The great historical buildings in Paris bear witness with eloquence and beauty to the genius and ambition of the many royal rulers who during three centuries of a wonderfully dramatic history have led a nation itself gifted with genius and ambition. Versailles alone is the exception, for in Versailles even the most ignorant and cold-blooded of modern sightseers feels at every step that the years have vanished, that he breathes the air of the grand age, that he is face to face with the monument of one historic figure and one alone—Louis XIV. Gone is the bitter memory of 1870; gone is the tragedy of Marie Antoinette. Alike in the stately splendour of the Galerie des Glaces, in the cold loneliness of the chapel, in the ordered magnificence of these haughty gardens, most of all in the imperial pomp of the royal bedroom, dominates the spirit of the Roi Soleil—the King who made kingship the art and the science and the creed of a nation’s life.

As one steps to-day into the empty stillness of that memorable Œil de Bœuf the light from the oval windows seems to fall only on those white and gold doors beyond which lies the state bed-chamber. But wait in patience and the loneliness will vanish; the room is now crowded with the courtiers awaiting the grand lever of majesty; a hundred tongues are discussing eagerly the events of the hour, a hundred eyes watch with feverish eagerness all who have the right to pass and repass those jealously-guarded portals, behind which monarchy, on whose caprice turns the fate of ministers and nobles, is dressing.

“The King,” said Mont Rouge to St. Benôit, “is as playful this morning as he was last night. Ah, you have not heard?” he added. “Well, when the Duke de Richelieu was pulling off His Majesty’s boots, ‘How many times, by the bye, Duke, have you been in the Bastille?’ asked the King. ‘Three times, Sire,’ Richelieu replied stiffly. ‘Odd numbers are unlucky,’ said the King in his slow way, and even Richelieu was annoyed.”

“A pretty plain hint,” St. Benôit remarked. “What has Richelieu been doing? Another love affair and a duel?”

“Oh, no; he was only saucy to the Pompadour at supper. That woman is itching to show that dukes can be treated like kitchen wenches.”

“Perhaps. But she doesn’t get her way with every one. De Nérac has positively refused to enter her service, and the King is more pleased with him than ever.”

“It is true, then, that he has been given the Cordon Bleu?” Mont Rouge demanded with a flash of jealousy.

“Quite true, the lucky dog,” answered the Duke of Pontchartrain, who had joined them, “and the extraordinary thing is that the Pompadour, who was very angry with De Nérac, jested about it last night.”

“But what has De Nérac done to get the Cordon Bleu?” Mont Rouge growled.

The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “Have you forgotten the night before Fontenoy, my friend?” His voice dropped. “This mysterious affair of yesterday in the woods, too,” he whispered, “is all part of the same infernal business.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“I do. The King and the ministers are convinced that the Vincennes business, this affair of the woods, and that Fontenoy treachery all come from the same hand—a hand near at home.”

Mont Rouge and St. Benôit drew the Duke into a corner.

“The traitor then is here? In Versailles?” St. Benôit asked.

“It is the only explanation.”

Mont Rouge passed a perplexed hand over his chin. “Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Think you that woman has—”

“No, no,” replied the Duke with sharp conviction. “The Pompadour is as anxious to discover the traitor as the King or d’Argenson himself. You may take your oath of that. Heavens! man, if she can lay bare this inscrutable mystery she will earn the King’s gratitude for the rest of her naughty life.”

“And what has De Nérac to do with——?”

“What De Nérac discovered last night,” St. Benôit interrupted, “is known only to the King and himself. You will get nothing from him; he is pledged to secrecy. But”—he paused to beckon to the Abbé de St. Victor to join them—“but it makes it more necessary than ever for us to have De Nérac on our side.”

“I do not see that,” Mont Rouge objected.

St. Benôit’s foot tapped impatiently. “If our scheme,” he urged, “to persuade the King to expel the Pompadour is to succeed, De Nérac must be our ally. It is as clear as daylight.”

