These Old Shades

“Quite incorrigible,” he murmured. “Yes, infant.”

A horse came clattering up the street, and paused at the inn-door.

“Monseigneur—do you think—is it—he?” Léonie asked nervously.

“It seems likely, my dear. The game begins.”

“I am not feeling—quite so brave, Monseigneur.”

He rose, and spoke softly.

“You will not disgrace yourself, or me, infant. There is naught to fear.”

“N-no, Monseigneur.”

The landlord entered.

“Monseigneur, it is M. le Docteur to see milor’.”

“How disappointing,” said his Grace. “I will come. Stay here, child, and if my very dear friend should come, remember that you are my ward, and behave with proper courtesy.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” she faltered. “You will come back soon, won’t you?”

“Assuredly.” His Grace went out with a swish of silken skirts. Léonie sat down again, and regarded her toes. Overhead, in Rupert’s chamber, she heard footsteps, and the muffled sound of voices. These signs of the Duke’s proximity reassured her a little, but when again she heard the clatter of hoofs on the cobbled street some of the delicate colour left her cheeks.

“This time it is in very truth that pig-person,” she thought. “Monseigneur does not come—he wants me to play the game a little by myself, I think. Eh bien, Léonie, courage!”

She could hear Saint-Vire’s voice upraised in anger outside. Then came a quick, heavy tread, the door was flung open, and he stood upon the threshold. His boots were caked with mud, and his coat bespattered; he carried a riding-whip and gloves, and his cravat and hair were in disorder. Léonie looked at him in some hauteur, copying Lady Fanny’s manner to a nicety. For an instant it seemed that the Comte did not recognize her; then he came striding forward, his face dark with passion.

“You thought you had tricked me, madame page, did you not? I am not so easily worsted. I do not know where you obtained those fine clothes, but they avail you nothing.”

Léonie came to her feet, and let her eyes wander over him.

“M’sieur is in error,” she said. “This is a private room.”

“Very prettily played,” he sneered, “but I am no fool to be put off by those airs and graces. Come, where’s your cloak? I’ve no time to waste!”

She stood her ground.

“I do not understand you, m’sieur. This is an intrusion.” She rolled the word off her tongue, and was pardonably pleased with it.

The Comte grasped her arm, and shook it slightly.

“Your cloak! Quickly, now, or it will be the worse for you.”

Much of her icy politeness left Léonie.

“Bah! Take your hand away from my arm!” she said fiercely. “How dare you touch me?”

He pulled her forward, an arm about her waist.

“Have done! The game is up, my dear. You will do better to submit quietly. I shall not hurt you if you do as I say.”

From the doorway came the faint rustle of silk. A cool, haughty voice spoke.

“You mistake, m’sieur. Have the goodness to unhand my ward.”

The Comte jumped as though he had been shot, and wheeled about, a hand to his sword hilt. Avon stood just inside the room, quizzing-glass raised.

“Sacré mille diables,” swore Saint-Vire. “You!”

A slow and singularly unpleasant smile curved his Grace’s lips.

“Is it possible?” he purred. “My very dear friend Saint-Vire!”

Saint-Vire tugged at his cravat as though it choked him.

“You!” he said again. His voice was hardly above a whisper. “Are you in very truth your namesake? Even—here—I find you!”

Avon came forward. An elusive perfume was wafted from his clothes as he walked; in one hand he held a lace handkerchief.

“Quite an unexpected rencontre, is it not, Comte?” he said. “I have to present my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard. I believe she will accept your apologies.”

The Comte flushed dark, but he bowed to Léonie, who swept him a magnificent curtsy, and muttered a few incoherent words.

“No doubt you mistook her for someone else?” said his Grace urbanely. “I do not think you have met her before?”

“No. As m’sieur says—I mistook her—Mille pardons, mademoiselle.”

His Grace took snuff.

“Strange how one may be mistaken,” he said. “Likenesses are so inexplicable, are they not, Comte?”

Saint-Vire started.

“Likenesses . . . ?”

“You do not find it so?” His Grace drew a fan of lavender silk mounted on silver sticks from his pocket, and waved it languidly. “One wonders what can have brought the Comte de Saint-Vire to this unsophisticated spot.”

“I came on business, M. le Duc. One also wonders what can have brought the Duc of Avon here.”

“But business, dear Comte, business!” said Avon, gently.

“I come to retrieve some—property—I lost at—Le Havre!” said the Comte wildly.

“How singular!” remarked Avon. “I came on precisely the same errand. Our paths seem fated to—er—cross, my dear Comte.”

Saint-Vire set his teeth.

“Yes, m’sieur? On—on the same errand, you say?” He forced a laugh. “Singular indeed!”

“Quite remarkable, is it not! But, unlike yours, my property was stolen from me. I hold it in—er—trust.”

“Indeed, m’sieur?” The Comte’s mouth was unpleasantly dry, and it was evident that he was at a loss to know what to say.

“I trust, dear Comte, that you have found your property?” Avon’s tone was silky.

“Not yet,” Saint-Vire answered slowly.

His Grace poured out the third glass of wine, and offered it to him. Mechanically the Comte accepted it.

“Let us hope that I may be able to restore it to you,” said his Grace, and sipped meditatively at his wine.

Saint-Vire choked.

“M’sieur?”

“I shall spare no pains,” continued his Grace. “The village is not a large hunting-ground, to be sure. You know that it is here, I suppose?”

“Yes—no—I do not know. It is not worth your trouble, m’sieur.”

“Oh, my dear Comte!” protested his Grace, “if it is worth so much endeavour—” his eyes flickered to those mud-caked boots—“so much endeavour on your part, I am sure it is also worth my attention.”

The Comte seemed to choose his words carefully.

“I have reason to think, m’sieur, that it is one of those jewels that contain—a flaw.”

“I trust not,” answered Avon. “So it was a jewel? Now that which was stolen from me is in the nature of a weapon.”

“I hope you have had the good fortune to find it,” said Saint-Vire, goaded, but holding fast to his self-control.

“Yes, my dear Comte, yes. Chance favours me nearly always. Strange. Let me assure you that I shall do my utmost to restore your—jewel, I think you said it was?—your jewel to you.”

“It—is not likely that you will find it,” said Saint-Vire, between his teeth.

“You forget the element of Chance, dear Comte. I am a great believer in my luck.”

“My property can hardly interest you, M. le Duc.”

“On the contrary,” sweetly replied his Grace, “it would afford me great pleasure to be able to assist you in the matter.” He glanced towards Léonie, who stood by the table, listening with a puzzled frown to the quick give and take of words. “I have quite a happy—shall we say, knack?—of finding lost—er—property.”

Saint-Vire turned livid. His hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips. Avon regarded him in exaggerated concern.

“My dear Comte, surely you are unwell?” Again his eyes went to Saint-Vire’s boots. “You must have come a long way, dear Comte,” he said solicitously. “No doubt you are sadly fatigued.”

The Comte spluttered and set down his glass with a snap.

“As you say. I—I am not entirely myself. I have been suffering from a—slight indisposition, which has confined me to my room for these last three days.”

“It is really most remarkable,” marvelled his Grace. “My brother—I think you know him? Yes, quite so,—is at this very moment above-stairs, also suffering from a slight indisposition. I fear there must be something unhealthy in the air of this place. You find it a trifle sultry, perhaps?”

“Not at all, m’sieur!” snarled Saint-Vire.

“No? These annoying disorders, I believe, have a way of overtaking one in any climate.”

“As my lord Rupert found,” said Saint-Vire harshly. “I trust his—indisposition has not given him a distaste for my country.”

“Quite the reverse,” said his Grace blandly. “He is agog to proceed to Paris. He and I, dear Comte, believe firmly in that old remedy: the hair of the dog.”

The veins stood out on Saint-Vire’s forehead.

“Indeed? It is to be hoped that my lord does not act rashly.”

“You must not be concerned for him, dear Comte. I stand—as it were—behind him, and I have a wonderfully cool head. So they tell me. But you—ah, that is another matter! You must have a care to yourself, Comte. Let me implore you to relinquish your—search—until you are more yourself.”

Saint-Vire’s hand clenched.

“You are too good, m’sieur. My health is not your concern.”

“You mistake, dear Comte. I take a most lively interest in your—er—health.”

“I believe I shall do very well, m’sieur. My complaint is not so serious, I am glad to say.”

“Nevertheless, my dear Comte, it is always well to proceed cautiously, is it not? One never knows when these trifling ailments may not grow suddenly to quite large proportions. I have known a mere chill creep to the lungs, and strike a man down in the very prime of life.” He smiled pleasantly upon the Comte, who sprang suddenly to his feet, overturning his chair.

“Curse you, you’ve no proof!” he cried.

Up went his Grace’s brows. His eyes mocked.

“I assure you, dear Comte, I have known such a case.”

Saint-Vire pulled himself together with an effort.

“It will not happen—to me, I think,” he said thickly.

“Why, we will hope not,” agreed the Duke. “I believe that no one is—struck down—before the appointed hour.”

The Comte groped for his whip, and stood wrenching the lash between his hands.

“With your permission, m’sieur, I will leave you. I have wasted enough time already. Mademoiselle, your servant!” He spat the words out, snatched up his gloves, and went blindly to the door.

“So soon?” mourned his Grace. “I shall hope to have the felicity of seeing you in Paris. I must present my ward to your so charming wife.”

Saint-Vire flung open the door, and twisted the handle viciously. He looked back with a sneer.

“You are full of plans, m’sieur. We will hope that none of them go awry.”

“Certainly,” bowed Avon. “Why should they?”

“There is sometimes—a flaw!” snapped Saint-Vire.

“You bewilder me,” said his Grace. “Are we speaking of your lost jewel, or my plans—or both? I should warn you that I am something of a judge of precious stones, dear Comte.”

“Yes, m’sieur?” The flush mounted to Saint-Vire’s face again. “It is possible that you are labouring under a delusion, M. le Duc. The game is not played out yet.”

“By no means,” said the Duke. “Which reminds me that I have not inquired after your so enchanting son. Pray how does he?”

The Comte showed his teeth.

“He is very well, m’sieur. I feel no anxiety on his behalf. Your servant!” The door shut with a slam.

“The so dear Comte!” murmured Avon.

“Monseigneur, you did not do anything to him!” cried Léonie. “I thought that you would punish him!”

“Ma fille, the day comes when I shall punish him,” answered Avon, and threw down his fan. His voice had changed, and sounded harsh in Léonie’s ears. “And there will be no mercy for him at my hands.”

Léonie looked at him in awe and some admiration.

“You look quite angry, Monseigneur!”

His glance came to rest on her face. He went to her, and, taking her chin in his hand, looked deep into her eyes.

They smiled trustfully up at him. Abruptly he released her.

“I have reason, child. You have seen a villain to-day.”

“Yes, a pig-person,” she nodded. “You won’t let him take me again, will you, Monseigneur?”

“No, my infant. He shall never again have you in his clutches. That I swear.”

She frowned, watching him.

“You seem different, Monseigneur, I think. You are not angry with me?”

The grimness left his mouth, and he smiled.

“It would be impossible, my dear. We will go now and solace Rupert’s boredom.”

CHAPTER XXII

The Arrival of Another Player in the Game

Monday came and went with no sign of Gaston or his charges. His Grace frowned, but Léonie danced with delight, and offered the suggestion that Madam Field had died of agitation.

“It does not seem to worry you over-much,” said Avon dryly.

“No, Monseigneur. I think we are very happy without her. What shall we do to-day?”

But the Duke was not pleased. Rupert looked up at him with a grin.

“Never known you so mindful of the proprieties before, Justin, stap me if I have!”

He encountered a cold glance, and was instantly solemn.

“No offence, Avon, no offence! You can be as prudish as you like for aught I care. But she’s not.”

“Léonie,” said his Grace crushingly, “is as feather-brained as you, or nearly so.”

“Egad,” said Rupert irrepressibly, “I thought we’d not bask much longer in the sunshine of your approval.”

Léonie spoke aggrievedly.

“I am not as feather-brained as Rupert. You are very unkind to say so, Monseigneur.”

Rupert looked at her admiringly.

“That’s it, Léonie. Stand up to him, and hit out from the shoulder. It’s more than I ever did in my life!”

“I am not afraid of Monseigneur,” said Léonie, elevating her small nose. “You are just a coward, Rupert.”

“My child—” the Duke turned his head—“you forget yourself. You owe some gratitude to Rupert.”

“Hey, up I go, and down go you!” said Rupert. “Ecod, it’s a see-saw we’re on!”

“Monseigneur, I have been grateful to Rupert all the morning, and now I am not going to be grateful any longer. It makes me cross.”

“So I observe. Your manners leave much to be desired.”

“I think that you are very cross too,” Léonie ventured. “Voyons, what does it matter that Gaston does not come? He is silly, and fat, and Madame Field is like a hen. We do not want them.”

“Here’s a fine philosophic spirit!” cried Rupert. “You used to be much the same yourself, Justin. What’s come over you?”

Léonie turned to him in triumph.

“I told you he was different, Rupert, and you would only laugh! I never saw him so disagreeable before.”

“Lud, it’s easy to see you’ve not lived with him long!” said Rupert, audaciously.

His Grace came away from the window.

“You are an unseemly pair,” he said. “Léonie, you were wont to respect me more.”

She saw the smile in his eyes, and twinkled responsively.

“Monseigneur, I was a page then, and you would have punished me. Now I am a lady.”

“And do you think I cannot still punish you, my child?”

“Much she’d care!” chuckled Rupert.

“I should care!” Léonie shot at him. “I am sorry if Monseigneur only frowns!”

“The Lord preserve us!” Rupert closed his eyes.

“A little more,” said his Grace, “and you will not get up to-day, my son.”

“Oh, ay! You’ve the whip-hand!” sighed Rupert. “I’m silenced!” He shifted his position, and winced a little.

The Duke bent over him to rearrange the pillows.

“I am not sure that you will get up at all to-day, boy,” he said. “Is it easier?”

“Ay—I mean, I hardly feel it now,” lied his lordship. “Damme, I won’t stay abed any longer, Justin! At this rate we’ll never start for Paris!”

“We shall await your convenience,” said Avon.

“Mighty condescending of you,” smiled Rupert.

“You are not to be impertinent to Monseigneur, Rupert,” said Léonie sternly.

“I thank you, infant. It needs for someone to support my declining prestige. If you are to rise to-day you will rest now, Rupert. Léonie, an you wish to ride out I am at your disposal.”

She jumped up.

“I will go and put on my riding-dress at once. Merci, Monseigneur.”

“I’d give something to come with you,” said Rupert wistfully, when she had gone.

“Patience, child.” His Grace drew the curtains across the window. “Neither the doctor nor I keep you in bed for our amusement.”

“Oh, you’re a damned good nurse! I’ll say that for you,” grimaced Rupert. He smiled rather shyly up at his brother. “I’d not ask for a better.”

“In truth, I surprise myself sometimes,” said his Grace, and went out.

“Ay, and you surprise me, damme you do!” muttered Rupert. “I’d give something to know what’s come over you. Never was there such a change in anyone!”

And indeed his Grace was unusually kind during these irksome days and the biting sarcasm which had withered Rupert of yore was gone from his manner. Rupert puzzled over this inexplicable change for some time, and could find no solution to the mystery. But that evening when he reclined on the couch in the parlour, clad in his Grace’s clothes, he saw Avon’s eyes rest on Léonie for a moment, and was startled by their expression. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

“Thunder an’ turf!” he told himself. “He’s fallen in love with the chit!”

Tuesday brought no Gaston, and Avon’s frown grew blacker.

“Of a certainty Madame has died,” Léonie said wickedly. “Tiens, c’est bien drôle!”

“You have a perverted sense of humour, child,” said his Grace. “I have often remarked it. We start for Paris on Friday, Gaston or no Gaston.”

But soon after noon on Wednesday there was some bustle in the village street, and Rupert, seated by the parlour window, craned his neck to see if it were Gaston at last.

A hired coach of large dimensions drew up at the door, followed by another, piled high with baggage. From this vehicle Gaston leaped nimbly down, and ran to the door of the first coach. One of the lackeys let down the steps, the door was opened, and a serving maid climbed out. Behind her came a little lady enveloped in a large travelling cloak. Rupert stared, and burst out laughing.

“Egad, ’tis Fanny! Lord, who’d have thought it?”

Léonie ran to the window.

“It is! it is! Mon Dieu, que c’est amusant! Monseigneur, it is Lady Fanny!”

His Grace went in a leisurely fashion to the door.

“So I understand,” he said placidly. “I fear your unfortunate duenna is indeed dead, infant.” He opened the door. “Well, Fanny?”

Lady Fanny came briskly in, embraced him, and let fall her cloak to the ground.

“La, what a journey I have had! My sweetest love, are you safe indeed?” She embraced Léonie. “I have been in a fever of curiosity, I give you my word! I see you are wearing the muslin I sent you. I knew ’twould be ravishing, but never tie your sash like that, child! Oh, and there is Rupert! Poor boy, you look quite too dreadfully pale!”

Rupert held her off.

“Have done, Fan, have done! What in thunder brought you over?”

Lady Fanny stripped off her gloves.

“Since my cousin was nigh dead with the vapours, what would you?” she protested. “Besides, ’twas so monstrous exciting I declare I could not be still!”

The Duke put up his glass.

“May I ask whether the worthy Edward is aware that you have joined us?” he drawled.

My lady dimpled.

“I am so tired of Edward!” she said. “He has been most provoking of late. I doubt I have spoiled him. Only fancy, Justin, he said I must not come to you!”

“You astonish me,” said his Grace. “Yet I observe that you are here.”

“A pretty thing ’twould be an I let Edward think he could order me as he chooses!” cried her ladyship. “Oh, we have had a rare scene. I left a note for him,” she added naively.

“That should console him, no doubt,” said his Grace politely.

“I do not think it will,” she answered. “I expect he will be prodigious angry, but I pine for gaiety, Justin, and Gaston said you were bound for Paris!”

“I do not know that I shall take you, Fanny.”

She pouted.

“Indeed and you shall! I won’t be sent home. What would Léonie do for a chaperon if I went? For Harriet is in bed, my dear, and vows she can no more.” She turned to Léonie. “My love, you are vastly improved, ’pon rep you are! And that muslin becomes you sweetly. La, who gave you those pearls?”

“Monseigneur gave them to me,” Léonie said. “They are pretty, n’est-ce pas?”

“I would sell my eyes for them,” said her ladyship frankly, and shot a curious glance at her impassive brother. She sank down into a chair with much fluttering of skirts. “I implore you, tell me what happened to you, for Harriet is such a fool, and so taken up with her vapours that she can tell me naught but enough to whet my curiosity. I am nigh dead with it, I vow.”

“So,” said his Grace, “are we. Where do you come from, Fanny, and how have you had speech with Harriet?”

“Speech with her?” cried my lady. “Oh lud, Justin! ‘My head, my poor head!’ she moans, and: ‘She was ever a wild piece!’ Never a word more could I get from her. I was near to shaking her, I give you my word!”

“Be hanged to you, Fan, for a chatterbox!” exclaimed Rupert. “How came you to Avon?”

“Avon, Rupert? I protest I’ve not seen the place for nigh on a twelvemonth, though indeed I took some notion to visit my dearest Jennifer the other day. But it came to naught, for there was my Lady Fountain’s rout, and I could scarce leave——”

“Devil take Lady Fountain’s rout! Where’s my cousin?”

“At home, Rupert. Where else?”

“What, not with Edward?”

Fanny nodded vigorously.

“She should suit his humour,” murmured the Duke.

“I doubt she will not,” said Fanny pensively. “What a rage he will be in, to be sure! Where was I?”

“You were not, my dear. We are breathlessly awaiting your arrival.”

