“André,” called softly a voice he knew only too well. Denise was standing in the empty gallery, and in her eyes there was something of the hunted despair and fear Madame de Pompadour had read in his. “André, you have been to see her?” “Yes.” “She is ruined.” She paused. “And they will ruin you too. Let me save you; I can.” “No,” he said, very quietly, “you cannot.” Denise looked at him, trembling. “You can only save me if I now at once go on my knees to my foes. To you I would gladly do it, for I have wronged you, and I love you, but to them, never! never!” Her head bowed in appealing silence. “The Marquise de Pompadour,” he drew himself up, “the Marquise honoured me with her friendship when she was powerful. Now that she is fallen and in misery I will not be such a dastard as to save myself by helping to ruin her. No, I will not!” “You are mad,” she cried incoherently. But his chivalry fired her heart. “You must do as you think right, Denise,” he said gently, “and so must I. It is cruel for me--how cruel--no, I must not speak.” He broke off and returned to the Œil de Bœuf. The crowd was denser than ever. Monsieur le Dauphin had just passed through the heated, suffocating room and was now in the royal bed-chamber. Suddenly the subdued babel of tongues ceased as if by magic. The doors were opening. Dukes, ministers, nobles, lackeys pushed and fought to get to the front. The King was dead! Resolutely the Swiss Guards stemmed the surging tide. Ha! the King’s physician. Dead silence. “Nobles of the realm, and gentlemen,” cried the physician, “I am happy to say that the sacred person of His Majesty is no longer in danger.” A dull roar as of inarticulate wild beasts rose and fell. “With God’s help the King of France will, we trust, be shortly restored to perfect health.” The doors were closed again. The Comte de Mont Rouge wiped his brow. “It is now or never,” he whispered savagely to the Duke of Pontchartrain. “Yes, now or never,” smiled the Duke, “for I prefer the society of the ladies of Versailles and Paris to that of the drabs and bigots of Pontchartrain.” CHAPTER XXV THE FALL OF THE DICE THE excitement was rather increased than diminished by the report of the King’s recovery. Indeed, throughout, men’s and women’s thoughts were absorbed far more feverishly with the fortunes of Madame de Pompadour than with those of Louis himself. A palace revolution was what was desired, vengeance on the woman who had threatened to become dictator, a happy return to the old order; and the King’s illness was only important as the extraordinary miracle which would accomplish what was so passionately prayed for. The noble gentlemen and ladies spent the next hour in agitating suspense. And when it was reported that the King had rallied so marvellously as to be out of bed, to eat and to talk, the high hopes sank. Another miracle had supervened to undo the work of the first.