“Of course,” said the Duke, “of course. Drive De Nérac into the Pompadour’s arms and together they will discover the traitor, and the Comte de Mont Rouge will presently be compelled to prefer the village wenches on his estates in Poitou to the ladies of Versailles.”

“Yes,” the Abbé assented. “We must have De Nérac, for he knows more than any of us, and he has courage. Courage is a rare thing in Versailles.”

“I agree,” Mont Rouge said slowly. “But if he won’t join us in getting rid of that detestable woman then he must share her fate.”

“There is André,” St. Benôit gladly remarked. “Let us congratulate him on his refusal to stain his honour by obedience to a wanton of the bourgeoisie.”

But they were anticipated by the Chevalier. “My felicitations, Vicomte,” the young man was saying, “for you are the first to teach our new and high-born marquise her place.”

“You are very kind,” André replied sweetly, to the disgust and astonishment of his friends.

“Mon Dieu!” Mont Rouge growled as the Chevalier smilingly left them to pass into the King’s bedroom, for as a royal favourite he had that privileged entrée, “I would sooner pull that coxcomb’s ears than accept his congratulations even if I were a Cordon Bleu.”

“My dear Mont Rouge,” André answered, “the King will not permit us now to pull a coxcomb’s ears, but some day I hope to have that pleasure.”

“Oh, to be sure, some day?” Mont Rouge sneered.

“To be sure. When you have turned out our mistress, Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, you shall help me to pull the ears of the Chevalier de St. Amant.”

André in fact was in a rare humour. His plans were now arranged to a nicety. With the Pompadour’s help “No. 101” was to be discovered and Denise won. The mystery of last night had suggested half a dozen clues. His star was once more in the ascendant. The great game to be played required courage, resource, and Machiavellian cunning. This was the beginning. The rest would follow. Ah! the white and gold doors were thrown open; hats came off; the King had entered, and all eagerly surveyed his bored, inscrutable countenance.

“Is the Vicomte de Nérac here?” Louis demanded presently, and André stepped forward to kiss his hand. “Monsieur le Vicomte,” he proceeded in his slow, soft, yet clear voice, “you will bear my humble salutations to her Majesty the Queen and say that I offer her Majesty, for the vacant place of the captain of her guard, the services of the bravest officer in the Chevau-légers of my Guards—yourself.”

A loud hum, partly of warm approval, partly of excited and jealous comment, drowned André’s thanks.

“By G-Gad,” stammered Des Forges, “another s-slap for the fishy g-grisette—eh?”

“She’s going, yes, she’s going; God be praised!” muttered the Abbé St. Victor.

“What did I tell you?” St. Benôit cried, “more than ever we must keep De Nérac on our side,” and Mont Rouge sulkily assented.

The Duke de Pontchartrain thoughtfully stroked his lace ruffles. “I am puzzled,” he remarked aside to St. Benôit; “I wonder if it really means that the King has thrown over the grisette, or whether—” he paused.

“Well?” St. Benôit demanded impatiently.

“De Nérac is deep, devilish deep,” the Duke mused, “and so is the King. If De Nérac is not on our side it will play old Harry with our plot to have him ruling the roost in her Majesty’s apartments.”

But his friends laughed his suspicions away. De Nérac had insulted the Pompadour and he had been rewarded with the captaincy of the Queen’s Guards. What could be better?

Meanwhile André, having executed his commission and been flattered by the joyful reception of the news by the Queen’s ladies, was somewhat grimly reflecting in the Hall of the Queen’s Guards on this new turn of fortune’s wheel. Truly the Pompadour was a wonderful woman. She had promised to arrange and she had kept her word. To be placed in an office which must daily bring him into touch with Denise was better than he had ever dreamed. A genius the Pompadour as he had said, and this was the woman whom the priests and ministers and courtiers hoped to expel. Poor blind fools! They little knew the whole truth. Yes, his star was in the ascendant. The Machiavellian game must be played out; it promised victory and Denise.