“How disagreeable of you, Justin! Harriet! Of course! Up she came to town in Gaston’s charge, and was like to expire in my arms. Some rigmarole she wept down my best taffeta, and at last held out your letter, Justin. She vowed she’d not come to France, do what you would. Then I had more wailings of her sickness did she so much as set eyes on the sea. Oh, I had a pretty time with her, I do assure you! She could but moan of an abduction, and Rupert’s hat found in Long Meadow, hard by the wood, and of some man come to find a horse, and you setting off for Southampton, Justin. ’Twas like the threads of a sampler with naught to stitch ’em to. Gaston could tell me little more—la, Justin, why will you have a fool to valet?—and the end of it was that I was determined to come and see for myself and find what ’twas all about. Then, if you please, what says Edward but that I am not to go! ’Pon rep, things have come to a pretty pass between us, thought I! So when he went away to White’s—no, it was the Cocoa Tree, I remember, for he was to meet Sir John Cotton there—I set Rachel to pack my trunks, and started off with Gaston to come to you. Me voici, as Léonie would say.”

“Voyons!” Léonie’s eyes sparkled. “I think it was very well done of you, madame! Will you come to Paris too? I am to make my curtsy to the World, Monseigneur says, and go to balls. Please come, madame!”

“Depend upon it, I shall come, my love. ’Tis the very thing for which I have been pining. My sweetest life, there is a milliner in the Rue Royale who has the most ravishing styles! Oh, I will teach Edward a lesson!”

“Edward,” remarked his Grace, “is like to follow you demanding my blood. We must await his coming.”

“Dear Edward!” sighed my lady. “I do hope that he will not come, but I dare swear he will. And now for the love of heaven let me have your story! I shall die of curiosity else.”

So Léonie and Rupert poured forth the tale of their adventures once more into a most sympathetic ear. Fanny interspersed the recital with suitable exclamations, flew up and embraced Rupert before he could save himself when she heard of his narrow escape, and at the end of it all stared in amazement at his Grace, and burst out laughing.

The Duke smiled down at her.

“It makes you feel middle-aged, my dear? Alas!”

“No indeed!” My lady fanned herself. “I felt an hundred in my boredom, but this adventure—faith, ’tis the maddest ever I heard—throws me back into my teens, ’pon rep it does! Justin, you should have cut him to pieces with your small-sword, the villain!”

“That is what I think,” Léonie struck in. “I wanted to make him sorry, madame. It was a great impertinence.”

“A very proper spirit, my love, but if you in sooth flung a cup of hot coffee over him I’ll wager you made him sorry enough. La, what a hoyden you are, child! But I vow I envy you your courage. Saint-Vire? Ay, I know him well. A head of hair that could set six hayricks ablaze, and the most unpleasant eyes of any I know. What did he want with you, sweet?”

“I do not know,” Léonie answered. “And Monseigneur will not tell.”

“Oh, so you know, Justin? I might have guessed it! Some fiendish game you will be playing.” My lady shut her fan with a click. “It’s time I took a hand indeed! I’ll not have this child endangered by your mad tricks, Justin. Poor angel, I shudder to think of what might have befallen you!”

“Your solicitude for my ward’s safety is charming, Fanny, but I believe I am able to protect her.”

“Of course he is!” said Léonie. “Do I not belong to him?” She put her hand on his Grace’s arm, and smiled up at him.

My lady looked, and her eyes narrowed. On Rupert’s face she surprised a knowing grin, and of a sudden jumped up, saying that she must see to the bestowal of her boxes.

“Faith, the inn won’t hold them!” chuckled Rupert. “Where are you to sleep, Fan?”

“I do not care an I sleep in an attic!” said my lady. “’Deed, I almost expect to sleep in the stables! It would be fitting in such a venture.”

“I believe we need not put that upon you,” said his Grace. “Gaston shall remove my trunks into Rupert’s chamber. Thus you may have my room.”

“My dear, ’twill do excellently well! You shall show me the way, Léonie. ’Pon rep, child, you grow more lovely each day!” She put her arm about Léonie’s waist, and went out with her.

“Egad, here’s a fine muddle!” said Rupert, when the door was shut behind the ladies. “Fan’s in a mighty good humour, but lord! is she to come with us?”

“I imagine that the worthy Edward will have a word to say to that,” Avon replied.

“How Fan could have chosen such a dull dog, and you abetted her, I don’t know!” said Rupert.

“My dear boy, I abetted her because he was dull enough to sober her. And he has money.”

“There’s that, of course, but, faith, he’d turn the milk sour if he smiled at it! Will you take Fan alone?”

“I almost think that I shall,” said Avon. “I could find no better hostess.”

Rupert stared.

“Are you going to entertain, Justin?”

“Lavishly, Rupert. It will be most fatiguing, but I have a duty as Léonie’s guardian which I must endeavour to perform.”

Rupert sat up in his chair, and spoke briskly.

“You may count on my presence for the season, Justin.”

“I am honoured, of course,” bowed his Grace.

“Ay, but—but will you let me join your party?” Rupert asked.

“You will add quite a cachet to my poor house,” Avon drawled. “Yes, child, you may join us, provided you behave with proper circumspection, and refrain from paying my very dear friend back in his own coin.”

“What, am I not to call him out?” demanded Rupert.

“It is so clumsy,” sighed his Grace. “You may leave him to my—er—tender mercies—with a clear conscience. The hole in your shoulder is added to the debt he owes me. He shall pay—in full.”

“Poor devil!” said Rupert, feelingly. He saw into his brother’s eyes, and ceased to smile. “My God, Justin, do you hate him so?”

“Bah!” said his Grace. “—I borrow the word from my infant’s vocabulary—does one hate an adder? Because it is venomous and loathsome one crushes it underfoot, as I shall crush this Comte.”

“Because of what happened twenty years ago—to you?” Rupert asked, greatly daring.

“No, boy. Not that, though it weighs also in the scale.”

“Because of what he did to Léonie, then?”

“Because of what he did to my infant,” softly echoed his Grace. “Yes, child.”

“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” said Rupert with conviction.

“Much more,” agreed his Grace. The unaccustomed harshness went from his face, and left it inscrutable as ever. “Remind me, boy, that I owe you a diamond pin. It was a single stone, I think, of a peculiar beauty?”

“Ay, you gave it me, years ago.”

“I wonder what can have possessed me?” said his Grace. “No doubt you were—er—‘basking in the sunshine of my approval.’”

CHAPTER XXIII

Mr. Marling Allows himself to be Persuaded

Lady Fanny partook of breakfast in bed next morning, and was sipping her hot chocolate when Léonie scratched on the door. My lady put up her hands to her pretty nightcap and patted her golden curls before she called “Come in!”

“Oh, ’tis you, child! Mercy, are you riding out so early?”

Léonie was in riding dress, with polished boots, and leathern gauntlets, tasselled, and a big black beaver on her head with a long feather that swept her shoulder.

“Yes, madame, but only if you do not need me. Monseigneur said that I must ask you.”

Lady Fanny nibbled at a sweet biscuit and regarded the bed-post with rapt interest.

“No, child, no. Why should I need you? Lud, what roses you have, I’d give my best necklet for your complexion. To be sure, I had it once. Go, my love. Don’t keep Justin waiting. Is Rupert up?”

“His valet dresses him, madame.”

“I’ll bear him company in the parlour,” said her ladyship, and pushed her cup and saucer away. “Away with you, child! Stay! Send Rachel to me, my love, if you will be so good.”

Léonie went with alacrity. Half an hour later my lady, having bustled exceedingly, came tripping into the parlour dressed in a flowered muslin, and her fair hair unpowdered beneath a becoming cap. Rupert looked up as she entered, and put down the book over which he had been yawning.

“Lord, you’re up early, Fan!”

“I came to bear you company,” she cooed, and went to sit by him, at the window.

“Wonders’ll never cease,” Rupert said. He felt that this amiability on Fanny’s part ought not to go unrewarded. “You look twenty this morning, Fan, ’pon my soul you do!” he said handsomely.

“Dear Rupert! Do you really think so?”

“Ay,—that’ll do, though! Léonie has gone riding with his Grace.”

“Rupert,” said my lady.

“Ay, what?”

Fanny looked up.

“I have made up my mind to it Justin shall marry that child.”

Rupert was unperturbed.

“Will he, do you think?”

“My dear boy, he’s head over ears in love with her!”

“I know that—I’m not blind, Fan. But he’s been in love before.”

“You are most provoking, Rupert! Pray what has that to do with it?”

“He’s not married any of ’em,” said my lord.

Fanny affected to be shocked.

“Rupert!”

“Don’t be prudish, Fanny! That’s Edward’s doing, I know.”

“Rupert, if you are minded to be unkind about dear Edward——”

“Devil take Edward!” said Rupert cheerfully.

Fanny eyed him for a moment in silence, and suddenly smiled.

“I am not come to quarrel with you, horrid boy. Justin would not take Léonie as his mistress.”

“No, damme, I believe you’re right. He’s turned so strict you’d scarce know him. But marriage——! He’d not be so easily trapped.”

“Trapped?” cried my lady. “It’s no such thing! The child has no notion of wedding him. And that is why he will want her to wife, mark my words!”

“He might,” Rupert said dubiously. “But—Lord, Fanny, he’s turned forty, and she’s a babe!”

“She is twenty, my dear, or near it. ’Twould be charming! She will always think him wonderful, and she’ll not mind his morals, for she’s none herself; and he—oh, he will be the strictest husband in town, and the most delightful! She will always be his infant, I dare swear, and he ‘Monseigneur’. I am determined he shall wed her. Now what do you say?”

“I? I’d be pleased enough, but—egad, Fanny, we don’t know who she is! Bonnard? I’ve never met the name, and it hath a plaguey bourgeois ring to it, damme, so it has! And Justin—well, y’know, he’s Alastair of Avon, and it won’t do for him to marry a nobody.”

“Pooh!” said my lady. “I’ll wager my reputation she does not come of common stock. There’s some mystery, Rupert.”

“Any fool could tell that,” Rupert said frankly. “And if you asked me, Fan, I’d say she was related to Saint-Vire.” He leaned back in his chair and looked for surprise in his sister. It did not come.

“Where would be my wits if I’d not seen that?” demanded Fanny. “As soon as I heard that ’twas Saint-Vire who carried her off I felt positive she was a base-born child of his.”

Rupert spluttered.

“Gad, would you have Justin marry any such?”

“I should not mind at all,” said my lady.

“He won’t do it,” Rupert said with conviction. “He’s a rake, but he knows what’s due to the family, I’ll say that for him.”

“Pho!” My lady snapped her fingers. “If he loves her he’ll not trouble his head over the family. Why, what did I care for the family when I married Edward?”

“Steady, steady! Marling has his faults, I’m not saying he hasn’t, but there’s no bad blood in his family, and you can trace him back to——”

“Stupid creature, could I not have had Fonteroy for the lifting of a finger? ay, or my Lord Blackwater, or his Grace of Cumming? Yet I chose Edward, who beside them was a nobody.”

“Damn it, he’s not base-born!”

“I would not have cared, I give you my word!”

Rupert shook his head.

“It’s lax, Fanny, ’fore Gad it’s lax. I don’t like it.”

My lady pulled a face at him.

“Oh, tell Justin you do not like it, my dear! Tell him——”

“I’m not meddling in Justin’s affairs, I thank you. He’ll do as he likes, but I’ll lay you a monkey he weds no bastard.”

“Done!” said my lady. “Oh, Rupert! I lost my big emerald at play last week! I could have cried my eyes out, and Edward could only say that it must be a lesson to me!”

“That’s Edward all over,” nodded Rupert. “Don’t I know it!”

“No, you do not, tiresome boy! He will give me another emerald.” She blinked rapidly. “Indeed, he is very good to me. I wonder if he will come here? I vow I shall be miserable if he does not!”

Rupert’s eyes were on the street.

“Well, he has come, and mighty ŕ propos, too.”

“What! Is it really he, Rupert? You’re not teasing me?”

“No, it is he, right enough, and in a thundering rage by the look of him.”

Lady Fanny sighed ecstatically.

“Darling Edward! He will be very angry with me, I am sure.”

Marling came quickly in. He was travel-stained, and heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, and his mouth was set in an uncompromising fashion. He looked his pretty wife over in silence.

“That’s the last of us,” said Rupert jovially. “We’ve all the family now, glory be! Give you good morrow, Edward!”

Lady Fanny rose, and held out her hand.

“Edward, I protest this is foolish of you.”

He ignored the outstretched hand.

“You’ll return with me to-day, Fanny. I don’t brook your defiance.”

“Whew!” spoke Rupert under his breath. “Sa-sa——Have at you!”

Lady Fanny tittered.

“Oh, sir, you are ungallant! Pray have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You come to me muddied and in disorder! And I who so love a man to be point de vice!”

“We’ll leave my appearance out of it, if you please. I’ve borne enough of your whims, Fanny. You’ll return with me to England.”

“Indeed, sir, do you think I shall?” The light of battle was in my lady’s eyes.

“You are my wife, madam.”

“But not your chattel, sir. Pray take that frown from your face! It likes me not.”

“Ay, do!” Rupert put in. “How did you leave my cousin, Marling?”

“Yes, sir, and why did you leave poor dear Harriet? It was not well-done of you, Edward.”

“Fanny, have you done? I warn you, I am in no mood for these tricks!”

“Now, careful, Fan, careful!” said Rupert, enjoying himself hugely. “He’ll disown you, so he will!”

Marling swung round to face him.

“Your pleasantries are ill-timed, Alastair. I believe we shall do better if you leave us.”

“How dare you, Edward? And the poor boy just out of his bed, with a wound in his shoulder that only escaped the lung by a bare inch!”

“I am not concerned with Rupert’s hurts,” said Marling cuttingly. “He will survive without my sympathy.”

“Ay, but damme, I shall suffer a relapse if I have to look on your gloomy countenance much longer!” retorted Rupert. “For God’s sake, smile, man!”

“Oh yes, Edward, do smile!” begged her ladyship. “It gives me a headache to see you frowning so.”

“Fanny, you will give me five minutes in private.”

“No, sir, I shall not. You are prodigious ill-natured to talk to me in this vein, and I protest I want no more of it.”

“There’s for you, Marling!” Rupert said. “Go and bespeak some breakfast. You’ll be better for it, I swear! ’Tis the emptiness of you makes you feel jaundiced: I know the feeling well. A ham, now, and some pasties, with coffee to wash it down will make a new man of you, stap me if it won’t!”

Lady Fanny giggled. Marling’s brow grew blacker, his eyes harder.

“You’ll regret this, madam. You’ve trifled with me once too often.”

“Oh sir, I’m in no mood for your heroics! Pray keep them for Harriet! She has the taste for them, no doubt!”

“Try ’em on Justin,” suggested Rupert. “Here he is, with Léonie. Lord, what a happy gathering!”

“For the last time, Fanny,—I shall not ask again—will you accord me a few minutes alone?”

“Alone?” echoed Rupert. “Ay, of course she will, as many as you like! Solitude’s the thing, so it is! Solitude, and a fat ham——”

“My dear Marling, I hope I see you well?” His Grace had come quietly in.

Marling picked up his hat.

“I am in excellent health, I thank you, Avon.”

“But his spirits!” said Rupert. “Oh, lud!”

“I confess,” Marling said steadily, “my spirits are a little—bruised.”

“Never say so!” Rupert feigned astonishment. “You’ve had a bad crossing, Edward, and your liver’s upside down.”

Avon turned.

“Your conversation is always so edifying, Rupert. Yet I believe we can dispense with it.”

Rupert collapsed promptly. My lady tossed her head. Avon went to the side-table, and poured out a glass of burgundy, and offered it to Marling, who waved it aside.

“I came, sir, to fetch my wife home. As she declines to accompany me there is no more to be said. I’ll take my leave of you.”

Avon put up his quizzing-glass, and through it regarded my lady.

“Yes, Justin. I do. I am coming to Paris with you.”

“I am gratified, of course,” said his Grace. “Nevertheless, my dear, you will go with your husband.”

“I thank you!” Marling laughed harshly. “I do not take her an she comes at your bidding! She must come at mine.”

“I w-won’t go at anyone’s b-bidding!” Lady Fanny’s face puckered like that of a child about to cry. “You are very unkind!”

Marling said nothing. She dabbed at her eyes.

“You come—bullying, and—and scowling—I won’t go with you. I hate you, Edward!”

“It needed only that,” said Marling, and turned to the door.

There was a rustle of silks as my lady fled across the room.

“Oh, Edward, I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t!”

He held her away from him.

“You will return with me?”

She hesitated, then looked up into his face. Two large tears stole down her cheeks. Marling took her hands, and pressed them.

“In truth,” he said gently, “I cannot bear to see you weep, love. Go with Justin.”

At that she cast herself into his arms, and sobbed.

“Oh Edward, I will come! I truly will! You must f-forgive me!”

“My dear!” He caught her to him.

“I am decidedly de trop,” remarked his Grace, and poured out another glass of burgundy.

“I’ll come, Edward, but I do—oh, I do want to go to Paris!”

“Then go, sweetheart. I’d not deny you your pleasure.”

“But I c-can’t bear to leave you!” sobbed Fanny.

“May I be allowed to make a suggestion?” His Grace came slowly forward. “There is really no occasion for these heart-burnings. The matter is very simple.” He swept Marling a magnificent leg. “Pray come with us to Paris, my dear Edward.”

“Oh, I thank you, but——”

“Yes, I know,” said Avon languidly. “You would prefer not to enter the unhallowed portals of my abode.”

Marling flushed.

“I protest——”

“It is quite unnecessary, believe me. I would not propose such a distasteful plan were it not for the fact that I have need of Fanny.”

“I don’t understand why you should need her, Avon.”

His Grace was incredulous.

“My very dear Edward, I should have thought that with your strict sense of propriety the reason must positively leap to your understanding.”

“Léonie! I had forgot.” Marling stood irresolute. “Can you find no other lady to chaperon her?”

“I could doubtless find an hundred, but I require a hostess.”

“Then Fanny had best stay with you. I will go back to England.”

Fanny sighed.

“Edward, if you will not come to Paris I must return with you. But I do wish that you would come!”

At that moment Léonie appeared, and clapped her hands at sight of Marling.

“Parbleu, it is M. Marling! Bonjour, m’sieur!”

He smiled, and kissed her hand.

“I hope I see you well, child? Your pretty colour answers me.”

“My infant finds favour in the austere eyes,” murmured his Grace. “Infant, I am trying to prevail upon Mr. Marling to honour my poor house with his presence. Pray add your entreaties to mine.”

“Yes?” Léonie looked from one to the other. “Please will you come, m’sieur? I shall ask Monseigneur to invite M. Davenant also.”

In spite of himself Avon smiled.

“A happy thought, ma fille.”

“Why, child, I believe I must not,” Marling said. “You shall take her ladyship, and let me go home.”

“Ah, bah!” said Léonie. “It is because you do not like Monseigneur, is it not?”

“My infant is nothing if not outspoken,” remarked Avon. “That is the matter in a nutshell, child.”

“You do not think he is enough respectable. But indeed he is very respectable now, je vous assure!”

A choking sound came from Rupert; my lady’s shoulders shook, and Marling collapsed into helpless laughter. Léonie looked at the convulsed trio in disgust, and turned to the Duke.

“What is the matter with them, Monseigneur? Why do they laugh?”

“I have no idea, infant,” replied Avon gravely.

“They are silly, I think. Very silly.”

But the laughter cleared the air. Marling looked at the Duke, and said unsteadily:

“I confess—it’s your lack of—of respectability that sticks—somewhat in my gullet!”

“I am sure it must,” said his Grace. “But you shall have Davenant to support you. He will be delighted to join you in mourning over my departed morals.”

“The prospect is most alluring,” Marling said. He glanced uncertainly at his wife. “But I do not think I fit well in this mad venture.”

“My dear Edward, do I fit well in it?” asked his Grace, pained. “I count upon you to aid me in lending a note of sobriety to the party.”

Marling regarded his Grace’s coat of dull crimson velvet quizzically.

