause is sacred to me because
not your beauty, nor your nobility, nor your wealth, but the womanhood
that is the greatest gift of God to you has taught me what you are--has
taught me that your service can be all that a man could desire.”
“Monsieur----” Denise began, but the words failed her.
“I had hoped that some day I might, perhaps, have dared to do more--to
ask for your love in return. But that is impossible--impossible.”
“Is it?” Denise asked in a low voice, almost as if she were talking to
herself.
“Yes, Marquise, because you love another.”
She looked up half angrily, half inquiringly. “No,” she answered as he
was still silent, “I do not.”
St. Amant resumed his pacing up and down. “Mademoiselle,” he said
presently, “are you aware how the King can be stopped in his present
course?”
Denise turned eagerly towards him. “Madame de Pompadour,” he added very
slowly, “is only a woman, but she has an ally, the Vicomte de Nérac,
the ablest, subtlest brain in all Versailles. He is ambitious; he loves
the Marquise de Beau Séjour--hear me out, please. Take the Vicomte de
Nérac from Madame de Pompadour, make him her enemy, not her friend,
and----”
“You believe that?” she interrupted.
“Unfortunately it cannot be done,” he replied with decision. “André de
Nérac has chosen his party and he will not be turned aside. Therefore
the only other course is to ruin him. Publish to the world that he
is Madame’s spy, that he has the key of Madame’s secret passage in
his pocket, publish what I have told you and you compel me to keep a
secret, and you can ruin him to-morrow.”
Denise drew a deep breath. Something like terror shone in her eyes.
“I have information,” continued the Chevalier very quietly, “that if
made known to the King would ruin the Vicomte to-night. Am I to use it
or not? It is for you, Marquise, to say.”
Denise’s lips paled. Her hand unconsciously crept to her throat. “What
sort of information?” she asked in a dry whisper.
“That, Mademoiselle, must be my secret. But I do not jest when I say
that you can ruin Madame de Pompadour to-day, but you will also most
certainly ruin the Vicomte de Nérac at the same time. Am I to keep
silent or to reveal the whole truth to the Comte d’Argenson and the
President of the Council of Ministers?”
Denise stood pale and trembling. Her eyes looked on her questioner with
a dumb piteousness cruel to behold.
“You have answered me, Marquise,” he replied after an agitating pause.
“I shall hold my tongue, and forgive me, I beg, that I have been so
merciless. But love is merciless and blind.” He took her hand. “If you
doubt that a parvenu can love you better far than he loves himself,
think of my silence. When I am driven from Versailles do not forget
that I refused to speak the truth of one who regards me as his enemy,
at your bidding. Adieu!”
In the doorway he paused to look back. For a moment he wavered. Denise
had stumbled to a chair and was crying softly. “_Soit!_” he muttered,
throwing up his head, “_Soit!_” and humming a reckless catch he strode
down the gallery.