“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.”