The sun of spring had set on May 10, 1745, the eve of a day memorable in the military annals of the British and French nations. Behind a camp-fire in the entrenchments of Fontenoy André warmed himself, one of the many camp-fires which flared into the dusk on that plain which for two centuries has been the cock-pit of Europe; and as he stared out absently into the swiftly falling night an answering gleam scarcely a mile and a half away yonder to the south-east at Maubray told him that there lay the headquarters of the allied forces of the foe, English, Dutch, and Austrians, commanded by an English prince of the blood-royal, the Duke of Cumberland.

There had been some warm skirmishing to-day. The British and the Austrians by sheer weight of numbers had tumbled out of the enclosures and copses the Pandours and Grassins thrown out as irregular out-posts from the French army; and since then André and St. Benôit with many others had watched the allied generals and their staff reconnoitring at a safe distance the masterly position drawn along the slopes of Fontenoy by Monseigneur le Maréchal de Saxe. A hard nut to crack, gentlemen, these lines, study them through your spy-glasses as you will. Nor will you find it easy to detect the place to push through. Yes; you may attack any time now night or day, for Tournay to our rear is hard pressed and unless relieved will fall into the hands of our master, Louis XV. Well and good; what better could a Chevau-léger de la Garde desire than that the pot-bellied Dutch traders, the Austrian hounds, and the British dogs should dash themselves to pieces on our lines. Mark you how the trenches run from the forest of Barry covering our left away in the north, winding in a gentle semicircle along the rim of the curving slope two miles and more down to the spot where the Château of Anthoin guards the passage of the sluggish Scheldt. And meanwhile we lie here snug and safe behind our redoubts bristling with guns, with logs cut from the forest piled breast-high to aid the advantage our general has given us, and with the flower of the French army crouched and ready to roll you up when you come. See how open the plain in front is, sloping gradually away from us; we can hammer you in the most murderous fashion from under cover if you are mad enough to dream that any troops can drive from its lair a French army that remembers Dettingen and will have Tournay or perish. Our Maréchal de Saxe, who knows something of the art of war, has pronounced it impossible, and God have mercy on your silly, reckless souls if you try, for the French guards are here and the Maison du Roi, and our King’s eye is on us to see that we do our duty!

Yes, His Majesty is here and with him Monsieur le Dauphin, and not a few ladies greatly daring, and the royal household, chamberlains and equerries, serving-men and serving-women, the bluest blood of France, and the wenches of the commissariat, and the actors and actresses of the Théâtre Français. Was there ever such a medley—soldiers, courtesans, and sutlers, thieves, marauders, sluts and wantons, and the gilded coaches and footmen of the beauty and birth that have the right to throng the Staircase des Ambassadeurs at Versailles and have the entrée to the Grand Lever of the King of France?

The camp-fires smoke into the chill dusk; the lights twinkle in the packed villages where battalions of foot bivouac with squadrons of horse. In front smoulders and glares the hamlet of Bourgeon fired by our Grassins when they were driven out this morning. Everywhere the confused turmoil of a great camp, the sharp blare of fitful trumpets, the dull throb of drums, a feverish shot from yonder where skirmishing is still going on, the neighing of horses, the rumble of waggons. Hard by André here the men are taking their evening meal, chattering, laughing, singing, dancing. Such women as can live in camps are drinking too, singing when they cannot thieve. There are wounded to be cared for, or robbed; throats there are beyond the lines to be cut, purses and gold lace to be won from the fallen. Make love while you can. To-morrow’s eve may never come. Have your season of pleasure, Messieurs; to-morrow the wench whom you kiss to-night will strip you in the dusk of the victory and leave you to the mercy of the dogs, the spring frosts, and of God—the God of battles.

Yes, to-morrow there will surely be a great battle. Have not the actors promised it? “To-morrow no performance! The day after to-morrow a play in honour of the victory of Monseigneur le Maréchal de Saxe!” And before long there will be a Te Deum in the glorious aisles of the captured cathedral of Tournay.

André on his straw heap curled in his cloak dreamed of Denise, of the pleasant Loire, and of the Château de Beau Séjour when it should be his. Pest on the canaille and their trulls singing that lampoon at his elbow:

They were singing of no less a lady than the fair huntress and the King, the heroine of the crystal and the King’s handkerchief, “La Petite d’Étiolles,” who was now the heroine and jape of the streets of Paris. Strange, so strange. And he, too, had played his part in the drama of royal love:

His friend! And he would find her at Versailles no doubt when the campaign was over. How long would she stay there, this ambitious bourgeoise?

“Monsieur le Lieutenant is sad.” Some one had touched his arm. Ah! only a little vivandière whom he did not recognise. “Monsieur le Vicomte has left his mistress behind and he is sad,” she protested, kneeling beside him and peering with bright eyes into his ruffled visage.

