The girl was looking at him, but her smudged face disclosed nothing save a natural fear.
“Some might promise you,” he pursued, “money, wealth, love. Money I have not got; love is not mine to give——”
“It is an honour for a peasant girl,” she interrupted softly, “to be loved by a noble who can give her jewels and fine clothes and pleasure. And then when his love is cold, as needs must be, he can make her happy with a good dowry.”
“Oh, yes, that is so. But,” he took her hand, “I will not——”
“I am not pretty, alas!” she interrupted again, but the coquetry in her figure was strangely provocative.
“Peace, child, peace! and listen. I cannot and will not treat you as others might. Love is not mine to give. But I ask your help, although I promise you nothing in return save the grateful thanks of a soldier of France.”
“I would be your servant,” she whispered, “your servant, Monseigneur.”
André felt her hand tremble. For the moment swift passion tempted him, and Yvonne was watching him closely though he did not know it.
“Yes,” he said brusquely, “you shall be my servant, but nothing more.” She was silent, and he feared he had made a fatal mistake. “Your help, that is all I ask, and I ask it because I trust you.”
“I will help,” she said in a low voice. “I will help.”