The old painted woman raised her glass also, and lifted it to her lips, tossing the wine down with a sudden smack of satisfaction.
Then, in that strange perfumed room, the two oddly assorted people looked at each other straightly for a moment.
Neither spoke.
At length Madame La Motte, of the great big house with the red door, heaved herself out of her arm-chair, and waddled round the table. She was short and fat; she put one hand upon the shoulder of the tall, clean young man in his riding suit and light armour.
"Mon ami," she said thickly, "don't come here again."
Johnnie looked down at the hideous old creature, but with a singular feeling of pity and compassion.
"Madame," he said, "I don't propose to come again."
"Thou art limn and debonair, and a very pretty boy, but come not here, because in thy face I see other things for thee. Lads of the Court come to see me and my girls, proper lads too, but in their faces there is not what I discern in thy face. For them it matters nothing; for thee 'twould be a stain for all thy life. Thou knowest well whom I am, Monsieur, and canst guess well where I shall go—e'en though His Most Catholic Majesty be above stairs, and will get absolution for all he is pleased to do here. But you—thou wilt be a clean boy. Is it not so?"
The fat hand trembled upon the young man's arm, the hoarse, sodden voice was full of pleading.
"Ma mère," Johnnie answered her in her own language, "have no fear for me. I thank you—but I did not understand...."