“Run away, my dear,” André replied sleepily. “I am poor, tired, and in a sad temper.”

“And I am poor, fresh, and in a charming temper,” she retorted. “If Monsieur le Vicomte has left his mistress behind there are still many women in the world. Here is one!” She began to hum the refrain of the song with the archest drollery: “A fait rire tout Paris, ris, ris.”

André sat up. An appetising little vivandière this, name of a dog! Plump and most bravely tricked out in a military coat and short skirt which revealed what would have made two dancers’ fortunes.

“If I give you a kiss will you go?” he said good-humouredly.

“Oh, no. The kisses of Monsieur le Vicomte are no better than those of most men, I suppose.”

“Then stay without them.” He closed his eyes and lay down again.

“My thanks,” she nodded, gaily throwing back her short cloak so as to reveal that her blue coat was open at the throat and suggested a chemisette strangely fine for a vivandière. Then she bent over him. “Would you do a service for Mademoiselle the Marquise de Beau Séjour?” André sat up, sharply. “Would you do the King a service?” she whispered. “Mon Dieu! how those women bleat! Come this way, Vicomte, I have something to say to you—a secret.” She blew him a kiss from saucy finger-tips.

André, now wide-awake, his blood tingling, followed her till she stopped in the shadow of an outhouse. “You will do the King a service?” she asked gravely enough. “Answer in my ear; we must not be heard. Yes?”

“Tell me,” he said, quickly, “what the service is?”

“The Vicomte can talk English?”

“How the dev——?”

“It matters not how I know it. Do not contradict. Time is precious. To-night”—she was speaking earnestly into his ear—“the friends of the King have learned that the secrets of the Maréchal will be betrayed to the English.”

“Good God!” He gripped her arm.

“Hush!” She raised a warning finger. “It is so. To the charcoal-burner’s hut two miles from here will come at midnight two English officers. The plans of the camp—this camp, Vicomte—will be given them; to-night the English will know where to attack to-morrow and then—” she made a significant gesture.

“But——”

“No one can say how those plans have been stolen. But stolen they have been, and it is too late to alter the entrenchments now. They are made—you understand—and to-morrow is here in ten hours. Worse, worse, the traitor is already at the cottage with the paper.” André sweated hot and cold, for terror rang in her pleading voice. “It is infamous, terrible. But one hope remains. We must find an officer who can speak English, who will pretend to be those English officers and get the plans before they are handed to the enemy. The Vicomte understands?”

“Yes, yes, I see. I will go.” He buttoned up his cloak with peremptory decision.

“Oh!” She sobbed with joy. She could not thank him in words.

“And who are you?” André asked.

“Hush! hush! The army must not know of the danger. If you must know, I am an actress, the friend of Monseigneur le Maréchal. I alone have discovered this, and I am come to you, for I, too, love France.”

The blood swirled for a minute in his temples. Ha! when Denise heard how he, André de Nérac, alone had saved France, the army, and the King, would she not be proud? Perhaps they would give him the Cordon Bleu.

“What am I to do?” he asked quietly. “I am ready.”

She described at length where the charcoal-burner’s hut lay and how it could be reached. “When you are there, rap twice on the door,” she proceeded, “and then say in English to whoever comes, ‘I am from “No. 101” to “No. 101.”’”

“What does that mean?”

“The Vicomte knows what a cipher is? That is the traitor’s cipher—and the traitor’s name. It is all we have discovered.”

“A man, this traitor?”

“No one knows. I swear it. But it must be a man, so say those words in English; speak in English, always—always. Remember you are an officer of the First Foot Guards of the English King; you have come for the papers because ‘No. 101’ has bidden you. You will get them if you are clever and God wills. Then fly—fly for your life, and France is saved.”

“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.

“Yes,” she repeated, “all who have seen that traitor face to face have died. It is horrible, but the truth. Get the papers, that is all we need. Pry no farther, I beseech you. Ah, sir, a woman, even an actress, would not have on her soul the blood of a gallant gentleman who at her bidding risked all for France.”

“Death can come but once,” he answered, “and in no nobler way than in the service of France and the King.”

“That is true, but you must live. For the King will be grateful, and I—I, too, will not forget.”

André smilingly put his hand on her shoulder. “And is that all?” he asked lightly, “all my reward, Mademoiselle?”

“Come back,” she whispered, “come back and you will see whether it is all. Meanwhile, adieu and au revoir.”

She had slipped from his grasp and vanished as mysteriously as she had come. Who was she? Bah! it did not matter now. The night and its work lay before him. But to-morrow—to-morrow!