“I might lend sobriety, but you, Avon? You supply the magnificence, I think.”

“You flatter me,” Avon bowed. “I am to understand that you will join us?”

“Yes, Edward, yes! Oh please!”

“Voyons, it will be fort amusant, m’sieur. You must come.”

Rupert ventured to uplift his voice.

“Ay, join us, Marling. The more the merrier.”

“In face of such kind entreaties what can I say?” Marling took his wife’s hand. “I thank you, Avon. I will come.”

“Gaston, then, had best return to London for your baggage,” said his Grace.

Léonie chuckled.

“He will die, Monseigneur. I know it.”

“As you observe,” remarked his Grace to Marling, “death and disaster are a source of never-failing amusement to my infant.”

Marling laid a hand on Léonie’s head.

“She is a rogue, Avon, is she not? But a pretty rogue.”

Léonie opened wide her eyes.

“Vraiment? Am I pretty, Monseigneur? Do you think so?”

“Passable, my infant, passable.”

Her face fell.

“I was afraid you would not think so, Monseigneur.”

Avon pinched her chin.

“Child, do I not call you ‘ma belle’?”

Léonie caught his hand to her lips.

“Merci, Monseigneur! You make me very happy, enfin!”

Marling looked suddenly at his wife. She smiled, and cast down her eyes. Marling turned to Rupert.

“I think I’ll take your excellent—though ill-timed—advice, my boy.”

Rupert grinned.

“What, the ham? Ay, ’twas good advice, stap me it was! But I’ll not deny ’twas said to enrage you, Edward.”

“It succeeded in doing so, scamp. Avon, I’ll not ask you to send Gaston back to England. I can return there myself, and join you in Paris next week.”

“My dear Edward, it is good for Gaston to bestir himself. He grows fat and lazy. He shall meet us in Paris.”

“You are very good,” Marling bowed.

“That is not my reputation,” said his Grace, and rang the bell.

On the following morning the whole party set out for Paris. Lady Fanny was flustered, Marling amused, Rupert flippant, Léonie excited, and the Duke leisurely and placid as ever. The entire population of Le Dennier turned out to see the passing of this cavalcade, and marvelled at the chaise piled high with baggage, at the great berline with his Grace’s arms blazoned on the door, and at the two smaller coaches that followed it.

The Marlings occupied one of these, while Avon, Léonie and Rupert travelled in the berline. Rupert was propped up with cushions to alleviate the discomfort of the jolting, and whiled away the time by playing cards with Léonie. His Grace lay back in his corner and watched them in some amusement.

CHAPTER XXIV

Hugh Davenant is Agreeably Surprised

They rested at Rouen over the week-end, and came to Paris on Tuesday. Walker awaited them in the hall of the Hôtel Avon, and not by the flicker of an eyelid did he betray that he recognized Léonie. All was in order for his Grace’s coming, and Lady Fanny immediately took charge of the establishment. Having seen to the unpacking of her trunks, and scattered her orders broadcast, she repaired to his Grace in the library, what time Léonie went to see Madame Dubois the housekeeper.

“Well, Justin, what now?” said my lady, sitting down opposite him at his desk. “Are we to make some noise?”

“Decidedly, Fanny. As much noise as possible. I await your suggestions.”

“A ball,” she said briskly. “’Twill do for a beginning.” She bit her finger-tip reflectively. “I must equip the child first, and myself. I declare I have scarce a rag to my back! A white brocade for Léonie, I think, or a certain shade of green. With that flaming head——”

“My dear, I desire she shall be poudrée.”

“As you will, Justin. Yes, it might be pretty. We shall see. I dare swear you have your reasons for wishing it. I shall send the invitations for—a fortnight hence. It’s a little enough time, to be sure, but I don’t despair of acceptances. Your name and mine, my dear——” Her eyes sparkled. “I vow I’ll have all Paris here! And then?”

“Then, my dear Fanny, Versailles,” he said.

Lady Fanny nodded.

“It’s very well. You’ll make some stir with her, Justin.”

“It is my intention,” he said. “Send out your cards, my dear.”

“Expense?” She cocked her head to one side.

“You will not consider it. I think we will have the young Condé and De Penthičvre. The Duc de Richelieu also.”

“I leave them to you. There must be Madame du Deffand, of course, and the Duchesse de la Roque.” Lady Fanny half-closed her eyes. “My dearest Justin, there is no one who is anyone who will not come to the ball, I pledge you my word! But la, what a work I have before me! They’ll come out of curiosity, depend upon it!” She rustled to the door. “The child’s toilettes, Justin?”

“I never quarrel with your taste, Fanny.”

“How droll ’twill be! ’Tis as though I had a daughter, though thank heaven I have not! She’s to be richly clad?”

“As befits my ward, Fanny, but ŕ la jeune fille.”

“Oh, never fear! You’ll not complain. Dear me, I have not been so excited since my girlhood, when you took me to Versailles, Justin. The whole house must be thrown open. I vow some of the rooms are positively thick with dust. ’Twill need an army to set all in order. The Ball but starts my activities, I assure you.” She laughed delightedly. “We will have soirées, and card-parties, a rout, maybe, and—oh, we shall make some stir!” She hurried away, full of business-like determination.

His Grace sat down to write a letter to Hugh Davenant.

From then onward the Hôtel Avon was plunged into bustling activity. Milliners and mantua-makers came and went, dancing masters and coiffeurs; and the servants invaded every shut room, and threw it open, and swept and garnished it. His Grace was hardly ever at home. He was at pains to show himself abroad, circulating the news of his return. Rupert he set to promote an ever-ready curiosity, so my lord as soon as he was well enough, sallied forth to the gaming houses, and to the abodes of his cronies, and characteristically spread the tale of his brother’s latest whim. Léonie’s beauty lost nothing in his description of it; he hinted at dark mystery, and assured all and sundry that Avon counted on the presence of the Prince de Condé at his ball, and that also of M. de Richelieu. Paris began to hum, and Fanny sat in her boudoir with notes of acceptance scattered about her.

“Oh, we shall do famously!” she cried. “Said I not all Paris should come?”

But Léonie slipped away, escaping from dancing-masters and dressmakers alike, and stole into the library where the Duke was usually to be found. She stood in the doorway regarding him wistfully. He looked up, laid down his quill, and stretched out a hand to her.

“Well, ma fille?”

She ran to him, and sank on to her knees beside his chair.

“Monseigneur, it frightens me.”

He stroked her bright curls caressingly.

“What frightens you, child?”

She made a comprehensive gesture.

“This—all of it! There are so many grand people coming, and everyone is so busy. I myself have no time to talk to you, Monseigneur.”

“You do not like it, child?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Ah, quant ŕ ça——! It excites me, Monseigneur, and—and yes, I like it very well. But it is as it was at Versailles. You remember I lost you. It was so big and brilliant.”

“Child——” He looked down into her eyes. “I am always here.” He smiled a little. “I think, infant, it is I shall be in danger of losing you when you are launched into the world. You will no longer wish to sit with me then.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Always, always! Voyons, Monseigneur, I am going round and round in all this gaiety that comes to me, and for a little while I like it. But always I want to run away to you. Then I am safe, and—and things do not bewilder me. You see?”

“Perfectly,” said his Grace. “I shall not fail you, infant.”

“No, Monseigneur.” She nestled her hand in his, and gave a tiny sigh. “Why do you do all this for me?”

“I have many reasons, infant. You will not bother your head with them.”

“No, Monseigneur,” she said again, obediently. “It is very far away now, that time with Jean and Charlotte.”

“I desire you will forget it, ma mie. It was an evil dream no more.”

“Bien, Monseigneur.” She rested her head against his arm, and stayed so a long time.

That very evening Davenant arrived, and was told that the Duke was at dinner. He gave his greatcoat and hat to a lackey, and waving the man aside went alone to the dining-room, whence a babel of talk came.

The long room was lit by candles that stood in gold clusters on the table. Silver winked, and cut glass, and the mellow light was thrown over all. At the foot of the table my Lady Fanny sat, with Marling on her right, hot in argument with Rupert, opposite. Beside Marling was Léonie, dressed in dull yellow gold, and old lace. She was saying something to his Grace, at the head of the table, as Davenant came in, but she looked up at the sound of the opening door and suddenly clapped her hands.

“Tiens, it is M. Davenant! He is come, then! See, Monseigneur!”

His Grace rose, and put down his napkin.

“My dear Hugh! You come most opportunely. Jacques, lay for monsieur.”

Davenant clasped his hand a moment, nodding to Rupert, and to Marling.

“I could not resist your invitation—or was it a summons?” he said. He bowed low to Fanny. “My lady?”

She gave him her hand, in high good-humour.

“I declare I am prodigious glad to see you, Hugh! I vow ’tis an age since I met you last!”

“As beautiful as ever,” he said, kissing her hand. But his eyes were on Léonie.

“Oh!” Lady Fanny pouted. “I am put in the shade, Hugh, yes, positively I am put in the shade—by this chit! It is so mortifying!” She smiled at Léonie, and beckoned.

Léonie came forward in her best manner, and swept a curtsy. A wicked little smile hovered about her mouth; she fixed Davenant with wide, innocent eyes.

“Is it possible?” he said, and bent over her fingers.

“You are dazzled, in fact?” His Grace came to stand beside his ward.

“Completely! I would not have believed it could be! You are to be congratulated, Alastair.”

“Why, so I think,” said the Duke.

Léonie made a quaint little bow.

“Sometimes, m’sieur, I am still Léon.”

“Ay, that is Léon,” Hugh smiled. “Do you like being Léonie?”

“At first it did not please me at all,” she answered. “But now I think it is very agreeable. You have pretty things if you are a girl, and go to balls. There is to be a ball here next week, m’sieur.”

“So I hear,” he said. “Who comes to it?”

They sat down again at the table, Davenant opposite Léonie. It was Fanny who answered.

“Everyone, Hugh, I give you my word! ’Pon rep, I have worked over this ball!”

“Ay, and made the house a veritable wasps’ nest,” grumbled Rupert. “How are you, Hugh?”

“The same as ever, Rupert. And you?”

“Well enough,” Rupert said. “We’re all of us reformed, as you see. Never was there such a united family, and all of us so amiable one to the other—God knows how long ’twill last!”

Davenant laughed across the table at Marling.

“I learn that I am to bear you company in this disreputable establishment, Marling!”

“We are invited to supply a note of sobriety,” nodded Marling. “It was Léonie’s notion. How did you leave your brother?”

“As long as you did leave him, Hugh, I’m satisfied,” grimaced Rupert.

“Ah yes!” said his Grace. “The deplorable Frederick! How does he?”

“Oh, there never was a man so tedious as Colehatch!” cried my lady. “Only fancy, Hugh, he loved me once! The great Lord Colehatch. La! I should be honoured!”

“He is just as deplorable as ever, I fear,” Hugh replied. “He was not pleased to hear that I intended to visit this house again.”

“Lord, did he want you, Fan?” exclaimed Rupert. “Well, I always knew the man was a fool.”

“I thank you, my lord!” Davenant made him a mock bow. “You are all of you vastly complimentary towards my respected brother.”

“Oh, and to me!” said my lady. “Horrid boy! Do you remember that Colehatch wanted me, Justin?”

“My memory fails me when I try to disentangle your suitors, my dear. Was he the one who demanded you of me with a pistol at my head, as it were? No, I believe that was Fonteroy. Colehatch, I think, wrote me a correct application for your hand which I still cherish. He said that he was willing to overlook such trifling faults in you, my dear, as your levity and your extravagance.”

“Fanny, I make you my apologies on his behalf!” laughed Hugh.

Marling helped himself to a peach.

“What an ardent lover!” he remarked. “I hope I did not say that I would overlook your faults?”

“Dearest Edward, you said that you adored me from my heels to my topmost curl!” sighed her ladyship. “Lud, what days they were! Cumming—dear soul—fought John Drew because he disparaged my eyebrows, and Vane—do you remember Vane, Justin?—wanted to fly with me!”

Léonie was greatly interested.

“And did you?” she inquired.

“La, child, what will you ask next? He had not a penny, poor darling, and was mad into the bargain.”

“I should like people to fight over me,” Léonie said. “With swords.”

Davenant was amused.

“Would you, Léon—Léonie!”

“But yes, m’sieur! It would be so exciting. Did you see them fight, madame?”

“Good gracious, no, child! Of course I did not. One never does.”

“Oh!” Léonie was disappointed. “I thought you watched.”

Davenant looked at the Duke.

“The lady would appear to have a taste for bloodshed,” he remarked.

“A veritable passion for it, my dear. Nothing pleases her more.”

“You are not to encourage her, Justin!” said my lady. “I vow it’s scandalous!”

Léonie twinkled merrily.

“There is one thing I made Monseigneur teach me that is very bloodthirsty,” she said. “You do not know!”

“What is it, puss?”

“Aha, I will not tell!” She shook her head wisely. “You would say it is unladylike.”

“Oh, Justin, what have you been at? Some hoydenish trick it is, I dare swear!”

“Tell us!” said Marling. “You’ve whetted our curiosity, child, and soon we shall begin to guess.”

“Ecod, do you mean——” began Rupert.

Léonie waved agitated hands.

“No, no, imbécile! Tais toi!” She pursed her mouth primly. “M. Marling would be shocked, and madame would say it is not at all respectable. Monseigneur, he is not to tell!”

“One would infer that it was some disgraceful secret,” said his Grace. “I believe I have several times requested you not to call Rupert ‘imbécile’, infant.”

“But Monseigneur, he is an imbécile!” she protested. “You know he is!”

“Undoubtedly, ma fille, but I do not tell the whole world so.”

“Then I do not know what I am to call him,” said Léonie. “He calls me spitfire, Monseigneur, and wild-cat.”

“And so she is, by Gad!” exclaimed his lordship.

“I am not, Rupert. I am a lady. Monseigneur says so.”

“A manifestly false assertion,” said his Grace. “But I cannot remember ever having said anything of the kind, infant.”

She peeped naughtily up at him, through her lashes. It was one of her most captivating little tricks.

“But, Monseigneur, you said only a minute ago that your memory is not at all good.”

There was a shout of laughter; Avon’s own eyes were alight with it. He picked up his fan and dealt Léonie a rap across the knuckles. She chuckled, and turned jubilantly to the others.

“Voyons, I have made you all laugh!” she said. “And I meant to make you laugh! I am a wit, enfin!”

Davenant was looking at Avon, dawning wonder on his face, for Avon’s eyes rested on his ward with such tender amusement in them that Davenant could hardly believe it was the Duke that he looked on.

“Oh lud, what a child it is!” said my lady, dabbing at her eyes. “I vow I would never have dared speak so to Justin at your age!”

“Nor I!” said Rupert. “But there’s nothing she won’t dare, damme, there’s not!” He turned to Davenant. “Never was there such a girl, Hugh! Do you know she’s even been abducted?”

“Abducted?” Davenant looked round, half-incredulous. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that pig-person!” said Léonie scornfully.

“My love!” Lady Fanny jumped. “What did I hear you say?”

“Well, but, madame, Monseigneur allows me to say pig-person. You do not mind, do you, Monseigneur?”

“My infant, it is not a beautiful expression, nor am I in any way enamoured of it, but I believe that I did say I could support it as long as you refrained from talking of pig—er—wash.”

“Yes, you did,” she said triumphantly.

“But what do you mean?” demanded Davenant. “Who abducted Léonie? Is it true?”

Marling nodded to him across the table.

“As pretty a piece of villainy as ever I heard.”

“But who did it? Who is the—the pig-person?”

“The bad Comte de Saint-Vire!” said Léonie. “He gave me an evil drink, and brought me to France, and Rupert saved me!”

Davenant started, and stared at his Grace.

“Saint-Vire!” he said, and again, beneath his breath, “Saint-Vire.”

His Grace cast a quick look round, but the lackeys had left the room.

“Yes, Hugh, yes. The so dear Comte.”

Davenant opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again.

“Quite so,” said his Grace.

“But, Avon—” it was Marling who spoke—“Fanny tells me that cards for the ball have been sent to Saint-Vire and his wife. Why did you do that?”

“I believe I had a reason,” said his Grace pensively. “No doubt it will return to my mind some time or other.”

“If the fellow comes I’ll never be able to contain myself!” Rupert said.

“I do not imagine that he will come, my child. Hugh, if you have finished, I suggest we repair to the library. It is the only room that Fanny has left undisturbed.”

Fanny rose, and shook her finger at him.

“I shall throw it open on the night of the ball, never fear! I have a mind to set card-tables there.”

“No,” said Léonie firmly. “It is our very own room, Monseigneur. You are not to let her!” She laid her finger-tips on his crooked arm, and prepared to go out with him. Hugh heard an urgent whisper. “Monseigneur, not that room! We always sit there. You brought me to it the very first night.”

Avon turned his head.

“You hear, Fanny?”

“It’s most tiresome!” said her ladyship, in a long-suffering manner. “What odds can it make, child? What’s your reason?”

“Madam, I cannot think of the word. It is what Monseigneur says when you ask him why he does a thing?”

Rupert opened the door.

“Faith, I know what she means! A whim!”

“C’est cela!” Léonie gave a little skip. “You are very clever to-night, Rupert, I think.”

The ladies retired early to bed, and as Rupert dragged the unwilling Marling out to Vassaud’s, Avon and Hugh were left alone in the quiet library. Hugh looked round with a little smile.

“Egad, it’s like old times, Justin!”

“Three months ago, to be precise,” said his Grace. “I am becoming something of a patriarch, my dear.”

“Are you?” Davenant said, and smiled to himself. “May I compliment you on your ward?”

“Pray do! You find her to your taste?”

“Infinitely. Paris will be enchanted. She is an original.”

“Something of a rogue,” conceded his Grace.

“Justin, what has Saint-Vire to do with her?”

The thin brows rose.

“I seem to remember, my dear, that your curiosity was always one of the things I deplored in you.”

“I’ve not forgot the tale you told me—in this very room, Justin. Is Léonie the tool with which you hope to crush Saint-Vire?”

His Grace yawned.

“You fatigue me, Hugh. Do you know, I have ever had a fancy to play my game—alone.”

Davenant could make nothing of him, and gave up the attempt. Marling came in presently, and remarked that Rupert was not like to return until the morning.

“Who was there?” Davenant asked.

“The rooms were crowded, but I know so few people,” Marling said. “I left Rupert dicing with one Lavoulčre.” He looked at the Duke. “The lad’s incorrigible, Avon. He will dice his soul away one of these days.”

“Oh, I trust not!” said Avon. “I suppose he is losing?”

“He is,” Marling replied. “It is not my affair, Justin, but I think you should strive to check this gambling fever in him.”

“I agree,” Davenant said. “The boy is too thoughtless.”

Avon strolled to the door.

“Beloved, I leave you to your moralities,” he said softly, and went out.

Hugh laughed, but Marling frowned.

“Impossible Satanas!” said Hugh.

“He seems not to trouble his head over Rupert’s welfare.” Marling spoke heavily. “He should have some hold over the boy.”

“Oh, my dear Marling, Rupert will come to heel whenever Avon chooses to lift his finger.”

“It’s very well, Hugh, but I have yet to see him lift it.”

“I have seen it,” Davenant answered. He drew his chair nearer to the fire. “I see also a vast change in our Satanas.”

“Ay,” Marling admitted. “It’s the child’s influence. My lady dreams of a bridal.”

“I would it might be so,” Hugh crossed his legs. “There is that in Avon’s eyes when he looks on Léonie——”

“I do not trust him.”

“Why, I think I do for once.” Hugh laughed a little.

“When last I saw Léonie—Léon she was then—it was ‘Yes, Monseigneur’ and ‘No, Monseigneur.’ Now it is ‘Monseigneur, you must do this’ and ‘Monseigneur, I want that!’ She twists him round her little finger, and, by Gad, he likes it!”

“Oh, but there’s naught of the lover in his manner, Hugh! You have heard him with her, scolding, correcting.”

