André gave her a look. Had she been a man she might have lived twenty-four hours, certainly no more.
“Has Monsieur le Vicomte any further observations to offer? No? Then—” she made the pretence of a curtsey. He, André de Nérac, a Croix of St. Louis and a Cordon Bleu, was dismissed.
An icy bow; he was striding to the door.
“Monsieur le Vicomte leaves the Cordon Bleu on the table,” she remarked, but André in his rage paid no heed.
“Mon Dieu!” a caressing laugh caused him to halt with a shiver. “Mon Dieu! so you have forgotten the little vivandière at Fontenoy? Ah, well, it is no matter.”
André drew a deep breath. The past swept into his eyes. Was he bewitched or——
“But I have not forgotten,” came that silvery voice, “see the proof,” she was holding up the Cordon Bleu.
“It was you—who,” he sat down overcome.
“To be sure. Who else? I am a good actress, am I not? Ah, yes, the world knows I can act. Paint and powder, a red jacket, a short petticoat with boots half-way to the knees. Would they not stare in the Galerie des Glaces if they knew?” She tripped towards him, head cocked on one side, hands on her hips. “The Vicomte will not betray our secret for all his wrath. ‘It is impossible, Madame, impossible,’” she was mimicking divinely his haughty brevity. “Ah! you will forgive the vivandière though you cannot forgive the Marquise de Pompadour. Yes, you did me a service that night for which I have repaid you by an insult. I ask your pardon, for I am grateful.”
In her pleading eyes floated a wonderful tenderness and penitence.