“Faith, tell me, my lord, since you know so much,” she said saucily.
“Beausire,” said the marshal: “and he is a beau already; whether he will ever be a sire, I cannot say.”
Nicole clasped her hands in prudery which did not baffle the marshal.
“Pest take us!” he said: “making love appointments under the eaves of Trianon: if Lady Noailles catches a whiff of this she will have Nicole Legay sent to the Salpetriere House of Correction and Corporal Beausire will have a row in the royal galleys.”
“Not if I have your grace’s protection.”
“Oh, that is granted. You will not be imprisoned and driven from the place, but left free and enriched.”
“Oh, what must I do, my lord, tell me quick.”
“Mere child’s play.”
“Whom am I to do it for—my own good or your grace’s?”
“Zounds,” said the duke, eyeing her sharply, “what a sly puss you are!”