“Ay, and I have heard the note in his voice of—faith, of tenderness! This wooing will be no ordinary one, methinks, but there is a bridal in the air.”

“She is twenty years behind him!”

“Do you think it signifies? I would not give Justin a bride his own age. I’d give him this babe who must be cherished and guarded. And I’ll swear he’d guard her well!”

“It may be. I do not know. She looks up to him, Davenant! She worships him!”

“Therein I see his salvation,” Hugh said.

CHAPTER XXV

Léonie Curtsies to the Polite World

Lady Fanny stepped back to obtain a better view of her handiwork.

“I cannot make up my mind,” she said. “Shall I put a riband in your hair, or—no, I have it!—a single white rose!” She picked one up from the table at her side. “You can well spare it from your corsage, my dear. Where is the little buckle Justin gave you?”

Léonie, seated before the mirror, held out the pearl and diamond ornament. My lady proceeded to fasten the rose with it above Léonie’s left ear, so that it nestled amongst the powdered curls that were skilfully arranged to resemble a coiffure. The friseur had worked wonders. The curls clustered thickly about the queenly little head, and just one had been coaxed to fall to the shoulder.

“It could not be better!” said my lady. “Give me the haresfoot, wench!”

Léonie’s maid handed it to her, and stood ready with the various pots.

“Just a touch of rouge, I think,” said Fanny. “The veriest suspicion—so! The lip-stick, girl! . . . Keep still, my love; I must not overdo it. There! Powder, girl!” The haresfoot fluttered over Léonie’s face. My lady studied the effect intently. “It’s very well. Now for the patches! Two, I think. Don’t wriggle, child!” Expert fingers pressed the patches on: one below the dimple, one above the cheekbone. “Famous!” cried my lady. “Mercy, look at the time! I must hurry! Stand up, Léonie, and you, girl, hand me the dress!”

Léonie stood up in her under-dress of lace, ruffle upon ruffle of it falling over a great hoop to her ankles, and watched my lady shake out the folds of soft white brocade. Fanny flung it deftly over her head, so that not a hair was disturbed, pulled it over the hoop, twitched it into place, and told the maid to lace it up. Léonie’s feet peeped from beneath the lace petticoat in shoes of white satin with heels that were studded with tiny diamonds. Buckles flashed on them—yet another present from Avon. Léonie pointed her toe, and regarded the effect gravely.

Fanny came to arrange a lace fichu about Léonie’s shoulders. Out of the lace they rose, sloping and very white. Fanny shook out the ruffles, tied the ribbons, and fastened the two other roses into place over the knot with a pearl pin.

“Why, madame, what is that?” asked Léonie quickly. “It is not mine, I know!”

Fanny kissed her lightly.

“Oh, it is naught but a trifle, my love, that I had a mind to give you! I beg you will not heed it!”

Léonie flushed.

“Madame, you are very good to me! Thank you!”

Someone scratched on the door; the abigail went to open it, and came back into the room with a small silver tray, on which were two packages, and white roses in a silver holder.

“For mademoiselle,” smiled the maid.

Léonie ran forward.

“For me? Who sent them?” She bent over the tray to read the cards. “Rupert—M. Marling—M. Davenant! But how they are kind! Why do you all give me presents, madame?”

“My sweet, ’tis your first appearance. I suspect Hugh asked Justin what flowers he should send.” She picked up the bouquet. “See, child, the holder is so cunningly wrought! What says the card?”

Léonie held it between her fingers.

“‘To Léon, from Hugh Davenant.’ Voyons, I am not Léon to-night, but Mademoiselle de Bonnard! What can this be?—from M. Marling—oh, the little ring! Madame, look!” She slipped the wrappings from the last package, and disclosed a fan of delicately painted chicken-skin mounted on ivory sticks. “Oh, this clever Rupert! Madame, how did he know I wanted a fan?”

Fanny shook her head mysteriously.

“La, child, don’t ask me! Stop skipping round the room, stupid! Where are Justin’s pearls?”

“Oh, the pearls!” Léonie ran to the dressing-table, and extracted the long, milky string from one of the boxes there.

Fanny twisted it twice round her neck, cast another distracted glance at the clock, sprinkled scent on to a handkerchief, and over Léonie, gave a last twitch to the brocade gown, and hurried to the door.

“You will be so late!” Léonie cried. “All because you dressed me. I will wait for you, madame, shall I?”

“Yes, child, of course! I want to be there when Jus—when they see you. Come and sit with me while I finish my toilette.”

But Léonie was in no mood to sit still. She paraded in front of the mirror, curtsied to herself, fluttered her fan, and sniffed at her roses.

Rachel worked swiftly to-night, and soon my lady stood up in a gown of rose silk, with a petticoat of silver lace, and the most enormous hoop Léonie had ever seen. My lady whisked the haresfoot across her face again, slipped bracelets on to her arms, and fixed nodding feathers into her marvellous coiffure.

“Oh madame, it is very fine, I think!” said Léonie, pausing in her perambulations to and fro.

My lady pulled a face at her own reflection.

“It matters naught what I look like to-night,” she said. “Do you like the silver lace, child? And the shoes?” She lifted her skirts and showed a pretty ankle.

“Yes, madame. I like it—oh, much! Now let us go downstairs and show Monseigneur!”

“I am with you in a moment, my sweet life. Rachel, my fan and gloves! Léonie, hold your bouquet in the other hand, and slip the riband of your fan over your wrist. Yes, that is excellent. Now I am ready.”

“I am so excited I feel as though I should burst!” said Léonie.

“Child! Remember you are to put a guard on your tongue! Let me hear no ‘bursts’ or ‘pig-persons’ on your lips to-night, as you love me.”

“No, madame, I will remember. And not ‘breeches’ either!”

“Certainly not!” tittered Fanny, and sailed out to the staircase. At the head of it she paused, and stood aside. “Go before me, child. Slowly, slowly! Oh dear, you will break hearts, I know!” But this she said to herself.

Léonie went sedately down the broad stairway that was brilliantly lit to-night with branches of tall candles set in the niches of the wall. Below, in the hall, gathered about the fire, the gentlemen were waiting, his Grace with orders glittering on a coat of purple satin; Lord Rupert in pale blue, with much rich lacing, and an elegant flowered waistcoat; Marling in puce; and Davenant in maroon. Léonie paused half-way down the stairs and unfurled her fan.

“But look at me!” she said reprovingly.

They turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and saw her with candles on either side, a little figure, all white, from the ordered curls to the jewelled heels: white brocade cut low across the shoulders, white lace to form a petticoat, white roses at her breast and in her hand. Only her eyes were deep, sparkling blue, and her parted lips like cherries, her cheeks faintly flushed.

“You beauty!” gasped Rupert. “By—Gad, you beauty!”

His Grace went forward to the foot of the stairs, and held out his hands.

“Come, ma belle!”

She ran down to him. He bowed low over her hand, whereat she blushed, and curtsied a little way.

“I am nice, Monseigneur, do you not think? Lady Fanny did it all, and see, Monseigneur, she gave me this pin, and Rupert gave me the flow—no, the fan. It was M. Davenant gave me the flowers, and M. Marling this pretty ring!” She danced over to where they stood, just staring at her. “Thank you very much, all of you! Rupert, you are very grand to-night! I have never seen you so—so tidy, and tout ŕ fait beau!”

Lady Fanny came down the stairs.

“Well, Justin? Have I succeeded?”

“My dear, you have surpassed yourself.” His eyes ran over her. “Your own toilette leaves nothing to be desired.”

“Oh!” She shrugged her shoulders. “I am naught to-night.”

“You are trčs grande dame, my dear,” he said.

“That, perhaps,” she nodded. “It was my intention.”

Rupert lifted his quizzing-glass.

“You always look a beauty, Fan, I’ll say that for you.”

The lackeys about the great doorway suddenly sprang to attention.

“La, are they arriving already?” cried my lady. “Come, child!” She led the way into the big ballroom, that ran the length of the house. Léonie looked about her appreciatively.

“Voyons, this pleases me!” she said, and went up to one of the great baskets of flowers to inspect the frail blooms. “We are all very grand, and so is the house. Monseigneur, Rupert is beautiful, is he not?”

Avon surveyed his tall, rakish young brother.

“Would you call him beautiful?” he drawled.

“Devil take you, Justin!” spluttered his lordship.

A footman stood in the wide doorway, and rolled forth names. Rupert effaced himself, and Lady Fanny went forward.

An hour later it seemed to Léonie that the whole house was full of gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen. She had curtsied a hundred times; she still could hear my lady’s voice saying: “I have the honour to present to you Mademoiselle de Bonnard, madame, my brother’s ward.”

Very early in the evening Avon had come to her with a young man beside him: a young man dressed in the height of fashion, with orders on his breast, and a marvellous wig upon his head. Avon had said:

“My ward, Prince. Léonie, M. le Prince de Condé desires an introduction.”

She curtsied very low; Condé bent over her hand.

“But, mademoiselle is ravissante!” he murmured.

Léonie rose from her curtsy, and smiled shyly. M. le Prince laid a hand over his heart.

“Mademoiselle will honour me for this first dance?” he said.

She thought him a charming boy, no more. She put her hand on his arm, and smiled sunnily up at him.

“Yes, please, m’sieur. It is my very own ball! Is it not exciting?”

Condé, accustomed to débutantes who were properly bored, was enchanted with this frank enjoyment. The fiddlers struck up, the couples took their places behind him and Léonie.

“Must we go first?” she asked confidentially.

“But yes, mademoiselle, surely!” he smiled. “You lead your very own ball.”

Lady Fanny, standing by the door, touched Rupert’s arm.

“Who has the child got for partner? It should be a prince of the Blood at least, by the orders! Who is it?”

“Young Condé,” Rupert answered. “You wouldn’t know him, Fan. He’s only twenty or so.”

“La, how did Justin get him here so early?” gasped my lady. “He to lead her out! She’s made for life! Look, he’s laughing! Oh, she has captivated him, never fret!”

She turned her head to find Avon behind her. “Justin, how did you contrive to get Condé here so early? You’re a wizard, I vow!”

“Yes, it was well thought of, was it not?” said his Grace. “You will present her next to De Brionne. He is just come. Who is that child with the silver roses on her gown?”

“My dear, I don’t know! There are so many new faces I protest I cannot remember to whom they all belong! Justin, Condé is enchanted! There’s not a man in the room will not hasten to Léonie’s side having seen him so enraptured! Ah, madame!” She rustled away to greet a late-comer.

“I think I’ll go to the card-room and take charge there,” said Rupert ingenuously, and prepared to depart.

“Quite unnecessary, my child,” said his Grace, barring the way. “Hugh has it well in hand. You, boy, will lead out Mademoiselle de Vauvallon.”

“Oh, lud!” groaned Rupert, but he moved away to where Mademoiselle was seated.

When next Fanny had leisure to observe Léonie she saw her seated on a couch in an alcove, drinking negus with her partner. The two seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely. Fanny watched, well pleased, and presently, evading the group of young men who were one and all clamouring for an introduction, she took the Comte de Brionne over to the alcove, and presented him. Condé rose, and made a leg.

“Oh, mademoiselle, you must save one little minuet for me later!” he said. “When may it be?”

“We will meet somewhere,” said Léonie. “I know! Under the big palm over there, at—at ten minutes past eleven!” She twinkled. “That is like an adventure!”

“Mademoiselle, I shall be there!” Condé promised, laughing.

Fanny stepped forward.

“My brother’s ward, m’sieur. M. de Brionne, Léonie.”

Léonie set down her glass, rose, and curtsied. Her brow was wrinkled. Inexorably Fanny bore Condé away.

“Mademoiselle looks worried?” De Brionne gave her her glass again.

She turned to him, and smiled engagingly.

“M’sieur, I am very stupid. I cannot remember who you are!”

De Brionne was taken aback for a moment. It was not thus that young ladies were wont to address the son of Louis de Lorraine. But he could not resist the fascination of Léonie’s eyes. Moreover, where Condé had been pleased De Brionne would certainly not be affronted. He returned the smile.

“You are new come to Paris, mademoiselle?”

She nodded.

“Yes, m’sieur. Now let me think. I know! You are the son of the Comte d’Armagnac—M. le Grand!”

The Comte was much amused. It was probable that he had never before met a lady who pondered thus naďvely over his genealogy. He settled down to enjoy himself, and found that he was required to name most of the people who passed, for Léonie’s edification.

“Voyons, m’sieur, you know everybody!” she said presently. “You are being very useful to me. Now tell me who it is dancing with Monseigneur?”

“Monseigneur?”

“Yes, the Duc—my—my guardian.”

“Oh—! That is Madame du Deffand.”

“Truly?” Léonie regarded the lady intently. “She amuses him, I think.”

“She is a very amusing lady,” said De Brionne gravely. “Did Condé point our notables out to you?”

“No—no.” Léonie dimpled. “We found such a lot of other things to talk about, m’sieur. He told me about duels, and what it is like to be a royal prince.”

De Brionne began to laugh.

“Did you ask him, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” said Léonie innocently.

In the doorway Fanny was curtsying low to the Duc de Penthičvre, who had just arrived. He kissed her hand with pretty gallantry.

“My dear Lady Fanny! One was bouleversé when one learned of the return of the so charming Lady Fanny!”

“Ah, m’sieur!” She smiled, and spread out her fan.

Avon came up with Madame du Deffand on his arm.

“My dear Penthičvre, I am rejoiced to see you.”

“Mon cher Duc! Madame, votre serviteur.” He swept a bow. “Tell me, Alastair, where is this ward one hears tell of?”

“My ward . . . let me see, she was with De Brionne a moment ago. No, she is dancing now with my brother. In white, with the rose in her hair.”

De Penthičvre looked across the room to where Léonie was circling gracefully with Rupert. Their hands were held high, her foot was pointed, and she was laughing.

“So!” said de Penthičvre. “Our debutantes will tear their powdered locks, Duc!”

The rooms grew more crowded. Some time later Lady Fanny, proceeding to the refreshment room, met her husband in the hall, and said radiantly:

“My dearest love, what a success! Have you seen the child? De Penthičvre has danced with her, and Condé! Where’s Justin?”

“Gone into the little salon. You’re satisfied, sweet?”

“Satisfied! Paris will talk of naught but this ball and Léonie for weeks to come! I shall keep them talking, I promise you!” She hurried away to the refreshment room, found it crowded, with Léonie the centre of a delighted and admiring group. Fanny took a forlorn lady under her wing, and bore her off in search of a cavalier.

In the card-room they discussed the Duke’s latest whim.

“Mon Dieu, Davenant, but what a beauty! What colouring! What wonderful eyes!” cried Lavoulčre. “Who is she?”

The Chevalier d’Anvau cut in before Hugh could reply.

“Ah, he is proud of her, is Satanas! One sees it clearly.”

“He has reason,” remarked Marrignard, toying with a dice-box. “She has not only beauty, but also espiéglerie! I was amongst the fortunate who obtained her hand. Condé is greatly épris.”

The Chevalier looked at Hugh.

“She is like someone. I cannot think who it may be. I have racked my brains, but it eludes me.”

“Yes, it is true,” nodded Lavoulčre. “When I set eyes on her it came to me in a flash that I had met her before. Is it possible that I have done so, Davenant?”

“Quite impossible,” Hugh said fervently. “She has but just come from England.”

Madame de Marguéry, playing at lansquenet at an adjacent table, looked up.

“But she is French, surely? Who were her parents?”

“I do not know, madame,” said Hugh with truth. “As you know, Justin is never communicative.”

“Oh!” Madame cried. “He loves to make a mystery! It is to intrigue us all! The child is quite charming, and well-born, of course. That naďve innocence should make her success assured. I would my daughters had it.”

Meanwhile Lady Fanny had sent Rupert to extricate Léonie from the refreshment room. She came back on my lord’s arm, and chuckled gleefully.

“Madame, M. le Prince says I have eyes like stars, and another man said that a shaft from my eyes had slain him, and——”

“Fie, child!” said my lady. “Never tell me all that here! I am going to present you to Madame de la Roque. Come!”

But at midnight Léonie escaped from the ballroom, and wandered into the hall. Condé, coming from one of the other salons, met her there.

“The little butterfly! I went to look for you, mademoiselle, and could not find you.”

Léonie smiled upon him.

“Please, have you seen Monseigneur, m’sieur?”

“A dozen monseigneurs, little butterfly! Which one do you want?”

“My own Monseigneur,” said Léonie . “The Duc of Avon, of course.”

“Oh, he is in the farthest salon, mademoiselle, but shall not I do as well?”

She shook her head.

“But no, m’sieur. I want him.”

Condé took her hand, and smiled down at her.

“You are unkind, Fairy Princess! I thought you liked me just a little?”

“Yes, I do. I like you very much,” Léonie assured him. “But now I want Monseigneur.”

“Then I’ll fetch him for you at once,” Condé said gallantly.

“But no! I will go to him, m’sieur. You take me!”

Condé presented his arm promptly.

“Now you are a little kinder, mademoiselle! Is this monseigneur going to bring you to Versailles, I wonder?”

“Yes, I think so. Will you be there? Please do, m’sieur!”

“Of a certainty I shall be there. Then, at Madame de Longchamps’ rout I shall meet you, surely?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I think I am going to a great many routs, but Monseigneur has not told me which ones yet. Oh, there he is!” She released Condé’s arm, and ran forward to where his Grace was standing. “Monseigneur, I have been looking for you. The Prince brought me. Thank you very much, m’sieur!” She held out a friendly hand. “Now you will go and dance with—with—oh, with somebody! I do not know the names!”

Condé kissed the small hand.

“You will bring her to court, Duc?”

“To the levée next week,” said his Grace.

“Then I am satisfied,” Condé said, bowed, and left them.

The Duke looked down at his ward in some amusement.

“You dismiss Royalty very summarily, Babe.”

“Oh, Monseigneur, he is quite young, and very like Rupert! He did not mind, do you think?”

“He did not appear to mind,” said the Duke. “What do you want with me, infant?”

“Nothing, Monseigneur. But I thought I would come to find you.”

“You are tired, infant.” He led her to a couch. “You shall sit quietly with me awhile.”

“Yes, please, Monseigneur. It is a very nice dance, I think. I have danced with a great many grand people, and they were all very kind to me indeed.”

“I am glad to hear it, child,” he said gravely. “How does your Prince please you?”

“Oh, he is fort amusant! He told me ever so many things about court, Monseigneur, and he explained who the people were—oh no! it was M. de Brionne who did that. I said ‘Bah’ to the Prince, I am afraid, but he liked it, and he laughed. And I danced with Rupert—and oh, Monseigneur, with M. d’Anvau! He said he was sure he had met me before!” Her eyes danced. “I wanted to say, ‘But yes, m’sieur. I brought you wine at Vassaud’s one night!’”

“I sincerely trust you did not, infant?”

“Oh no, I was very discreet, Monseigneur. I said ‘Tiens! Me, I do not think I have met m’sieur before.’ It was not at all true, was it?”

“Never mind, child, it was a very proper reply. And now I am going to present you to a very old friend of mine who desires speech with you. Come, infant!”

“Qui est-ce?” she asked.

He walked slowly with her through the salons to the hall.

“It is M. de Richelieu, my child. You will be very polite to him.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” she said docilely, and nodded her head to a young exquisite who was smiling at her and trying to catch her eye. “I have been very polite to everyone to-night. Except Rupert, of course.”

“That goes without saying,” said his Grace, and took her back into the ballroom.

A middle-aged exquisite was standing by the fire at one end, holding animated converse with a plump lady of some beauty. Avon waited until others had gathered about this lady, and then he went forward.

Richelieu saw him, and came to meet him.

“Ah, Justin, the promised introduction! Your beautiful ward!”

Léonie took her hand from Avon’s arm, and curtsied. Richelieu bowed to her, and took her hand, and patted it.

“Child, I envy Justin. Justin, go away! I shall look after mademoiselle very well without you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said his Grace, and went away to find Lady Fanny.