The rustle of a dress roused him. It was Denise, and surely that was the Chevalier de St. Amant parting from her.

“You have heard the King’s will, Mademoiselle,” André said quietly.

“Yes,” she answered. Very lovely she looked at that moment, though her manner was strangely cold.

“You do not congratulate me?”

“No.”

André glanced at her with sharp surprise.

“After your kind words on my return,” he began, “I had hoped, Mademoiselle, more for your congratulations than for those of any other in Versailles.”

Denise made no reply; she quietly moved away.

“Denise,” he broke out passionately. “Denise——”

“Mademoiselle la Marquise, if you please, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she interrupted with her head high in air, and André could only gaze at her in mute astonishment.

“Yes,” she continued, “Mademoiselle la Marquise for the future. And if you would know the reason ask your conscience, the conscience of one who was once a noble and soldier of France.” André would have spoken, but she made a peremptory sign with her hand. “It is the second time,” she resumed, “I have been bitterly disappointed. Our world believes that you have had the courage to refuse the temptation of that woman, that the King’s reward was due to your courage and your loyalty. Unhappily I know better. You are Captain of the Queen’s Guards because it is the wish of the Marquise de Pompadour.”

“Mademoiselle!”

“You deny it?” She paused. “That, Monsieur le Vicomte, unfortunately does not make it less true. But do not be alarmed. I shall not betray your secret. And if you will, let my silence be due to the friendship of the past, a friendship that you yourself by your own act have severed.”

She turned her back on him. But André had swiftly opened the door for her.

“It would be impertinent for me to ask for a hearing,” he said slowly. “That you will not betray my secret as you are pleased to call it is very kind. In return, Mademoiselle, I promise that I will not betray yours.”

Their eyes met. André faced her unflinchingly.

“My secret?” Denise demanded, but she could not quite control her voice.

“Your secret, Marquise.” He bowed low.

He had the bitter satisfaction, if satisfaction it was, to see a faint thrill of fear—or was it trouble?—pass into her eyes. And now that he was alone he strode about the room letting his anger master him, once more a prey to all the black doubts and fears. There was only one explanation—that the Chevalier had wormed out the truth, and for his own purposes had hastened to share his knowledge with Denise. The Court was hoodwinked, but they were not. Cruelest of all, he could not deny it, and the disdain in the face and figure of the woman he loved had cut more sharply than her words. He clenched his fist. He could not go back now—no, he had chosen his path; but the day would come, he swore, when he should prove that it was his love and the ambition that it inspired which had driven him to defy the Court, his class, and herself.

There was work to be done which could not wait. He galloped away into the woods. “Yvonne,” he called out, dismounting at the stables of “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold.”

“Monseigneur,” she exclaimed, flinging back her matted yellow hair and springing up. He had surprised her with skirt pinned up to the knees milking her sleek cow. She was indeed Yvonne of the Spotted Cow, Yvonne of the Spotless Ankles. Bah! it was a pity her face was so smudged, her bodice so ragged and dirty, for her figure was excellently straight and supple. “Monseigneur!” she humbly kissed his hand.

André felt strange qualms as he surveyed her in silence. Something inexplicable in this peasant wench seemed to make the task he had undertaken disagreeable, almost revolting, yet she was only a farm slut and he was a noble. And the secret perhaps of “No. 101” was the prize.

“I want your help, Yvonne,” he said abruptly.

“My help?” she repeated as if she did not understand, but there was a momentary gleam in her eyes. “My help? He is not happy, Monseigneur? Ah,” she gave a little cry, “the lady that he loves, the Marquise, is faithless.”

“No,” he interrupted fiercely. “No, no! It is——”

She put her finger on her lip. “Some one is coming,” she whispered. “Monseigneur has enemies, many enemies. He must not be seen here. Come, quick, quick!”

She half pushed him into the stables, closed and locked the door and left him. André from within could hear steps coming to and fro on the stones, could hear voices. They ceased. The door opened.

“Who was it?” he demanded.

