At once before the lover’s eyes loomed the cruel silhouette of the Bastille: instead of the charming image that he had cherished of the marquise passing on smiling, he saw dungeons, secret cells, black bread, and the water of the torture chamber: he knew the story of Latude. Little by little came reflection and little by little hope took flight.

‘And all the same,’ he said to himself, ‘I am hurting nobody—certainly not the king. I am protesting against an injustice: I have never lampooned any one. I was so well received yesterday at Versailles and the lackeys were so polite! What am I afraid of? Of doing something imprudent. I will do other things which will make up for the first.’

He went up to the gate and touched it with his finger: it was not quite shut. He opened it and went in resolutely. The Swiss turned with an air of boredom.

‘What do you want? Where are you going?’

‘I am going to Madame de Pompadour.’

‘Have you an audience?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is your letter?’

No longer did he get the title of marquis as on the night before, and no longer had he a Duke of Aumont to fall back on. The chevalier sadly lowered his eyes, and saw that his white stockings and rhinestone buckles were covered with dust. He had made the mistake of coming on foot, in a country where none walked. The Swiss lowered his eyes as well, and scrutinized him not from the head to the feet, but from the feet to the head. The suit seemed right enough to him, but the hat was a little aslant and the hair unpowdered.

‘You have no letter? What do you want?’

‘I want to speak to Madame de Pompadour.’

‘Really! And do you think that that is done like that?’

‘I don’t know anything about it. Is the king here?’

‘Maybe. Go away and let me alone.’

The chevalier didn’t want to get angry but, in spite of himself, this insolence made him white.

‘I have sometimes told a lackey to go away,’ he answered, ‘but a lackey has never said that to me.’

‘Lackey? Me! a lackey?’ cried the Swiss in a fury.

‘A lackey, a porter, a valet, a pack of flunkeys, I don’t care which, and they’re of no importance to me.’

The Swiss took a step towards the chevalier, his fists clenched and his face on fire. The chevalier, recalled to himself at this show of threatening, raised slightly the hilt of his sword.

‘Take care,’ he said, ‘I am a gentleman, and it costs thirty-six francs to bury a churl like you.’

‘If you are a gentleman, sir, I belong to the king’s household. I am only doing my duty, and I do not think—’