Armand de Saint-Vire pounced on him as he crossed the hall.

“My friend, who is that girl?” he demanded. “I craved an introduction. Miladi Fanny was good enough to present me. I talked with the sprite—mon Dieu, qu’elle est jolie!—and all the time I asked myself: Who is she? who is she?”

“And did you obtain an answer from yourself?” inquired his Grace.

“No, Justin, I did not! Therefore I ask you: Who is she?”

“She is my ward, dear Armand,” smiled his Grace, and passed on as Mademoiselle de la Vogue came up.

Fanny was in the refreshment room, with Davenant. She waved to Justin as he entered.

“I have earned a moment’s repose!” she said gaily. “Lud, Justin, I’ve presented a score of children to each other and never caught one of their names! Where’s Léonie?”

“With Richelieu,” he said. “No, Fanny, you need not be alarmed. He is under oath to be discreet. Hugh, you have been a godsend to me this night.”

My lady began to fan herself.

“We have all of us worked a little,” she said. “My poor Edward is with the dowagers, playing at ombre, and Rupert has scarce been inside the card-room.”

“You have worked the hardest of us all,” said Hugh.

“Oh, but I have enjoyed myself so prodigiously!” she said. “Justin, I don’t know how many young beaux have not been making love to Léonie! Condé is ravished, he tells me. Do I not make a famous chaperon? When I present Léonie I feel fifty—yes, Hugh, positively I do!—but when I meet Raoul de Fontanges again—ah, then I am back in my teens!” She cast up her eyes.

But presently people began to take their leave, and at last they were alone again in the hall, tired but triumphant.

Rupert yawned prodigiously.

“Lord, what an evening? Burgundy, Hugh?” He poured out several glasses. “Fan, you’ve torn your lace.”

Fanny sank into a chair.

“My dear, I do not care if ’tis in ribbons. Léonie, my pet, you look worn out! Oh, my poor Edward, you did nobly with the dowagers!”

“Ah yes!” said his Grace. “I have to thank you, Edward. You were quite untiring. Infant, can you still hold your eyes open?”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Oh, madame, M. le Prince said that my dress was ravishing!”

“Ay——” Rupert shook his head at her. “I’d give something to know what you’ve been at this night, rogue! Did old Richelieu make love to you?”

“Oh no!” Léonie was surprised. “Why, he is quite an old man!”

“Alas, poor Armand!” said his Grace. “Don’t tell him so, infant, I implore you.”

“Nor anyone, my love,” said her ladyship. “It would fly round Paris! He would be so chagrined!”

“Well, who did make love to you?” asked Rupert. “Besides Condé.”

“He didn’t, Rupert! No one did.” Léonie looked round innocently. “He only said I was a Fairy Princess. Yes, and he said that about my eyes.”

“If that’s not making——” Rupert encountered a glance from his brother, and broke off. “Oh, ay! I’m dumb, never fear!”

“Monseigneur,” Léonie said. “I kept thinking it was a dream! If they knew I had been a page I do not think they would have been so kind to me. They would have thought I was not enough respectable!”

CHAPTER XXVI

The Presentation of Léonie

After the ball invitations came swiftly to the Hôtel Avon. More than one lady begged that Miladi Fanny would forgive the shortness of the notice and honour her on such-and-such a night, at ball, or rout, or card-party. Fanny went carefully through the pile of little cards, and was triumphant.

“My dearest Justin!” she cried. “We shall not be above three nights at home, I give you my word! Here is a card from Madame du Deffand, for next month—a soirée. This is from the Comtesse de Meuilly—a ball. And here we have one from my dear Madame de Follemartin, for Saturday! And this one——”

“Spare us, Fanny!” said his Grace. “Accept and decline as you will, but let us have no lists. Infant, what have you there?”

Léonie had come dancing in with a bouquet in her hand, to which a card was attached.

“Monseigneur, are they not pretty? They come from the Prince de Condé. I think he is very kind to me!”

Fanny looked at her brother.

“So we begin,” she said. “Where are we like to end, I wonder?”

“I shall end in a debtor’s prison, never fear!” said Rupert, from the depths of an arm-chair. “Two hundred cool guineas last night, and——”

“Rupert, it’s wanton!” exclaimed Marling. “Why do you play so high?”

Rupert deigned no reply, deeming the question beneath contempt. It was Davenant who filled the breach.

“I believe it’s in the family,” he said. “Rupert, of course, is a scamp.”

“Oh no!” said Léonie. “He is very silly, but he is not a scamp! Monseigneur, tell me what I am to wear at Versailles to-morrow! Madame says blue, but I want to wear my white dress again.”

“No, infant. To wear the same frock twice running would create almost a scandal. You shall wear gold, and dull yellow, and the sapphires I once gave you. And your hair shall be unpowdered.”

“Oh?” said my lady. “Why, Justin?”

Hugh walked to the fireplace.

“Is it, Justin, because Titian hair has always been one of your ruling passions?”

“Exactly,” bowed his Grace. “What an excellent memory you have, my dear!”

“I don’t understand,” complained Fanny. “What do you mean?”

“I am not quite sure,” said Avon. “I suggest you ask Hugh. He is omniscient.”

“Now you are being disagreeable!” Fanny pouted. “Dull yellow—ay, ’twill do. Léonie, my love, we must order a petticoat of gold net from Cerise; they are quite the rage now, I hear.” She became absorbed in modes and fashions.

She and Avon and Rupert accompanied Léonie to Versailles. Marling and Davenant were alike in their distaste for courts, and they refused to join the party, preferring to spend a quiet evening playing at piquet, and perusing the latest copy of the Adventurer, which had come that day from London.

So Léonie and her escort left them to their devices, and sped away in the light coach to Versailles. The drive provoked in Léonie a reminiscent mood. She sat beside Lady Fanny, whose skirts billowed about her, and addressed herself to the Duke, opposite.

“Monseigneur, do you remember that when we went to Versailles before you gave me this chain?” She touched the sapphires that lay across her white breast.

“I do, infant. I also remember that on our return you went to sleep, and would not wake up.”

“Yes, that is true,” she nodded. “It seems very strange to be going to court again, like this!” She indicated her petticoats, and spread out her fan. “M. le Prince was at Madame de Cacheron’s party last night, Monseigneur.”

“So I have heard,” said Avon, who had not been present.

“And danced twice with the chit!” said my lady. “’Twas positively unseemly!”

“Ay, so it was,” agreed Rupert. “If you were to ask me I should say he came to see Léonie and none other.”

“Yes, he did,” said Léonie ingenuously. “He told me so. I like him.”

Rupert looked at her severely.

“Well, you ought not to sit with him talking of God knows what,” he said magisterially. “When I wanted to lead you out you were nowhere to be found.”

Léonie pulled a face at him.

“You are talking like that because you have all your best clothes on,” she told him. “They make you feel grand, and very important. I know!”

Rupert burst out laughing.

“Faith, that’s good! But I’ll not deny this is a devilish fine coat.” He regarded his rich claret-coloured sleeve with some affection.

“It is not so—so distingué as Monseigneur’s grey and pink,” said Léonie. “Monseigneur, whom shall I see to-night?”

“Why, child, I thought you had a dozen assignations made!” remarked her ladyship.

“Yes, madame, but I meant new people.”

“Oh, she’s insatiable!” murmured Rupert. “She’ll boast a wonderful collection of hearts before the month’s out, mark my words!”

“You will see the King, infant, and the Queen, and possibly the Dauphin,” said his Grace.

“And Madame de Pompadour. I want to see her, because I have heard that she is very beautiful.”

“Very,” said his Grace. “You will also see her favourite, de Stainville, and Monsieur, and the Comte d’Eu.”

“Tiens!” said Léonie.

When they had come to Versailles she went presently up the marble stairway, in Lady Fanny’s wake, to the Galerie des Glaces, and, looking about her, drew a deep breath.

“How I remember!” she said.

“For goodness’ sake, child, never say so!” begged Fanny. “You have never been here before. Let me hear no more of your recollections!”

“No, madame,” said Léonie abashed. “Oh, there is M. de La Valaye!”

La Valaye came to talk to them, and stole a curious glance at Léonie’s unpowdered head. Rupert slipped away into the crowd, in search of a kindred spirit, and was seen no more for some time.

Many people were turning to look at Léonie.

“Dis donc,” said de Stainville, “who is this beautiful little red-head? I do not recognize her.”

His friend, de Sally, took snuff.

“Have you not heard?” he asked. “That is the very latest beauty! She’s Avon’s ward.”

“Oho! Yes, one has heard,” nodded de Stainville. “It is Condé’s new toy, hein?”

“No, no, my friend!” De Sally shook his head vehemently. “Condé’s new goddess!”

Léonie was curtsying to the Duchesse de la Roque; de Stainville saw my lady Fanny.

“So Alastair has brought his so charming sister! Madame, votre serviteur!”

Fanny turned.

“La, so ’tis you, m’sieur.” She held out her hand. “I declare ’tis an age since I have seen you!”

“Madame, the years fly back when I look upon you,” de Stainville said, kissing her hand. “But surely it was Etienne once, and not that cold M’sieur?”

My lady hid behind her fan.

“I vow I have no recollection of it!” she said. “No doubt I was very foolish—so long ago!”

De Stainville drew her apart, and they fell to talking of bygone days. Perceiving that his sister was fully occupied, Avon rescued Léonie from her growing circle of admirers, and bore her off to curtsy to the Comte d’Eu, who was passing down the gallery. Soon Fanny left de Stainville, and came to Avon’s side. The Comte bowed to her.

“Madame, I may compliment you upon your charge?” He waved one jewelled hand towards Léonie, who was speaking to a shy debutante who had been present at her ball.

Fanny nodded.

“She pleases you, m’sieur?”

“It could not be otherwise, madame. She is éclatante! That hair, and those eyes! I prophesy a succčs enorme!” He bowed, and moved away on the arm of a friend.

Léonie came back to Avon.

“Monseigneur, I think very young men are silly,” she said flatly.

“Undoubtedly, infant. Who has had the misfortune to incur your disapproval?”

“It was M. de Tanqueville, Monseigneur. He says I am cruel. And I am not, am I?”

“Of course you are, child!” said my lady. “All young ladies must be cruel. It is de rigueur!”

“Ah, bah!” said Léonie. “Monseigneur, where is the King?”

“By the fire, infant. Fanny, take her to the King.”

My lady furled her fan.

“You arranged, Justin?”

“Certainly, my dear. You are expected.”

So Fanny led Léonie down the room, and curtsied low to Majesty, who was pleased to be gracious. Behind Majesty, with Monsieur, and one or two others, Condé stood. Léonie encountered his gaze, and dimpled mischievously. Majesty was pleased to compliment my Lady Fanny on Mademoiselle de Bonnard; the Queen murmured praise of such beauty, and my lady passed on to make way for the next presentation.

“Bon!” said Léonie. “Now I have spoken to the King.” She turned to Avon, and the twinkle was in her eyes. “Monseigneur, it is as I said! He is just like the coins.”

Condé made his way to her side, and Lady Fanny withdrew discreetly.

“Oh, Fairy Princess, you flame in our hearts to-night!”

Léonie put her hand to her curls.

“But it is not at all kind of you to speak of my red hair!” she protested.

“Red?” Condé cried. “It is the colour of copper, Princess, and your eyes are like the violets you wear at your breast. As a white rose you enchanted me, and now as a golden rose you strengthen your spell.”

“M’sieur,” said Léonie severely, “that is how M. de Tanqueville talks. I do not like it at all.”

“Mademoiselle, I am at your feet! Tell me what I may do to regain your favour!”

Léonie looked at him speculatively. He laughed.

“Oh la, la! It is to be some great venture of chivalry, enfin?”

Her eyes danced.

“It is just that I am so very thirsty, m’sieur,” she said plaintively.

A gentleman standing a few paces from them looked at her in astonishment, and turned to a friend.

“Mon Dieu, did you hear that, Louis? Who is this beauty who has the audacity to send Condé to fetch her refreshment?”

“Why, do you not know?” exclaimed his friend. “It is Mademoiselle de Bonnard, the English Duc’s ward! She is an original, and Condé is captivated by her so unusual behaviour.”

Condé had given Léonie his arm. Together they passed into an adjoining salon, where he procured a glass of ratafie for her. A quarter of an hour later Lady Fanny found them there, both in high fettle, Condé trying to illustrate for Léonie’s benefit a fencing trick, with his quizzing-glass as foil.

“Lud, child, what will you be at?” demanded my lady. She curtsied low to Condé. “M’sieur, you will not let her weary you, I beg.”

“Oh, but I am not wearying him, madame, truly!” said Léonie. “He was thirsty too! Oh, here is Rupert!”

Rupert came in with the Chevalier d’Anvau. When the Chevalier saw Léonie his brow creased.

“Who? who? who? M’sieur, on vous demande.”

Condé waved him aside.

“Mademoiselle, the promised guerdon?”

Léonie gave him the violets at her breast, and smiled prettily as she did so. Condé kissed her hand, and then the flowers and went back into the gallery with the fragrant bunch worn on his coat.

“Well!” said Rupert. “’Pon my soul!”

“Come along, Rupert!” said Léonie. “Take me to find Madame de Pompadour now.”

“No, damme, that I won’t!” said my lord gracefully. “I’ve but this moment escaped, with d’Anvau here. It’s a plaguey dull affair, so it is!”

“Child, I want you,” said Fanny, and took her back to the gallery and left her with her very dear friend Madame de Vauvallon, while she herself went in search of Avon.

She found him at length near the Śil de Bśuf, with de Richelieu and the Duc de Noailles. He came to her at once.

“Well, Fanny, where is my infant?”

“With Clothilde de Vauvallon,” she answered. “Justin, she has given Condé her violets, and he is wearing them! Whither shall this lead?”

“Nowhere, my dear,” said his Grace placidly.

“But, Justin, ’tis not well to ensnare Royalty thus! Too great favour shown spells ruin as surely as too little.”

“I beg you will not distress yourself, my dear. Condé is not in love with the infant, nor she with him.”

“In love! ’Pon rep, I hope not indeed! But all this coquetting and——”

“Fanny, you are sometimes very blind. Condé is amused, no more.”

“Oh, ’tis very well!” shrugged my lady. “What now?”

His Grace’s quizzing-glass swept the gallery.

“Now, my dear, I desire you will take Léonie and present her to Madame de Saint-Vire.”

“Why?” asked my lady, watching him.

“Oh, I think she might be interested!” said his Grace, and smiled.

When Lady Fanny led Léonie to Madame de Saint-Vire, Madame’s hand clenched on her fan, and under all her paint she whitened.

“Madame!” Lady Fanny saw the clenched hand, and heard the quick intake of breath. “It is so long since we met! I trust I see you well?”

“I am very well, madame. You are with—with your brother in—Paris?” Madame spoke with an effort.

“Yes, I am this child’s chaperon!” said Fanny. “Is it not ridiculous? I may present my brother’s ward? Mademoiselle de Bonnard, Madame de Saint-Vire!” She stood back.

Madame’s hand went out involuntarily.

“Child—” she said, and her voice trembled. “Sit with me a while, I beg!” She turned to Fanny. “Madame, I will have a care to her. I should—I should like to talk to her.”

“But certainly!” said Fanny, and walked away at once.

Léonie was left looking into her mother’s face. Madame took her hand, and patted it, and stroked it.

“Come, my little one!” she faltered. “There is a couch by the wall. You will stay with me a few—just a few—minutes?”

“Yes, madame,” said Léonie politely, and wondered why this faded lady should be so agitated. She was not at all pleased at being left with Saint-Vire’s wife, but she went with her to the couch, and sat down beside her.

Madame seemed to be at a loss. She held Léonie’s hand still, and her eyes devoured the girl.

“Tell me, chérie,” she said at last. “Are you—are you happy?”

Léonie was surprised.

“But yes, madame. Of course I am happy!”

“That man—” Madame pressed her handkerchief to her lips—“That man—is good to you?”

“You speak of Monseigneur, my guardian, madame?” Léonie spoke stiffly.

“Yes, petite, yes. Of him.” Madame’s hand trembled.

“Naturellement he is good to me,” Léonie answered.

“Ah, you are offended, but indeed, indeed—— Child, you are so young! I—I might be—your mother!” She laughed rather wildly. “So you will not mind what I say to you, will you? He—your guardian—is not a good man, and you—you——”

“Madame—” Léonie drew her hand away—“I do not want to be rude to you, you understand, but I will not let you speak thus of Monseigneur.”

“You are so fond of him?”

“Yes, madame, I love him de tout mon cśur.”

“Ah, mon Dieu!” Madame whispered. “And he—does he love you?”

“Oh no!” said Léonie. “At least, I do not know, madame. He is just very kind to me.”

Madame’s eyes searched her face.

“It is well,” she said, on a sigh. “Tell me, child, how long have you lived with him?”

“Oh—oh depuis longtemps!” Léonie said vaguely.

“Child, don’t tease me! I—I would not tell your secrets! Where did the Duc find you?”

“Pardon, madame. I have forgotten.”

“He told you to forget!” Madame said quickly. “That is so, is it not?”

Someone came to the couch; Madame shrank a little and was silent.

“Well met, mademoiselle,” said Saint-Vire. “I trust I see you in good health?”

Léonie’s chin was tilted.

“M’sieur?” she said blankly. “Ah, je me souviens! It is M. de Saint-Vire!” She turned to Madame. “I met m’sieur at—peste, I forget! Ah yes!—at Le Dennier, near Le Havre, madame.”

Saint-Vire’s brow darkened.

“You have a good memory, mademoiselle.”

Léonie looked him between the eyes.

“Yes, m’sieur. I do not forget people—ever!”

Not ten paces from them Armand de Saint-Vire was standing, as though rooted to the ground.

“Nom d’un nom d’un nom d’un nom!” he gasped.

“That,” said a soft voice behind him, “is an expression which I have never admired. It lacks—er—force.”

Armand swung round to face the Duke.

“My friend, you shall tell me now who is this Mademoiselle de Bonnard!”

“I doubt it,” said his Grace, and took a pinch of snuff.

“But look at her!” said Armand urgently. “It is Henri! Henri to the life now that I see them side by side!”

“Do you think so?” asked his Grace. “I find her more beautiful than the so dear Comte, and more refined in type.”

Armand shook his arm.

“Who is she?”

“My dear Armand. I have not the slightest intention of telling you, so pray do not grip my arm thus violently.” He removed Armand’s hand from his sleeve, and smoothed the satin. “So. You will do well, my friend, to be blind and dumb concerning my ward.”

“Aha?” Armand looked at him inquisitively. “I wish I knew what game you are playing. She’s his daughter, Justin! I would swear to it!”

“It will be much better if you do no such thing, my dear,” said his Grace. “Leave me to play this game to a close. You shall not then be disappointed.”

“But I do not understand! I cannot imagine what you think to do with——”

“Then pray do not try, Armand. I have said that you shall not be disappointed.”

“I am to be dumb? But all Paris will be talking of it soon!”

“So I think,” agreed this Grace.

“Henri won’t like it,” pondered Armand. “But I do not see that it can harm him. So why do you——”

“My dear, the game is more intricate than you think. You are better out of it, believe me.”

“Well!” Armand bit his finger. “I can trust you to deal with Henri, I suppose. You love him as much as I do, hein?”

“Less than that,” said his Grace, and went slowly to the couch where Léonie sat. He bowed to Madame de Saint-Vire. “Your servant, madame. Once again we meet in this exceedingly draughty salon. My very dear Comte!” He bowed to Saint-Vire. “You renew your acquaintance with my ward?”

“As you see, Duc.”

Léonie had risen, and stood now beside his Grace. He took her hand, and looked mockingly at the Comtesse.

“I had the felicity of meeting my very dear friend in the most unexpected spot only a month ago,” he told her. “We were both, as I remember rightly, in search of—er—lost property. Quite a curious coincidence, was it not? It seems there are some sad rogues in this delightful country.” He pulled out his snuff-box, and saw the Comte redden.

