André stared in dumb bewilderment at her on her knees there in front of the fire. Should he run her through at once or strangle her for an execrable traitress? The woman betrayed neither fear nor interest. She seemed to have forgotten his presence.
“Are you ‘No. 101’?” he asked at last.
“Oh, no.” She was laughing softly. “I am only her—agent.”
“Then the trait—then she is a woman?”
“Yes.” She stood up and shook some cinders from her cloak. “Yes, she is a woman.” And André knew she was lying. The fingers on his sword relaxed. Kill her he could not—yet. Depart he could not—yet. For he was in the grip of a weird fascination—of a secret whose mystery numbed his senses.
“It is marvellous,” he muttered, “but the English army thanks ‘No. 101’ and you.”
“Yes,” she answered indifferently, “it is marvellous, but the English army is nothing to her nor to me. For myself I detest the English officers, but like you, sir, I simply do as I am bid. Give me the gold and I will wish you good-night.”
The gold; English gold! Pest on it! The vivandière and he had thought of everything but that. The perspiration swelled on to his forehead. He grasped his sword and took a step towards the doorway.
“I was given no gold,” he said brusquely and waited with drawn breath.
“No?” She shrugged her shoulders and astonished him by kneeling down and taking up the bellows. “It is like English officers to buy secrets and not pay for them.”