He mounted, gave the password, and rode into the night.

Behind him lay the sleeping camp ignorant of its peril, in front the strangest, weirdest, most dangerous task he had ever embarked on; yet André felt no fear. His only thought as he trotted down the slope was a vivid reminiscence of the words of the crystal-gazer. Women everywhere in his life—always women at every turn—the princess in London—Yvonne—“La Petite d’Étiolles”—the crystal-gazer, and now the charming little vivandière—but they were all so many instruments to help him to win the fairest of them all—Denise. It was clear as noonday now. His task was to master the strand of the web in which these women, by design or accident, enwrapped him, and to make them serve his purpose while he seemed to serve theirs. It was an idea which grew in power and fascination every day. Women appealed to him by nature; before the charm of mind and body in women he was defenceless, but it was his love for Denise that had inspired the conception of yoking the pleasure of life to the attainment of a glorious ambition. To-night was a matchless opportunity—and others would follow.

But his mind while it revolved was fully alert. He believed in himself and his sword. His faith in his star grew stronger each day. But fate and God helped those who would best help themselves. To-night he must not fail on this difficult task because he neglected anything that caution could suggest.

From time to time he halted. The night was dark, that was good, and a raw mist steamed out of the sodden earth. He had taken the precaution to bind his horse’s hoofs in soft cloth, and she, a powerful English thoroughbred, his favourite mare, knew her master’s will by instinct. The road, too, was easy to find. No one crossed his path. And here at last was the little wood of which he had been told. Half a mile away gleamed dully a fire, probably an English picket. He dismounted and listened intently. Not a sound. And now very warily he plunged forward into the bowels of this grisly little wood, leading his horse, his pistols cocked and sword ready. Presently he stumbled; only a fallen log; he stumbled again; another? No. This time it was a dead man. André dragged him out and let the rays of his masked lantern fall cautiously on his face. Poor wretch! half-naked too—a common gallows bird of a marauder, stripped by the thieves and with a knife-thrust in his throat, a common enough spectacle to those who had played at war before, mere carrion in the daylight, but causing the flesh to creep in the raw chills of this infernal hiding-place of treachery. Let him lie. And now forward again. Pah! another corpse! A woman, and young, too, that rascal’s companion no doubt, and stripped as he was. He bent over her. Ha! what was that? One hand gone? There had been a quarrel, the robbers had killed her and her mate, and to save time had simply chopped off her fingers to get the booty she had gripped so tightly. Let her lie beside him there and forward again, for such is war.

Halt! Here is the charcoal-burner’s cabin. He could just make out its black outlines in a clearing of the trees. André muffled his mare’s head and tied her to a branch, and then with naked sword crawled forward on hand and knees. Round the hut like a sleuth-hound he wormed his way, learning the ground, making absolutely sure no one lurked in this damp stillness. Positively not a soul, not a whisper. But the horror of the dead man and woman and this awful stillness had mastered him, and ten yards from the door he lay for some minutes watching, thinking. The hut showed no signs of life. What if “No. 101” were not there? What if the English officers had forestalled him and the papers were already gone? What if an ambuscade were concealed in that ramshackle cabin?

Still he lay thinking, shivering, to start swiftly. The shutter in the cabin wall was being slowly pushed open. There was no glass in the window; a gleam of red light; some one was stealthily looking out into the night. André crawled on his stomach across the clearing and lay flat down with a sharp gasp.

By the living God, it was a woman! A woman!

Two drops of icy sweat dripped from his forehead on to the damp ground. A woman! Yes, he could see the silhouette of her hooded head and bust etched against the dull red light behind and the inky frame-work of the window, and she was thinking too, resting her elbow placidly on the sill. A woman! It was terrible, for she was a traitor and he must kill her, here in this cursed cabin, in this damned wood. She moved her head and listened intently. Yes, she was expecting some one. Ha! He was not too late.

The shutter was stealthily closed, but crouching beneath it André heard the faint sigh as of a weary heart. He sprang up, rapped twice on the door.

Steps within, the bolts were being drawn back. At last a masked woman with a lantern in her hand stood in the doorway, and he and she faced each other in silence.

“Who is that?” she asked in a clear voice.

“I am from ‘No. 101’ to ‘No. 101,’” André answered firmly, but inwardly he trembled and his sword was ready to leap out.

She raised the lantern quietly and let the light travel from his hat to his boots.

“Good,” she said. “Enter, sir.”

André paused. Could he dare? No—yes—no? For two slow minutes the thoughts battled within him as he strove to penetrate the secret of that mask and the hood covering her head. She was young—quite young. That faint sigh as of a weary heart seemed to echo through the misty silence of the wood.

Then he stepped inside, and she quietly closed the door.