Then the Vicomte de Valmé came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.

“Your so charming son,” purred Avon.

Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.

The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Léonie.

“Your servant, Duc.” He turned to Saint-Vire. “Will you present me, sir?”

“My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!” Saint-Vire said brusquely.

Léonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.

“You are ennuyé, Vicomte, as usual?” Avon fobbed his snuff-box. “You pine for the country, and—a farm, was it not?”

The Vicomte smiled.

“Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.”

“But surely a most—ah—praiseworthy ambition?” drawled Avon. “We will hope that you may one day realize it.” He inclined his head, offered his arm to Léonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.

Léonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.

“Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!”

“What, my infant, is ‘it’?”

“That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was like. But just now it came to me! He is like Jean. It is ridiculous, is it not?”

“Most ridiculous, ma fille. I desire you will not repeat that to anyone.”

“No, Monseigneur, of course not. I am very discreet now, you know.”

Avon saw Condé in the distance, with the violets pinned to his coat, and smiled a little.

“I did not know it, infant, nor have I observed signs of discretion in you, but let that pass. Where, I wonder, is Fanny?”

“She is talking to M. de Penthičvre, Monseigneur. I think he likes her—oh much! Here she is! She looks very pleased, so I expect M. de Penthičvre has told her that she is just as beautiful as she was when she was nineteen.”

Avon put up his glass.

“My infant, you are becoming positively shrewd. Do you know my sister so well?”

“I am very fond of her, Monseigneur,” Léonie hastened to add.

“I do not doubt it, ma fille.” He looked towards Fanny, who had paused to speak to Raoul de Fontanges. “It is most surprising, nevertheless.”

“But she is so kind to me, Monseigneur. Of course, she is sometimes very s——” Léonie stopped, and peeped up at the Duke uncertainly.

“I entirely agree with you, infant. Very silly,” said his Grace imperturbably. “Well, Fanny, can we now depart?”

“That was exactly what I had a mind to ask you!” said my lady. “What a crush! Oh, my dear Justin, de Penthičvre has been saying such things to me! I vow I am all one blush! What are you smiling at? My love, what had Madame de Saint-Vire to say to you?”

“She is mad,” said Léonie, with conviction. “She looked as though she were going to cry, and I did not like it at all. Oh, here is Rupert! Rupert, where have you been?”

Rupert grinned.

“Faith, asleep, in the little salon over there. What, are we going at last? God be praised!”

“Asleep! Oh, Rupert!” Léonie cried. “It has been fort amusant! Monseigneur, who is that pretty lady over there?”

“La, child, that is La Pompadour!” whispered Fanny. “Will you present her, Justin?”

“No, Fanny, I will not,” said his Grace gently.

“Here’s a haughtiness,” remarked Rupert. “For the Lord’s sake let us be gone before all these young pups crowd round Léonie again.”

“But, Justin, will it serve?” asked my lady. “She will take offence, belike.”

“I am not a French satellite,” said his Grace. “And therefore I shall not present my ward to the King’s mistress. I believe Léonie can dispense with the lady’s smiles or frowns.”

“But, Monseigneur, it would please me to——”

“Infant, you will not argue with me, I think.”

“Oh, won’t she!” said Rupert, sotto voce.

“No, Monseigneur. But I did want to——”

“Silence, my child.” Avon led her to the door. “Content yourself with having been presented to their Majesties. They are not, perhaps, so powerful as La Pompadour, but they are infinitely better born.”

“For heaven’s sake, Justin!” gasped my lady. “You’ll be heard!”

“Think of us!” Rupert besought him. “You’ll have the lot of us clapped up, if you’re not careful, or hounded out of the country.”

Avon turned his head.

“If I thought that there was the smallest chance of getting you clapped up, child, I would shout my remarks to the whole of this very overcrowded room,” he said.

“I think you are not at all in a nice humour, Monseigneur,” said Léonie reproachfully. “Why may I not be presented to La Pompadour?”

“Because, infant,” replied his Grace, “she is not—er—enough respectable.”

CHAPTER XXVII

The Hand of Madame de Verchoureux

And Paris began to talk, in whispers at first, then gradually louder, and more openly. Paris remembered an old, old scandal, and said that the English Duc had adopted a base-born daughter of Saint-Vire in revenge for past injuries. Paris thought that it must irk Saint-Vire considerably to see his offspring in the hands of his greatest enemy. Then Paris wondered what the English Duc meant to do with Mademoiselle de Bonnard, and found no solution to the riddle. Paris shook its head, and thought that the ways of Avon were inscrutable and probably fiendish.

Meanwhile Lady Fanny swept through the town with Léonie, and saw to it that her social activities this season should not easily be forgotten. Léonie enjoyed herself very much, and Paris enjoyed her even more. In the mornings she rode out with Avon, and two factions sprang up thereafter amongst her admirers. One faction held that the divine Léonie was seen at her best in the saddle; the other faction was firm that in the ballroom she was incomparable. One excitable young gentleman challenged another on this score, but Hugh Davenant was present, and he took both young hotheads severely to task for bandying Léonie’s name about over their cups, and the affair came to naught.

Others tried to make love to Léonie, whereat she was angry, and turned a cold shoulder on their enthusiasms. She could be dignified when she chose, and her admirers were speedily abashed. Learning of their discomfiture one evening when she was helping Léonie to dress, Lady Fanny forgot herself, and exclaimed:

“Oh, splendidly done, my love! What a duchess you will make, to be sure!”

“A duchess, madame?” Léonie said. “How could I be that?”

Lady Fanny looked at her, and then at a new bracelet that lay on the table.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know, puss!”

Léonie was trembling now.

“Madame——!”

“Oh, my dear, he’s head over ears in love with you, as all the world must know! I have watched it grow, and—my dearest life, there is no one I would sooner have for my sister than you, I do assure you!”

“Madame, you—you must be mistaken!”

“Mistaken? I? Trust me to read the signs, my love! I have known Justin many years, and never have I seen him as he is now. Silly child, why does he give you all these jewels?”

“I—I am his ward, madame.”

“Pooh!” My lady snapped her fingers. “A fig for that! Tell me why he made you his ward?”

“I—I do not know, madame. I—did not think.”

My lady kissed her again.

“You will be a duchess before the year is out, never fear!”

Léonie pushed her away.

“It’s not true! You shall not say these things!”

“Why, here’s a heat! Is there ever a man you have liked as you like ‘Monseigneur’?”

“Madame——” Léonie pressed her hands together. “I am very ignorant, but I know—I have heard what people say when such as Monseigneur wed—wed ladies of no birth. I am only a tavern-keeper’s sister. Monseigneur could not marry me. I—I had not thought of it.”

“’Tis I who am a fool to have put the idea into your head!” said Fanny remorsefully.

“Madame, I beg you will not say it to anyone.”

“Not I, child, but everyone knows that you have Avon in your toils.”

“I have not! I hate you when you talk like that!”

“Oh, my dear, we are but two women! What matter? Justin will count no cost, believe me. You may be born as low as you please, but will he care once he looks into your eyes?”

Léonie shook her head stubbornly.

“I know I am not a fool, madame. It would be a disgrace for him to marry me. One must be born.”

“Fiddle, child! If Paris accepts you without question shall not Avon too?”

“Madame, Monseigneur has no love for those who are low-born. Many, many times I have heard him say so.”

“Never think of it, child.” Lady Fanny wished that she had not allowed her tongue to run away with her. “Come, let me tie your ribands!” She bustled about Léonie, and presently whispered in her ear: “My sweet, do you not love him?”

“Oh, madame, madame, I have always loved him, but I did not think—until you made me see——”

“There, child, there! Do not cry, I implore you! You will make your eyes red.”

“I do not care about my eyes!” said Léonie, but she dried her tears, and permitted Lady Fanny to powder her face again.

When they went downstairs together Avon stood in the hall, and the sight of him brought the colour to Léonie’s cheeks. He looked at her closely.

“What ails you, infant?”

“Nothing, Monseigneur.”

He pinched her chin caressingly.

“It is the thought of your princely admirer that makes you blush, ma fille?”

Léonie recovered herself at this.

“Ah, bah!” she said scornfully.

Condé was not present at Madame de Vauvallon’s rout that night, but there were many others who had come to see Léonie, and not a few who had come early in the hope of securing her hand for a dance. Avon arrived late, as ever, and Madame de Vauvallon, who had no daughters of marriageable age, greeted him with a laugh, and a gesture of despair.

“My friend, I have a score of young beaux who give me no peace until I promise to present them to la petite! Fanny, Marchérand is back! Let me find—oh, la la! I should say choose—a gallant for Léonie, and I’ll tell you the scandal! Come, little one!” She took Léonie’s hand, and led her into the room. “How you have set Paris by the ears! Were my daughters older I should be so jealous! Now, child, who will you have to lead you out?”

Léonie looked round the room.

“I do not mind, madame. I will have—Oh, oh, oh!” She let go Madame’s hand, and ran forward. “Milor’ Merivale, Milor’ Merivale!” she cried joyfully.

Merivale turned quickly.

“Léonie! Well, child, and how do you go on?” He kissed her hand. She was radiant. “I hoped I might see you here to-night.”

Madame de Vauvallon bore down upon them.

“Fie, what behaviour!” she said indulgently. “Is this your cavalier? Very well, petite. You need no introduction, it seems.” She smiled benignantly upon them, and went back to Fanny’s side.

Léonie tucked her hand in Merivale’s.

“M’sieur, I am very pleased to see you. Is Madame here too?”

“No, child, I am on one of my periodical visits. Alone. I won’t deny that I was drawn hither by certain rumours that reached us in London.”

She put her head on one side.

“What rumours, m’sieur?”

His smile grew.

“Faith, rumours of the sucčs fou that has been achieved by——”

“Me!” she cried, and clapped her hands. “Milor’, I am le dernier cri! Vraiment, it is so! Lady Fanny says it is. C’est ridicule, n’est-ce pas?” She saw Avon coming towards them, and beckoned with pretty imperiousness. “Monseigneur, see whom I have found!”

“Merivale?” His Grace made a leg. “Now why?”

“We have heard things in London,” said Merivale. “Egad, I could not but come!”

“Oh, and we are very glad!” Léonie said enthusiastically.

His Grace offered Merivale snuff.

“Why, I believe my infant speaks for us all,” he said.

“Hey, is it you, Tony, or am I in my cups?” demanded a jovial voice. Lord Rupert came up, and wrung Merivale’s hand. “Where are you staying? When did you come?”

“Last night. I am with De Châtelet. And——” he looked from one to the other—“I am something anxious to hear what befell you all!”

“Ay, you were in our escapade, weren’t you?” said Rupert. “Gad, what a chase! How does my friend—stap me if I have not forgot his name again!—Manvers! That’s the fellow! How does he?”

Merivale flung out a hand.

“I beg you’ll not mention that name to me!” he said. “All three of you fled the country, and, faith, it’s as well you did!”

“I suggest we repair to the smaller salon,” Avon said, and led the way there. “I trust you were able to satisfy Mr. Manvers?”

Merivale shook his head.

“Nothing less than your blood is like to satisfy him,” he said. “Tell me all that happened to you.”

“In English,” drawled his Grace, “and softly.”

So once again the tale was told of Léonie’s capture and rescue. Then Madame de Vauvallon came in search of Léonie, and bore her away to dance with an ardent youth. Rupert wandered away to the card-room.

Merivale looked at the Duke.

“And what does Saint-Vire say to Léonie’s success?” he inquired.

“Very little,” replied his Grace. “But he is not pleased; I fear.”

“She does not know?”

“She does not.”

“But the likeness is striking, Alastair. What says Paris?”

“Paris,” said his Grace, “talks in whispers. Thus my very dear friend Saint-Vire lives in some dread of discovery.”

“When do you intend to strike?”

Avon crossed his legs, and eyed one diamond shoe-buckle pensively.

“That, my dear Merivale, is still on the knees of the gods. Saint-Vire himself must supply the proof to my story.”

“It’s awkward, damned awkward!” Merivale commented. “You’ve no proof at all?”

“None.”

Merivale laughed.

“It does not seem to worry you!”

“No,” sighed his Grace, “no. I believe I can trap the Comte through his so charming wife. I play a waiting game, you see.”

“I am glad that I am not Saint-Vire. Your game must be torture to him.”

“Why, so I think,” agreed Avon pleasantly. “I am not anxious to put an end to his agonies.”

“You’re very vindictive!”

There was a moment’s silence; then Avon spoke.

“I wonder if you have realized to the full my friend’s villainy. Consider for a moment, I beg of you. What mercy would you show to a man who could condemn his own daughter to the life my infant has led?”

Merivale straightened in his chair.

“I know nothing of her life. It was bad?”

“Yes, my dear, it was indeed bad. Until she was twelve years old she, a Saint-Vire, was reared as a peasant. After that she lived among the canaille of Paris. Conceive a tavern in a mean street, a bully for master, a shrew for mistress, and Vice, in all its lowest forms, under my infant’s very nose.”

“It must have been—hell!” Merivale said.

“Just so,” bowed his Grace. “It was the very worst kind of hell, as I know.”

“The wonder is that she has come through it unscathed.”

The hazel eyes lifted.

“Not quite unscathed, my dear Anthony. Those years have left their mark.”

“It were inevitable, I suppose. But I confess I have not seen the mark.”

“Possibly not. You see the roguery, and the dauntless spirit.”

“And you?” Merivale watched him curiously.

“Oh, I see beneath, my dear! But then, I have had experience of the sex, as you know.”

“And you see—what?”

“A certain cynicism, born of the life she has led; a streak of strange wisdom; the wistfulness behind the gaiety; sometimes fear; and nearly always the memory of loneliness that hurts the soul.”

Merivale looked down at his snuff-box, and fell to tracing the pattern on it with one finger.

“Do you know,” he said slowly, “I think that you have grown, Alastair?”

His Grace rose.

“Quite a reformed character, in fact,” he said.

“You can do no wrong in Léonie’s eyes.”

“No, it is most amusing, is it not?” Avon smiled, but there was bitterness in his smile, which Merivale saw.

Then they went back into the ballroom, and learned from Lady Fanny that Léonie had disappeared some time ago on Rupert’s arm, and had not since been seen.

She had indeed gone out with Rupert to a small salon where he brought her refreshment. Then had come towards them one Madame de Verchoureux, a handsome termagant who had been all things to Avon when Léonie had first come to him. She looked at Léonie with hatred in her eyes, and paused for a moment beside her couch.

Rupert came to his feet, and bowed. Madame swept a curtsy.

“It is—Mademoiselle de Bonnard?” she said.

“Yes, madame.” Léonie got up, and curtsied also. “I am very stupid, but I cannot at once recall madame’s name.”

Rupert, supposing the lady to be one of Fanny’s friends, lounged back into the ballroom; Léonie was left looking up at Avon’s slighted mistress.

“I felicitate you, mademoiselle,” said the lady sarcastically. “You are more fortunate than I was, it seems.”

“Madame?” The sparkle was gone from Léonie’s eyes. “Have I the honour of madame’s acquaintance?”

“I am one Henriette de Verchoureux. You do not know me.”

“Pardon, madame; but I know of you—much,” Léonie said swiftly. Madame had steered clear of open scandal, but she was somewhat notorious. Léonie remembered the days when Avon had visited her so often.

Madame flushed angrily.

“Indeed, mademoiselle? And of Mademoiselle de Bonnard is also known—much. Mademoiselle is very clever, sans doute, but to those who know Avon the so strict chaperon is a poor disguise.”

Léonie raised her eyebrows.

“Is it possible that madame imagines that I have succeeded where she failed?”

“Insolent!” Madame’s hand clenched on her fan.

“Madame?”

Madame stared down at Youth, and knew the pangs of jealousy.

“Brazen it out!” she said shrilly. “You hope to marry in all honour, little fool, but be advised by me, and leave him, for Avon will wed no base-born girl!”

Léonie’s eyelids flickered, but she said nothing. Madame changed her tactics suddenly, and stretched out her hand.

“My dear, I protest I pity you! You are so young; you do not know the ways of this world of ours. Avon would not be fool enough to wed with one of your blood, believe me. He were surely lost an he dared!” She laughed, covertly watching Léonie. “Even an English Duke would not be received were he wedded to such as you,” she said.

“Tiens, am I so base?” Léonie said with polite interest. “I think it is not possible that madame should have known my parents.”

Madame shot her a piercing look.

“Can it be that you do not know?” she asked, and flung back her head, and laughed again. “Have you not heard the whispers? Have you not seen that Paris watches you, and wonders?”

“But yes, madame, I know that I am quite the rage.”

“Poor child, is that all you know? Why, where is your mirror? Where are your eyes? Have you never looked at that fiery head of yours, never asked whence came your black brows and lashes? All Paris knows, and you are ignorant?”

“Eh bien!” Léonie’s heart beat fast, but she maintained her outward composure. “Enlighten me, madame! What does Paris know?”

“That you are a base-born child of the Saint-Vire, my child. And we—nous autres—laugh to see Avon all unconsciously harbouring a daughter of his dearest enemy!”

Léonie was as white as her ruffle.

“You lie!”

Madame laughed tauntingly.

“Ask your fine father if I lie!” She gathered her skirts about her and made a gesture of disdain. “Avon must know soon, and then what comes to you? Little fool, best leave him now while you may do so of your own choice!” She was gone on the word, leaving Léonie to stand alone in the salon, her hands clasped together tightly, her face set and rigid.

Gradually she relaxed her taut muscles, and sank down again upon the couch, trembling. Her impulse was to seek shelter at Avon’s side, but she restrained herself, and stayed where she was. At first she was incredulous of Madame de Verchoureux’s pronouncement, but little by little she came to see the probability of the story’s truth. Saint-Vire’s attempt to kidnap her was thus explained, as was also the interest he had always taken in her. Sick disgust rose in her.

“Bon Dieu, what a father I have!” she said viciously. “Pig-person! Bah!”

Disgust gave way to a feeling of horror, and of fright. If Madame de Verchoureux had spoken the truth, Léonie could see the old loneliness stretching ahead, for it was clearly unthinkable that such a one as Avon could marry, or even adopt, a girl of her birth. He came of the nobility; she felt herself to be of mongrel blood. Lax he might be, but Léonie knew that if he married her he would disgrace the ancient name he bore. Those who knew him said that he would count no cost, but Léonie would count the cost for him, and because she loved him, because he was her seigneur, she would sacrifice everything sooner than drag him down in the eyes of his world.

She bit hard on her lip; it was better by far to think herself of peasant blood than a bastard daughter of Saint-Vire. Her world was toppling about her ears, but she rose up, and went back into the ballroom.

Avon came to her soon, and gave her his arm.

“I believe you are tired, my infant. We will find Lady Fanny.”

Léonie tucked her hand in his arm, and gave a little sigh.

“Monseigneur, let us go, and leave Lady Fanny, and Rupert. I do not want them.”

“Very well, infant.” Avon beckoned to Rupert across the room, and when he came to them, said languidly: “I am taking the child home, Rupert. Oblige me by waiting to escort Fanny.”

“I’ll take Léonie home,” offered Rupert with alacrity. “Fanny won’t come away for hours!”

“That is why I am leaving you to look to her,” said his Grace. “Come, ma fille.”

He took Léonie home in his light town chaise, and during the short drive she forced herself to talk gaily of the rout they had left, of this man and that, and a thousand other trivialities. Arrived at the Hôtel Avon she went at once to the library. His Grace followed.

“Well, ma mie, what now?”

“Now it is just as it used to be,” Léonie said wistfully, and sat down on a low stool beside the Duke’s chair.

His Grace poured out a glass of wine, and looked down at Léonie with a questioning lift to his brows.

Léonie clasped her hands about her knees, and stared deep into the fire.

“Monseigneur, the Duc de Penthičvre was there tonight.”

