“I will not fly till I have killed that traitor.”
“Yes, kill him if you can. But it is the papers you must have or we are all ruined. The papers,” she repeated in a dull agony.
André meditated. Then he took the vivandière by both arms, “Will you swear by the name of the Holy Virgin that this is no trap?” he asked solemnly.
She turned her hooded face up to his and took his Croix de St Louis. “Before God and on this cross,” she answered very slowly, “it is no trap. It is the truth.”
Conviction rang in her low tones and she was trembling with emotion.
“Very well. I am ready. But my uniform?” he asked sharply. “I shall be recognised.”
“I have thought of that,” she said. “See, my room is in the village, a stone’s throw hence. A cloak, a hat, and boots of the English Guard are there, stripped from a dead officer. They will cover your uniform. But you must keep the cloak buttoned, for frock and tunic I have not got, alas! I have, too, my actress’s box of colours. I will disguise you perfectly. Come at once, there is no time to waste.”
And so by two flickering candles her deft fingers transformed him swiftly into the image of a ruddy, beef-fed English officer of the English Guard, and when her work was done she accompanied him to the edge of the lines, where they paused.
“For God’s sake be careful,” she urged. “The Pandours, the Grassins, the marauders, are prowling everywhere. Maybe, too, ‘No. 101’ may have varlets on the look-out. I would not frighten you, but you should know that the man or woman who has hunted ‘No. 101’—and several have tried—has so far met with death.”
But André only smiled grimly.