Yvonne faced him with a humble simplicity. Involuntarily André dropped his hands, mastered by that indefinable feeling. “Monsieur the Chevalier comes here from time to time,” she answered; “he inquires for the wise woman who lived here, but he also would know if Monseigneur visits the inn and why?”
“Ah! And your answer?”
“That I know nothing.”
André scrutinised her remorselessly. Either she told the truth or she was a consummate actress.
“Did I do right, Monseigneur,” she asked in her simple way, “to say what was not true?”
“Yes,” he replied quickly, but not without a stab of shame. “And my enemies, Yvonne, what of my enemies?”
“They are great gentlemen of the Court. They and their servants come here, too, they watch Monseigneur. They seek a traitor, so they say.”
André reflected. It was what he feared. “I also seek a traitor, Yvonne,” he began quietly, “and I am in great trouble. I need your help.”
“Monseigneur is pleased to jest. My help—the help of a peasant girl?”
“Yes, your help, Yvonne. The King, my master, is betrayed. The traitor is unknown, but at this inn perhaps one may learn what will reveal the truth. You are here, you have eyes and ears. Will you promise to tell me all that you can learn?”