“As I saw, infant.”

“You do not mind him, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all, infant. Why should I?”

“Well, Monseigneur, he is not—he is not well-born, is he?”

“On the contrary, child, his father was a royal bastard, and his mother a de Noailles.”

“That was what I meant,” said Léonie. “It does not matter that his father was a bastard prince?”

“Ma fille, since the Comte de Toulouse’s father was the King, it does not matter at all.”

“It would matter if his father were not the King, would it not? I think it is very strange.”

“It is the way of the world, infant. We forgive the peccadilloes of a king, but we look askance on those of a commoner.”

“Even you, Monseigneur. And—and you do not love those who are base-born.”

“I do not, infant. I deplore the modern tendency to flaunt an indiscretion before the eyes of Society.”

Léonie nodded.

“Yes, Monseigneur.” She was silent for a moment. “M. de Saint-Vire was also there to-night.”

“I trust he did not seek to abduct you again?” His Grace spoke flippantly.

“No, Monseigneur. Why did he try to do it before?”

“Doubtless because of your beaux yeux, infant.”

“Bah, that is foolish! What was his real reason, Monseigneur?”

“My child, you make a great mistake in thinking me omniscient. You confuse me with Hugh Davenant.”

Léonie blinked.

“Does that mean that you do not know, Monseigneur?”

“Something of the sort, ma fille.”

She raised her head, and looked at him straightly.

“Do you suppose, Monseigneur, that he did it because he does not like you?”

“Quite possibly, infant. His motives need not worry us. May I now be permitted to ask you a question?”

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

“There was at the rout to-night a lady of the name of Verchoureux. Did you have speech with her?”

Léonie was gazing into the fire again.

“Verchoureux?” she said musingly. “I do not think . . .”

“It’s very well,” said his Grace.

Then Hugh Davenant came into the room, and his Grace, looking at him, did not see the tell-tale blush that crept to Léonie’s cheeks.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Comte de Saint-Vire Discovers an Ace in his Hand

The comment that Léonie was exciting in the Polite World reduced Madame de Saint-Vire to a state of nervous dread. Her mind was in a tumult; she watered her pillow nightly with useless, bitter tears and was smitten alike with fear, and devastating remorse. She tried to hide these sensations from her husband, of whom she was afraid, but she could hardly bring herself to speak to her pseudo-son. Before her eyes, day and night, was Léonie’s image, and her poor cowed spirit longed for this daughter, and her arms ached to hold her. Saint-Vire spoke roughly when he saw her red eyes, and wan looks.

“Have done with these lamentations, Marie! You’ve not seen the girl since she was a day old, so you can have no affection for her.”

“She is mine!” Madame said with trembling lips. “My own daughter! You do not understand, Henri. You cannot understand.”

“How should I understand your foolish megrims? You’ll undo me with your sighing and your weeping! Have you thought what discovery would mean?”

She wrung her hands, and her weak eyes filled again with tears.

“Oh Henri, I know, I know! It’s ruin! I—I would not betray you, but I cannot forget my sin. If you would but let me confess to Father Dupré!”

Saint-Vire clicked his tongue impatiently.

“You must be mad!” he said. “I forbid it! You understand?”

Out came Madame’s handkerchief.

“You are so hard!” she wept. “Do you know that they are saying she is—she is—your base-born child? My little, little daughter.”

“Of course I know it! It’s a loophole for escape, but I do not yet see how I can turn it to account. I tell you, Marie, this is not the time for repentance, but for action! Do you want to see our ruin? Do you know how complete it would be?”

She shrank from him.

“Yes, Henri, yes! I—I know, and I am afraid! I scarce dare show my face abroad. Every night I dream that it is all discovered. I shall go mad, I think.”

“Calm yourself, madame. It may be that Avon plays this waiting game to fret my nerves so that I confess. If he had proof he would surely have struck before.” Saint-Vire bit his finger-nail, scowling.

“That man! That horrible, cruel man!” Madame shuddered. “He has the means to crush you, and I know that he will do it!”

“If he has no proof he cannot. It’s possible that Bonnard confessed, or that his wife did. They must both be dead, for I’ll swear Bonnard would not have dared let the girl out of his keeping! Bon Dieu, why did I not inquire whither they went when they left Champagne?”

“You thought—you thought it would be better not to know,” Madame faltered. “But where did that man find my little one? How could he know——?”

“He is the devil himself. I believe there is naught he does not know. But if I can only get the girl out of his hands he can do nothing. I am convinced he has no proof.”

Madame began to pace the room, twisting her hands together.

“I cannot bear to think of her in his power!” she exclaimed. “Who knows what he will do to her? She’s so young, and so beautiful——”

“She’s fond enough of Avon,” Saint-Vire said, and laughed shortly. “And she’s well able to care for herself, little vixen!”

Madame stood still, hope dawning in her face.

“Henri, if Avon has no proof how can he know that Léonie is my child? Does he not perhaps think that she is—what they are saying? Is that not possible?”

“It is possible,” Saint-Vire admitted. “And yet, from things he has said to me, I feel sure that he has guessed.”

“And Armand!” she cried. “Will he not guess? Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what can we do? Was it worth it, Henri? Oh, was it worth it, just to spite Armand?”

“I don’t regret it!” snapped Saint-Vire. “What I have done I have done, and since I cannot now undo it I’ll not waste my time wondering if it was worth it! You’ll be good enough to show your face abroad, madame. I do not desire to give Avon more cause for suspicion.”

“But what will he do?” Madame asked. “Why does he wait like this? What is in his mind?”

“Sangdieu, madame, if I knew do you suppose that I should stand thus idle?”

“Does—does she know, think you?”

“No, I’d stake mine honour she does not know.”

Madame laughed wildly.

“Your honour! your honour! Grand Dieu, you can speak of that?”

He took an angry step towards her; her fingers were about the door-handle.

“It was dead when you made me give up my child!” she cried. “You will see your name dragged in the mud! And mine! and mine! Oh, can you do nothing?”

“Be silent, madame!” he hissed. “Do you want the lackeys to hear you?”

She started, and cast a quick, furtive glance round.

“Discovery—will kill me, I think,” she said, quite quietly, and went out.

Saint-Vire flung himself into a chair, and stayed there, frowning. To him came presently a lackey.

“Well?” Saint-Vire shot the word out.

“Monsieur, there is a lady who desires speech with you.”

“A lady?” Saint-Vire was surprised. “Who?”

“Monsieur, I do not know. She awaits you in the smaller salon, and she says that she will see you.”

“Of what like is she?”

“Monsieur, she is veiled.”

“An intrigue, enfin!” Saint-Vire rose. “In the smaller salon?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Saint-Vire went out, and crossed the hall to the little withdrawing-room. A lady was standing by the window, enveloped in a cloak, and with a veil hanging down over her face. She turned as Saint-Vire came in, and put back the veil with a small, resolute hand. Saint-Vire looked into his daughter’s dark eyes.

“Oho!” he said softly, and looked for the key to the door.

“I have it,” Léonie said calmly. “And I will tell you, m’sieur, that my maid waits for me in the street. If I do not come to her in half an hour she will go at once to Monseigneur and tell him that I am here.”

“Very clever,” Saint-Vire said smoothly. “What is it that you want of me? Are you not afraid to put yourself in my power?”

“Bah!” said Léonie, and let him see her little gold-mouthed pistol.

Saint-Vire came further into the room.

“A pretty toy,” he sneered, “but I know what women are with such playthings.”

“Quant ŕ ça,” said Léonie frankly, “I should like very much to kill you, because you gave me an evil drink, but I won’t kill you unless you touch me.”

“Oh, I thank you, mademoiselle! To what am I indebted for this visit?”

Léonie fixed her eyes on his face.

“Monsieur, you shall tell me now if it is true that you are my father.”

Saint-Vire said nothing, but stood very still, waiting.

“Speak, you!” Léonie said fiercely. “Are you my father?”

“My child——” Saint-Vire spoke softly. “Why do you ask me that?”

“Because they are saying that I am your base-born daughter. Tell me, is it true?” She stamped her foot at him.

“My poor child!” Saint-Vire approached, but was confronted by the nozzle of the pistol. “You need not fear, petite. It has never been my intention to harm you.”

“Pig-person!” Léonie said. “I am not afraid of anything, but if you come near me I shall be sick. Is it true what they say?”

“Yes, my child,” he said, and achieved a sigh.

“How I hate you!” she said with fervour.

“Will you not be seated?” he asked. “It grieves me to hear you say that you hate me, but indeed I understand what you must feel. I am very sorry for you, petite.”

“I will not be seated,” Léonie said flatly, “and it makes me feel worse when you call me petite, and say you are sorry for me. More than ever I want to kill you.”

Saint-Vire was rather shocked.

“I am your father, child!”

“I do not care at all,” she replied. “You are an evil person, and if it is true that I am your daughter you are more evil than even I thought.”

“You do not understand the ways of the world we live in,” he sighed. “A youthful indiscretion—you must not think too hardly of me, child. I will do all in my power to provide for you, and indeed I am greatly exercised over your welfare. I believed you to be in the charge of some worthy people once in mine employ. You may judge of my feelings when I found you in the Duc of Avon’s clutches.” Before the look on Léonie’s face he recoiled a little.

“If you speak one word against Monseigneur I will shoot you dead,” said Léonie softly.

“I do not speak against him, child. Why should I? He is no worse than any of us, but it grieves me to see you in his toils. I cannot but take an interest in you, and I fear for you when it becomes common knowledge that you are my daughter.”

She said nothing. After a moment he continued.

“In our world, child, we dislike open scandal. That is why I tried to rescue you from Avon a while back. I wish that I had told you then why I carried you off, but I thought to spare you that unpleasant knowledge.”

“How you are kind!” marvelled Léonie. “Of a truth it is a great thing to be the daughter of M. de Saint-Vire!”

He flushed.

“You thought me brutal, I know, but I acted for the best. You outwitted me, and I saw that it would have been wiser to have told you of your birth. The secret cannot be kept, for you resemble me too greatly. We are like to be plunged in a scandal now that will hurt us all.”

“It seems that most people know who I am,” Léonie answered, “but I am very well received, je vous assure.”

“At the moment you are, but when I openly acknowledge you—what then?”

“Tiens!” Léonie stared at him. “Why should you do that!”

“I have no cause to love your—guardian,” Saint-Vire said, and kept a wary eye on the pistol. “And I do not think that he would be pleased if the world knew he had adopted a base-born child of mine. His pride would be humbled, I think.”

“What if he knows already?” Léonie asked. “If others know, so must he.”

“Do you think he does?” Saint-Vire said.

She was silent.

“He might suspect,” he went on. “Perhaps he does; I do not know. Yet I think if he had done so he would hardly have brought you to Paris. He would not like Society to laugh at him as Society will laugh when it learns who you are. I can harm him greatly in this matter.”

“How can you harm him, you—you pig-person?”

Saint-Vire smiled.

“Were you not his page, ma fille? It is not convenable for young girls to masquerade as boys in the house of an Alastair. Think of the scandal when I tell that tale! Be very sure that I shall take care to set Paris about M. le Duc’s ears. His morals are well known, and I do not think that Paris will believe in his innocence, or yours.”

Léonie curled her lip.

“Voyons, am I a fool? Paris would not care that Monseigneur had made a bastard his mistress.”

“No, child, but would not Paris care that Avon had had the audacity to take his base-born mistress into Society? You have queened it right royally, and I hear that you even have Condé in your toils. That will not make Paris more lenient. You have been too great a success, my dear. You are a masquerader, and Avon has cheated Society with you. Do you think Society will forgive that? I think we shall not see M. le Duc in France again, and it is possible the scandal might spread to London. His reputation would not aid him to kill the scandal, I assure you.”

“I wonder if it would be better that I kill you now?” Léonie said slowly. “You shall not harm Monseigneur, pig-person. That I swear!”

“I have no great wish to harm him,” Saint-Vire said indifferently. “But I cannot see my child in his care. Some paternal feeling you will allow me. Put yourself in my hands, and Avon has nothing to fear from me. All my wish is to see you safely disposed in life. There need be no scandal if you disappear from Society, but if you remain under Avon’s roof scandal must come. And since I am like to be involved in it, I prefer to head the cry,”

“And if I go you will say nothing?”

“Not a word. Why should I? Let me make provision for you. I can find a home for you. I will send you money. And perhaps you will——”

“I do not put myself in the hands of a pig-person,” Léonie said crushingly. “I will disappear, bien entendu, but I will go to one who loves me, not to you, who are without doubt a villain.” She swallowed hard, and her hand clutched on the pistol. “I give you my word that I will disappear.”

He held out his hand.

“Poor child, this is a sad day for you. There is nothing I can say, but that I am sorry. It is for the best, as you will see. Where do you go?”

She held her head high.

“I do not tell you or anyone that,” she said. “I make just one prayer to the good God that I may never see you again.” Words choked in her throat; she made a gesture of loathing, and went to the door. There she turned. “I forget. You will swear to me that you will say nothing that may harm Monseigneur. Swear it on the Bible!”

“I swear,” he said. “But there is no need. Once you are gone there will be no occasion for me to speak. I want no scandal.”

“Bon!” she said. “I do not trust your oath, but I think you are a great coward, and you would not like to make a scandal. I hope you will be punished one day.” She flung the door-key down on the floor, and went quickly out.

Saint-Vire passed his handkerchief across his brow.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispered. “She showed me how to play my ace! Now, Satanas, we shall see who wins!”

CHAPTER XXIX

The Disappearance of Léonie

Lord Rupert yawned mightily, and heaved himself up in his chair.

“What do we do to-night?” he asked. “’Pon my soul, I’ve never been to so many balls in my life! It’s no wonder I’m worn out.”

“Oh, my dear Rupert, I am nigh dead with fatigue!” Fanny cried. “At least we have this one evening quiet! To-morrow there is Madame du Deffand’s soiree.” She nodded to Léonie. “You will enjoy that, my love, I assure you. A few poems to be read, discussion, all the wit of Paris present—oh, ’twill be a most amusing evening, I vow! There is no one who will not be there.”

“What, so we have respite to-day, have we?” said Rupert. “Now, what shall I do?”

“I thought you said you were worn out?” Marling remarked.

“So I am, but I can’t sit at home all the evening. What do you do?”

“Hugh and I are bound for de Châtelet’s, to visit Merivale. Will you accompany us?”

Rupert considered for a while.

“No, I believe I’ll go to this new gaming-house I hear tell of.”

Avon put up his glass.

“Oh? What, and where, is the novelty?”

“In the Rue Chambéry. It’s like to kill Vassaud’s if what they say is true. I’m surprised you’d not heard of it.”

“Yes, it is not in keeping with the part,” Avon said. “I believe I will go with you there this evening, child. It will not do for Paris to think I did not know of it.”

“What, will you all be out?” Fanny asked. “And I had promised to dine with my dear Julie! Léonie, I am sure that she will be pleased if you come with me.”

“Oh madame, I am so tired!” Léonie protested. “I would like to go to bed early to-night.”

Rupert stretched his long legs out before him.

“Tired at last!” he said. “Faith, I thought you’d never be wearied out!”

“My dearest life, I will tell the servants to take a tray to your room,” Fanny said. “You must not be tired tomorrow, for I am determined you shall come to Madame du Deffand’s soirée! Why, Condé is sure to be there!”

Léonie smiled rather wanly, and encountered Avon’s scrutiny.

“My infant, what has happened to trouble you?” he asked.

She opened wide her eyes.

“But nothing, Monseigneur! It is just that I have a touch of the migraine.”

“To be sure, I am not surprised.” My lady shook her head wisely. “We have been abroad late every night this week. It is I who am at fault to have permitted it.”

“Oh, but madame, it has been fort amusant!” Léonie said. “I have enjoyed myself so much!”

“Egad, and so have I!” Rupert remarked. “It has been a mad two months, and I scarce know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. Are you off already, Hugh?”

“We are dining with de Châtelet at four,” Hugh explained. “I’ll say good night, Léonie. You’ll be abed when we return.”

She gave him her hand; her eyes were downcast. Both he and Marling kissed the slender fingers. Hugh made some joke to Rupert, and they went out.

“Do you dine at home, Justin?” asked my lady. “I must go change my gown, and order the light chaise to take me to Julie.”

“I will bear my infant company at dinner,” said Avon. “And then she shall go to bed. Rupert?”

“No, I’m off at once,” said Rupert. “I’ve a little matter to talk over with d’Anvau. Come, Fan!”

They went out together. Avon crossed over to the couch where Léonie sat, and tweaked one of her curls.

“Child, you are strangely silent.”

“I was thinking,” she said gravely.

“Of what, ma mie?”

“Oh, I shall not tell you that, Monseigneur!” she said, and smiled. “Let us—let us play at piquet until it is time for dinner!”

So they played at piquet, and presently Lady Fanny came in to say good night, and was gone again in a minute, having adjured Léonie to be sure and retire to bed immediately after dinner. She kissed Léonie, and was surprised to receive a quick hug from her. Rupert went away with Fanny, and Léonie was left alone with the Duke.

“They are gone,” she said in a curious voice.

“Yes, child. What of it?” His Grace dealt the cards with an expert hand.

“Nothing, Monseigneur. I am stupid to-night.”

They played on until dinner was served, and then went into the big dining-room, and sat down together at the table. Avon soon sent the lackeys away, whereat Léonie gave a sigh of relief.

“That is nice,” she remarked. “I like to be alone again. I wonder whether Rupert will lose much money to-night?”

“We will hope not, infant. You will know by his expression to-morrow.”

She did not reply, but began to eat a sweetmeat, and did not look at his Grace.

“You eat too many sweetmeats, ma fille,” he said. “It’s no wonder you are growing pale.”

“You see, Monseigneur, I had never eaten any until you bought me from Jean,” she explained.

“I know, child.”

“So now I eat too many,” she added. “Monseigneur, I am very glad that we are alone together to-night, like this.”

“You flatter me,” he bowed.

“No. Since we came back to Paris we have hardly ever been alone, and I have wanted—oh, many times!—to thank you for being so very kind to me.”

He frowned down at the walnut he was cracking.

“I pleased myself, infant. I believe I told you once before that I am no hero.”

“Did it please you to make me your ward?” she asked.

“Evidently, ma fille, else I had not done so.”

“I have been very happy, Monseigneur.”

“If that is so it is very well,” he said.

She rose, and put down her napkin.

“I am growing more and more tired,” she said. “I hope Rupert wins to-night. And you.”

“I always win, child.” He opened the door for her, and went with her to the foot of the stairs. “I wish you a good night’s rest, ma belle.”

She dropped suddenly on one knee, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment.

“Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit!” she said huskily. Then she rose again, and ran up the stairs to her chamber.

Her maid was there, agog with excitement. Léonie shut the door carefully, brushing past the girl, and flung herself on to the bed, and cried as though her heart would break. The abigail hovered over her, soothing and caressing.

“Oh, mademoiselle, why will you run away like this? Must we go to-night indeed?”

Downstairs the great front door shut; Léonie clasped her hands over her eyes.

“Gone! Gone! Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” She lay battling with her sobs, and presently rose, quiet and resolute, and turned to her maid. “The travelling-coach, Marie?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I hired one this morning, and ’tis to await us at the corner of the road in an hour’s time. But it has cost you the best part of six hundred francs, mademoiselle, and the man did not like to start so late. We shall not reach farther than Chartres to-night, he says.”

“It’s no matter. I have enough money left to pay for everything. Bring me paper now, and ink. Are you sure—are you sure that you wish to come with me?”

“But yes, mademoiselle!” the girl averred. “M. le Duc would be wroth with me an I let you go alone.”

Léonie looked at her drearily.

“I tell you we shall never, never see him again.”

Marie shook her head sceptically, but merely said that she had quite made up her mind to go with mademoiselle. Then she fetched ink and paper, and Léonie sat down to write her farewell.