“Monsieur the Chevalier de St. Amant,” she replied quietly.

“Name of a dog!” he ejaculated. He drew the girl into the stables, put his hands on her shoulders. Such firm, well-shaped shoulders under her dirty, ill-laced bodice. “Now tell me,” he said peremptorily, “what you know of the Chevalier de St. Amant.”

Yvonne faced him with a humble simplicity. Involuntarily André dropped his hands, mastered by that indefinable feeling. “Monsieur the Chevalier comes here from time to time,” she answered; “he inquires for the wise woman who lived here, but he also would know if Monseigneur visits the inn and why?”

“Ah! And your answer?”

“That I know nothing.”

André scrutinised her remorselessly. Either she told the truth or she was a consummate actress.

“Did I do right, Monseigneur,” she asked in her simple way, “to say what was not true?”

“Yes,” he replied quickly, but not without a stab of shame. “And my enemies, Yvonne, what of my enemies?”

“They are great gentlemen of the Court. They and their servants come here, too, they watch Monseigneur. They seek a traitor, so they say.”

André reflected. It was what he feared. “I also seek a traitor, Yvonne,” he began quietly, “and I am in great trouble. I need your help.”

“Monseigneur is pleased to jest. My help—the help of a peasant girl?”

“Yes, your help, Yvonne. The King, my master, is betrayed. The traitor is unknown, but at this inn perhaps one may learn what will reveal the truth. You are here, you have eyes and ears. Will you promise to tell me all that you can learn?”

The girl was looking at him, but her smudged face disclosed nothing save a natural fear.

“Some might promise you,” he pursued, “money, wealth, love. Money I have not got; love is not mine to give——”

“It is an honour for a peasant girl,” she interrupted softly, “to be loved by a noble who can give her jewels and fine clothes and pleasure. And then when his love is cold, as needs must be, he can make her happy with a good dowry.”

“Oh, yes, that is so. But,” he took her hand, “I will not——”

“I am not pretty, alas!” she interrupted again, but the coquetry in her figure was strangely provocative.

“Peace, child, peace! and listen. I cannot and will not treat you as others might. Love is not mine to give. But I ask your help, although I promise you nothing in return save the grateful thanks of a soldier of France.”

“I would be your servant,” she whispered, “your servant, Monseigneur.”

André felt her hand tremble. For the moment swift passion tempted him, and Yvonne was watching him closely though he did not know it.

“Yes,” he said brusquely, “you shall be my servant, but nothing more.” She was silent, and he feared he had made a fatal mistake. “Your help, that is all I ask, and I ask it because I trust you.”

“I will help,” she said in a low voice. “I will help.”

He raised her hand to his lips as if it were the hand of a gentlewoman. Why he did so strange a thing he could not have explained.

“No, no,” she cried. “I am not worthy. Ah! Monseigneur is not as other nobles. He has pity and respect even for a peasant wench. He shall not dishonour himself, and I—I will help because I am grateful, yes, grateful.” For a moment she hid her face overcome.

“Adieu, Yvonne,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “Adieu, and remember!” He mounted and rode away. As he turned into the woods a man rapidly crossed the bridle track and disappeared, but not before he had caught a sight of his face. Somewhere in the past he had seen that face—when? Where? He knew he was not mistaken, though in vain he racked his brains. And with this fresh torturing thought he rode into Paris.

Yvonne had stood like one in a dream long after he had disappeared. Now she surveyed with ill-concealed disgust her pinned-up skirt and clumsy sabots, now impatiently brushed a tear from under the matted hair over her eyes. “Dieu le Vengeur!” She suddenly threw up her arms with a gesture of pain, “Dieu le Vengeur!” Then furtively glancing round she walked slowly towards the house. On the threshold some one met her and for a half-hour she might have been heard conversing earnestly, almost pleading. The voices ceased. A moment later the Chevalier de St. Amant stepped out from the inn, jauntily flung his gay cloak about him, and galloped swiftly in the direction of Versailles.