“But Monsieur will permit me,” she said gently, and before he could refuse she had taken his hand, “I will not speak unless he wishes.”
While she studied it he studied her. What a subtle pathos seemed to lie in those blue eyes, those smiling lips, that dainty head almost touching him, a pathos like her perfume ascending into the brain. And how enchanting was that diamond cross rising and falling on that dazzling breast.
“What is it?” he asked, for she had dropped his hand with a faint sigh, and sat staring mysteriously at something far away.
“I am forbidden to speak,” she answered, averting her eyes, and she picked up her cat, and walked away.
“You shall tell me,” André said impetuously.
But she only laughed over the cat’s body, stroking it softly with her chin till its purr echoed through the room.
“Confess, confess,” he said, “I will know.”
“The hand of Monsieur le Vicomte,” she answered, smiling mischievously, “is full of interesting revelations—dreams which come and go—but there is one dream that is always there—the dream of love. Women,” she added, “women, women everywhere in Monsieur’s life; as in the years that were past, so in the years to come. Let the Vicomte de Nérac be on his guard against all women—and against one woman in particular——”
André failed to suppress an exclamation. Had this beautiful witch divined that secret too?
“Her name,” she paused to bury her face in the cat’s fur, “is—Yvonne—Yvonne,” she repeated, “of the Spotless Ankles.”