“Yvonne!” He let the hood go as if he had been stabbed.
“But yes, Monseigneur, Yvonne of the Spotted Cow.” She kissed his hand, humbly.
“Yvonne,” he gasped. “What do you here?”
“I was born in this village,” she answered, “my mother, she lives here. She is old, my mother.”
“You—born here?”
“Surely, Monseigneur. It is the truth.”
André shivered. Half an hour ago how near his mother, who was old too, had been to praying for the soul of her only son. And she had been spared that pain by the courtesy of a beardless chevalier.
“And what do you now in the churchyard?” he asked.
“I come to say my prayers for the little Marquise Marie. She is in the bosom of the good God, is our little Marquise, but I say a prayer for her soul when I am happy.”
“And why do you pray for the Marquise Marie?” he asked.