Yvonne met his gaze with the calmness of innocent ignorance. “Monseigneur, I do not know. I have never been in Paris.”
“You will swear you heard it as you say?”
“Surely. They said the name twice.”
“And the gentleman from the Court?”
“His cloak was over his face, but I think—I am certain—it was Monsieur the Chevalier.”
André had heard enough. His blood was tingling with passion and excitement. “You have done me a great service, Yvonne,” he cried.
Yvonne very modestly disengaged the arm which for the first time he had slipped about her supple waist. “Monseigneur must not kiss me,” she whispered, humbly. “I cannot betray my lover even to you, sir.”
André started as if he had been detected in a crime. “You have a lover, Yvonne?” he exclaimed.
The girl threw back her shock of matted hair and laughed. “Many lovers,” she said, looking down at her clumsy sabots, “but only one dares to kiss me. Would it be wrong?” she inquired thoughtfully, “for me to let Monseigneur kiss me, too?”
“No,” said André, still in the grip of passion.