“Feeds it? Out on such feeding,” he cried with sudden malevolence. “Uses it, fools it, kicks it, and throws a few husks to it, keeping all the grain for himself. I know what I know, I tell you. And you should know it too if you--but never mind. Go on with your mewing, and when your gay gallant comes, set him on another pedestal as high as my noble master’s and fawn on him.” “What grudge have you against M. de Cobalt that you would set us against him?” “Grudge? I have no grudge. I have never even set eyes on him. But I know what I know. And when your eyes get opened, remember to-day.” “And why should a rat squeak against a man he has never seen?” But he was quick to discern the earnestness which Lucette allowed to appear in her tone; and he got up and smiled cunningly. “I am not a well to be emptied by a woman’s bucket, Mistress Lucette. You will see, some day.” “I don’t believe a word you’ve said,” she replied with a shrug of indifference. “I could say much more if----” he paused. “If what?” He leered at her cunningly, and bending down close to her shoulder, whispered-- “If you’d give me such a kiss as I saw you give Antoine de Cavannes in the wood yonder when Denys St. Jean was at Courtal. ‘Splay-footed Antoine,’ as you called him to-day.” Lucette flushed with anger and vexation, genuine enough now, and a passionate retort rose to her lips, but did not pass them. She had to fight down her anger in a pause which he mistook for confusion. “You have indeed both eyes and ears, Master Dauban,” she answered with a quick glance of coquetry. “But you will not tell on me?” she added, as if in dismay and fear of him. “I may,” he replied, enjoying her fear. “You must not. You must not.” Her accents were those of quick alarm. “Do you love either of them?” “A poor girl must have friends.” “Yet you would drive _me_ away.” “Ah, Master Dauban, do you believe all a poor girl says?” and she sighed and cast a languishing look on him. “You hate me and wish never to see me again. You said so.” “Must every maiden wear her heart on her sleeve, Master Dauban, for you handsome gallants to trifle with?” “My name is Jacques, by your leave.” “’Tis the sweetest of names;” and Lucette sighed and looked down; then started and dashed a look at him and cried as if in distress--“Go away, Master Dauban. You make me so--oh, I don’t know how to say it. I feel--oh, do go away. You make me feel so serious and so--so sad. Ah me!” “You say those things to Denys and Antoine--and others.” For answer Lucette fixed her eyes upon him reproachfully and then sighed again; and her eyes could speak in a language few men could read unmoved. “I knew you were cruel, but--oh, do leave me.” His hand sought hers. She let him take it and returned the pressure of his fingers, which trembled. “You have never met _me_ in the wood, Lucette,” he whispered. “You have never asked me, Jacques. I never thought----” and she faltered and broke down.