“And what do you now in the churchyard?” he asked.

“I come to say my prayers for the little Marquise Marie. She is in the bosom of the good God, is our little Marquise, but I say a prayer for her soul when I am happy.”

“And why do you pray for the Marquise Marie?” he asked.

“Because surely she is our Marquise. That other”--she waved a hand at the twinkling lights of the noble château--“the King gave to us, but there is only one Marquise for us here, the little lady Marie, who is dead. Dieu Le Vengeur! Dieu Le Vengeur!” she whispered softly below her breath.

“Peace, girl, peace,” he said, half sadly, half angrily.

“Monseigneur,” Yvonne whispered, “Monseigneur loves the Marquise Denise----”

“Who told you that?” he demanded so fiercely that Yvonne shrank back.

“It was the wise woman,” she answered, “the wise woman of ‘The Cock with the Spurs of Gold,’ who knows everything. Ah! if Monseigneur would go to the wise woman she would tell him how he might win the Marquise Denise. Did she not give me back my lover, did she not tell me where to find again my spotted cow, did she not tell me that Monseigneur would be here today?”

“She told you that?” he gasped.

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

André sat down on the tombstone in the supremest amazement and confusion. What did it, could it mean?

“I will pray,” Yvonne went on in her innocent, soft voice, “to our little Marquise that Monseigneur may marry the Marquise Denise.”

“Why?” André asked.

“Because then Monseigneur will be our lord and we will be his serfs.”

“You would like to be my serf, Yvonne?” he demanded, putting his hand on her shoulder, and he could feel her tremble.

“Surely, surely,” she answered.

“Then you shall--some day you shall, I swear it.” A gust of hot passion swept over him. She was not pretty, this peasant wench, but she had a noble figure, and the comfort of a woman’s caress in that hour of abasement appealed with an irresistible sweetness to his 

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