André, now wide-awake, his blood tingling, followed her till she stopped in the shadow of an outhouse. “You will do the King a service?” she asked gravely enough. “Answer in my ear; we must not be heard. Yes?”
“Tell me,” he said, quickly, “what the service is?”
“The Vicomte can talk English?”
“How the dev——?”
“It matters not how I know it. Do not contradict. Time is precious. To-night”—she was speaking earnestly into his ear—“the friends of the King have learned that the secrets of the Maréchal will be betrayed to the English.”
“Good God!” He gripped her arm.
“Hush!” She raised a warning finger. “It is so. To the charcoal-burner’s hut two miles from here will come at midnight two English officers. The plans of the camp—this camp, Vicomte—will be given them; to-night the English will know where to attack to-morrow and then—” she made a significant gesture.
“But——”
“No one can say how those plans have been stolen. But stolen they have been, and it is too late to alter the entrenchments now. They are made—you understand—and to-morrow is here in ten hours. Worse, worse, the traitor is already at the cottage with the paper.” André sweated hot and cold, for terror rang in her pleading voice. “It is infamous, terrible. But one hope remains. We must find an officer who can speak English, who will pretend to be those English officers and get the plans before they are handed to the enemy. The Vicomte understands?”
“Yes, yes, I see. I will go.” He buttoned up his cloak with peremptory decision.