Upon her return Lady Fanny peeped into Léonie’s room to see whether she slept. She held her candle high so that the light fell on the bed, and saw that it was empty. Something white lay upon the coverlet; she darted forward, and with a trembling hand held two sealed notes to the candlelight. One was addressed to herself; the other to Avon.

Lady Fanny felt suddenly faint, and sank down into a chair, staring numbly at the folded papers. Then she set her candle down upon the table, and tore open the note that was for her.

“My dear Madame,” (she read),—

“I write this to say Fare Well, and Because I want to Thank you for your Kindness to me. I have told Monseigneur why I must go. You have been so very Good to me, and I Love you, and indeed, indeed I am sorry thatt I can only write to you. I shall never forget you.

“Léonie.”

Lady Fanny flew up out of her chair.

“Oh, good God!” she cried. “Léonie! Justin! Rupert! Oh, is no one here? Heavens, what shall I do?” Down the stairs she ran, and, seeing a lackey by the door, hurried up to him. “Where’s mademoiselle? When did she go out? Answer me, dolt!”

“Madame? Mademoiselle is abed.”

“Fool! Imbecile! Where’s her maid?”

“Why, madame, she went out just before six, with—Rachel, I think it was.”

“Rachel is in my chamber!” snapped her ladyship. “Oh, what in God’s name shall I do? Is his Grace returned?”

“No, madame, not yet.”

“Send him to me in the library as soon as he comes in!” Lady Fanny commanded, and went there herself, and read Léonie’s note again.

Twenty minutes later his Grace entered.

“Fanny? What’s to do?”

“Oh, Justin, Justin!” she said on a sob. “Why did we leave her? She’s gone! Gone, I tell you!”

His Grace strode forward.

“Léonie?” he said sharply.

“Who else?” demanded my lady. “Poor, poor child! She left this for me, and one for you. Take it!”

His Grace broke the seal of his note, and spread out the thin sheet. Lady Fanny watched him while he read, and saw his mouth set hard.

“Well?” she said. “What does she write to you? For heaven’s sake tell me!”

The Duke handed the note to her, and went to the fire, and stared down into it.

“Monseigneur,—

“I have run away from you because I have discovered thatt I am not what you Think me. I told you a Lie when I said thatt Madame de Verchoureux had not Spoken to me the other Night. She told me thatt Every One knows I am a Base-born daughter of Saint-Vire. It is Quite True, Monseigneur, for on Thursday I slipped out with my Maid, and went to his House, and asked him if it were indeed so. Monseigneur, it is not convenable thatt I stay with you. I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you, and I know that I must do this if I stay with you, for M. de Saint-Vire will say thatt I am his Bastard, and your Mistress. I do not want to go, Monseigneur, but it is best thatt I should. I tried to Thank you To-night, but you would not let me. Please, you must not be anxious for me. I wanted at first to Kill myself, but then I saw thatt thatt is Cowardly. I am Quite Safe, and I am going very far away to Some One who will be good to me, I know. I have left all my Things, except the Money you gave me, which I must take to pay my Journey, and the Sapphire Chain which you gave me when I was your Page. I thought you would not Mind if I took thatt, because it is the only thing I have kept which you gave me. Marie goes with me, and Please you must not be Angry with the Lackeys for letting me go, for they thought I was Rachel. I leave for Rupert, and M. Davenant, and M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale my so Great Love for them. And for you, Monseigneur. I cannot write it. I am Glad thatt we were Alone to-night.

“A Dieu.

“Infant.”

Lady Fanny’s face worked for a minute, then she whisked out her handkerchief and cried into it, regardless of paint and powder. His Grace picked up the note, and read it through again.

“Poor little infant!” he said softly.

“Oh, Justin, we must find her!” sniffed her ladyship.

“We shall find her,” he answered. “I think I know where she has gone.”

“Where? Can you go after her? Now? She is such a babe, and she has only a foolish abigail with her.”

“I believe that she has gone to—Anjou.” His Grace folded the note and put it into his pocket. “She has left me because she fears to endanger my—reputation. It is somewhat ironic, is it not?”

Lady Fanny blew her nose vigorously, and gave yet another watery sniff.

“She loves you, Justin.”

He was silent.

“Oh Justin, do you not care? I felt so certain that you loved her!”

“I love her—too well to marry her, my dear,” said his Grace.

“Why?” Lady Fanny put away her handkerchief.

“There are so many reasons,” sighed his Grace. “I am too old for her.”

“Oh, fiddle!” said my lady. “I thought that maybe ’twas her birth you cavilled at.”

“Her birth, Fanny, is as good as yours. She is Saint-Vire’s legitimate daughter.”

Lady Fanny gaped at him.

“In her place he has put the clod you know as de Valmé. His name is Bonnard. I have waited too long, but I strike now.” He picked up a hand-bell, and rang it. To the lackey who came he said: “You will go at once to the Hôtel de Châtelet, and request M. Marling and M. Davenant to return at once. Ask Milor’ Merivale to accompany them. You may go.” He turned again to his sister. “What did the child write to you?”

“Only farewell!” Lady Fanny bit her lip. “And I wondered why she kissed me so sweetly to-night! Oh dear, oh dear!”

“She kissed my hand,” Avon said. “We have all been fools this day. Do not distress yourself, Fanny. I shall bring her back if I have to search the world for her. And when she comes she will come as Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.”

“But I don’t understand how—oh, here is Rupert! Yes, Rupert, I have been crying, and I do not care. Tell him, Justin.”

Avon showed his young brother Léonie’s letter. Rupert read it, exclaiming at intervals. When he came to the end he snatched his wig from his head, threw it upon the floor, and stamped on it, saying various things beneath his breath that made Lady Fanny clap her hands over her ears.

“If you don’t have his blood for this, Justin, I shall!” he said at last, picked up his wig, and put it on his head again. “May he rot in hell for a black scoundrel! Is she his bastard?”

“She is not,” said Avon. “She is his legitimate daughter. I have sent for Hugh and Marling. It is time that you all knew my infant’s story.”

“Left her love for me, bless her!” choked Rupert. “Where is she? Are we to set off at once? Only give the word, Justin, and I’m ready!”

“I do not doubt it, child, but we do not start to-day. I believe I know whither she has gone; she will be safe enough. Before I bring her back she shall be righted in the eyes of the world.”

Rupert glanced down at the letter in his hand.

“I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you,” he read. “Burn it, your life’s one long scandal! And she—Devil take it, I could cry like a woman, so I could!” He gave the letter back to the Duke. “She’s made a cursed idol of you, Justin, and you’re not fit to kiss her little feet!” he said.

Avon looked at him.

“That I know,” he said. “My part ends when I bring her back to Paris. It is better so.”

“So you do love her.” Rupert nodded to his sister.

“I have loved her for a long time. And you, my son?”

“No, no, I’m no suitor of hers, I thank you! She’s a darling, but I’d have none of her to wife. It’s you she wants, and it’s you she’ll have, mark my words!”

“I am ‘Monseigneur’,” Avon replied with a crooked smile. “There is glamour attached to me, but I am too old for her.”

Then the others came in in a state of liveliest curiosity.

“What’s to do, Justin?” asked Hugh. “Has there been a death in the house?”

“No, my dear. Not a death.”

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Justin—she—she would not have killed herself, and—and said that in her letter so that you should not guess her intention? I never thought of that! Oh, Edward, Edward, I am so unhappy!”

“She?” Marling put an arm about Fanny. “Do you mean—Léonie?”

“She has not killed herself, Fanny. You forget that she has her maid with her,” Avon said reassuringly.

Davenant shook him by the arm.

“Speak out, man, for God’s sake! What has happened to the child?”

“She has left me,” Avon said, and put Léonie’s note in his hand.

With one accord Merivale and Marling went to look over Hugh’s shoulder.

“God’s truth!” exploded Merivale, and clapped a hand to his sword hilt as he read. “Oh, what a villain! Now, Justin, you shall have at him, and I’m with you to the death!”

“But——” Marling looked up with puckered brows.

“Poor, poor child, is it true?”

Hugh came to the end, and said huskily:

“Little Léon! ’Fore Gad, it’s pathetic!”

Rupert, at this juncture, relieved his feelings by throwing his snuff-box at the opposite wall.

“Oh, we’ll send him to hell between us, never fear!” he stormed. “Cur! Dastardly cur! Here, give me some burgundy, Fan! I’m in such a heat—Swords are too good for the rogue, damme they are!”

“Much too good,” agreed his Grace.

“Swords!” Merivale exclaimed. “It’s too quick. You or I, Justin, could kill him in less than three minutes.”

“Too quick, and too clumsy. There is more poetry in the vengeance I take.”

Hugh looked up.

“But explain?” he begged. “Where is the child? What are you talking about? You have found a way to pay your debt in full, I suppose, but how have you found it?”

“Curiously enough,” said his Grace, “I had forgotten that old quarrel. You remind me most opportunely. The scales weigh heavily against M. de Saint-Vire. Give me your attention for one minute, and you shall know Léonie’s story.” Briefly, and with none of his accustomed suavity, he told them the truth. They listened in thunder-struck silence, and for some time after he had finished could find no words to speak. It was Marling who broke the silence.

“If that is true the man is the biggest scoundrel unhung!” he said. “Are you sure, Avon?”

“Perfectly, my friend.”

Rupert shook his fist, and muttered darkly.

“Good God, do we live in the Dark Ages?” cried Hugh. “It’s almost incredible!”

“But the proof!” Fanny cut in. “What can you do, Justin?”

“I can stake everything on the last round, Fanny. I am going to do that. And I think—yes, I really think that I shall win.” He smiled unpleasantly. “For the present my infant is safe, and I believe I may put my hand on her when I wish.”

“What do you intend to do?” shouted Rupert.

“Oh yes, Justin, please tell us!” besought my lady. “It is so dreadful to know nothing. To have to sit idle!”

“I know, Fanny, but once more I must ask you all to be patient. I play my games best alone. One thing I may promise you: You shall be in at the death.”

“But when will it be?” Rupert poured out another glass of burgundy “You’re too devilish tricky for me, Justin. I want a hand in the affair.”

“No.” Hugh shook his head. “Let Avon play his game to a close. There are too many of us to join with him, and there’s a proverb that says ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’. I’m not usually bloodthirsty, but I do not want Saint-Vire’s broth to be spoiled.”

“I want to see him crushed,” said Merivale. “And that soon!”

“You shall, my dear Anthony. But for the present we will behave as ever. If any ask for Léonie she is indisposed. Fanny, did you say that Madame du Deffand gives a soirée to-morrow?”

“Yes, but I’ve not the heart to go,” sighed my lady. “It will be so brilliant too, and I did want Léonie to be there!”

“Nevertheless, my dear, you will go, with us all. Calm yourself, Rupert. Your part was played, and played well, at Le Havre. Now it is my turn. Fanny, you are tired out. Go to bed now; you cannot do anything yet.”

“I must go back to de Châtelet,” said Merivale. He gripped Avon’s hand. “Act up to your name now, Satanas, if ever you did! We are all with you.”

“Even I,” said Marling with a smile. “You may be as devilish as you please, for Saint-Vire is the worst kind of villain I have had the ill-luck to meet.”

Rupert, hearing, choked in the act of drinking his third glass of burgundy.

“Damme, I boil with rage when I think of him!” he swore. “Léonie called him pig-person, but ’fore God he’s worse than that! He’s——!”

Fanny fled incontinently from the room.

CHAPTER XXX

His Grace of Avon Trumps the Comte’s Ace

The Marlings came early to Madame du Deffand’s house, and were followed shortly by Merivale and Hugh Davenant. Madame du Deffand wanted to know what had become of Léonie, and was informed that she was indisposed, and had remained at home. Rupert presently arrived in company with d’Anvau and Lavoulčre, and was twitted by several people, Madame du Deffand included, on his appearance at such a function.

“Doubtless you are come to read us a madrigal or a rondeau,” Madame teased him. “Faites voir, milor’, faites voir!”

“I? No, b’Gad!” Rupert said. “I’ve never written a verse in my life! I’m come to listen, madame.”

She laughed at him.

“You will be bored, my poor friend! Bear with us!” She moved away to greet a fresh arrival.

Under the wail of the violins which played at one end of the room, Merivale spoke to Davenant.

“Where’s Avon?”

Hugh shrugged.

“I’ve scarce set eyes on him all day. He starts for Anjou immediately after this party.”

“Then he means to strike to-night.” Merivale looked round. “I saw Armand de Saint-Vire a moment ago. Is the Comte here?”

“Not yet, I think, but I am told that both he and his wife are coming. Justin will have a large audience.”

The rooms were filling speedily. Merivale presently heard a footman announce Condé. Behind the Prince came the Saint-Vires, and the Marchérands, and the Duc and Duchesse de la Roque. A young exquisite approached Fanny and demanded Mademoiselle de Bonnard. On being told that she was not present his face fell considerably, and he confided mournfully to my lady that he had written a madrigal to Léonie’s eyes which he had intended to read to-night. My lady commiserated him, and turned to find Condé at her elbow.

“Madame!” He bowed. “But where is la petite?”

Lady Fanny repeated Léonie’s excuses, and was requested to bear a graceful message to her charge. Then Condé moved away to join in a game of bouts-rhymés, and the wail of the violins died down to a murmur.

It was just as Madame du Deffand had called upon M. de la Douaye to read his latest poems that some slight stir arose by the door, and his Grace of Avon came in. He wore the dress he had once worn at Versailles, cloth-of-gold, shimmering in the candlelight. A great emerald in the lace at his throat gleamed balefully, another flashed on his finger. At his side was a light dress sword; in one hand he carried his scented handkerchief, and a snuff-box studded with tiny emeralds, and from one wrist hung a fan of painted chicken-skin mounted upon gold sticks.

Those who were near the door drew back to let him pass, and for a moment he stood alone, a tall, haughty figure, dwarfing the Frenchmen about him. He was completely at his ease, even a little disdainful. He raised his quizzing-glass, and swept a glance round the room.

“By Gad, he’s a magnificent devil, ’pon my soul he is!” said Rupert to Merivale. “Damme if I’ve ever seen him look more regal!”

“What a dress!” said Fanny, in her husband’s ear. “You cannot deny, Edward, that he is truly handsome.”

“He has a presence,” conceded Marling.

Avon went forward across the room, and bowed over his hostess’ hand.

“Late as usual!” she scolded him. “Oh, and you still have a fan, I see! Poseur! You are just in time to hear M. de la Douaye read to us his poems.”

“The luck always favours me, madame,” he said, and inclined his head to the young poet. “May we beg m’sieur to read us his lines addressed to the Flower in her Hair!”

La Douaye flushed with pleasure, and bowed.

“I am honoured that that so poor trifle should still be remembered,” he said, and went to stand before the fireplace with a roll of papers in his hand.

His Grace crossed slowly to the Duchesse de la Roque’s couch, and sat down beside her. His eyes flickered to Merivale’s face, and from thence to the door. Unostentatiously Merivale linked his arm in Davenant’s and moved with him to a sofa that stood by the door.

“Avon makes me feel nervous,” murmured Davenant. “An impressive entrance, a striking dress, and that in his manner that sends a chill down one’s back. You feel it?”

“I do. He means to hold the stage to-night.” Merivale spoke lower still, for La Douaye’s liquid voice sounded in the first line of his poem. “He sent me to sit here. If you can catch Rupert’s eye signal to him go to the other door.” He crossed his legs, and fixed his attention on La Douaye.

A storm of applause greeted the verses. Davenant craned his neck to see where Saint-Vire was, and caught a glimpse of him by the window. Madame de Saint-Vire was at some distance from him, and several times she looked across at him with wide apprehensive eyes.

“If Saint-Vire’s seen that Léonie’s not here he’ll be feeling that chill down his back too, methinks,” said Merivale. “I wish I knew what Avon means to do. Look at Fanny! Egad, Avon’s the only one of us who’s at his ease!”

La Douaye began to read again; followed praise, and elegant discussion. Avon complimented the poet, and moved away to the adjoining salon, where some were still playing at bouts-rhymés. In the doorway he met Rupert. Merivale saw him pause for an instant, and say something.

Rupert nodded, and lounged over to the two by the main door. He leaned over the back of the couch, and chuckled gleefully.

“Mysterious devil, an’t he?” he said. “I’ve orders to watch the other door. I’m agog with excitement, stap me if I’m not. Tony, I’ll lay you a monkey Justin wins this last round!”

Merivale shook his head.

“I’ll not bet against a certainty, Rupert,” he said. “Before he came I was assailed by doubts, but, faith, the sight of him is enough to end them! The sheer force of his personality should carry the day. Even I feel something nervous. Saint-Vire, with the knowledge of his own guilt, must feel a thousand times more so. Rupert, have you any idea what he means to do?”

“Devil a bit!” answered Rupert cheerfully. He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you something, though. This is the last soirée I’ll attend. Did you hear that fellow mouthing out his rhymes?” He shook his head severely. “Y’know, it ought not to be allowed. An under-sized little worm like that!”

“You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?” smiled Hugh.

“Poet be damned!” said Rupert. “He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!” He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. “God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?” he demanded irreverently.

“Hush, child!” whispered Lavoulčre, who was standing near by. “It is the great M. de Foquemalle!”

M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.

“What, Rupert?” The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. “Whither away, mon vieux?”

“Here, let me pass!” whispered Rupert. “Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off!” He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.

In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.

“Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?” She picked up her paper and read out her lines. “There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?”

Avon kissed her hand.

“My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.”

Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.

“Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love or some such nonsense.”

“De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!” cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. “Shall you brave it, Duc?”

M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marchérand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to where Merivale stood.

“More commands?” inquired my lord. “I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.”

His Grace waved his fan languidly to and fro.

“But one more command,” he sighed. “Just keep our amiable friend away from his wife, my dear.” He passed on to speak to Madame de Vauvallon, and was presently lost in the crowd.

Lady Fanny was complimenting Madame de Saint-Vire on her gown.

“I declare, that shade of blue is positively ravishing!” she said. “I searched the town for just such a taffeta not so long ago. La, there is that lady in puce again! Pray who may she be?”

“It is—I believe it is Mademoiselle de Cloué,” Madame replied. The Vicomte de Valmé came up. “Henri, you have seen your father?”

“Yes, madame, he is with de Châtelet and another, over there.” He bowed to Fanny. “It is Milor’ Merivale, I think. Madame, may I be permitted to fetch you a glass of ratafie?”

“No, I thank you,” said my lady. “Madame, my husband!”

Madame gave her hand to Marling. Up came Madame du Deffand.

“Now where is your brother, Lady Fanny? I have asked him to entertain us with some of his so amusing verses, and he says that he has another form of entertainment for us!” She rustled on, looking for Avon.

“Is Avon to read us his verses?” asked someone near by. “He is always so witty! Do you remember the one he read at Madame de Marchérand’s rout last year?”

A gentleman turned his head.

“No, not verse this time, d’Orlay. I heard d’Aiguillon say that it was to be some kind of story.”

“Tiens! What will he be at next, I wonder?”

Young de Chantourelle came up with Mademoiselle de Beaucour on his arm.

“What’s this I hear of Avon? Is it a fairy tale he means to tell us?”

“An allegory, perhaps,” suggested d’Anvau. “Though they are not now in fashion.”

Madame de la Roque gave him her wine-glass to take away.

“It is so strange to tell us a story,” she remarked. “If it were not Avon one would go away, but since it is he one stays, full of curiosity. Here he comes!”

His Grace made his way across the room with Madame du Deffand. People began to seat themselves, and those gentlemen who could find no chairs ranged themselves along the wall, or stood in small groups by the doors. Out of the tail of her eye Lady Fanny saw Saint-Vire seated in a small alcove near the window, with Merivale perched on the edge of a table beside him. Madame de Saint-Vire made a movement as though to get to him. Lady Fanny took her arm affectionately.

“My dear, do sit with me! Now where shall we go?” Avon was at her side.

“You lack a chair, Fanny? Madame, your most devoted servant!” He raised his eyeglass, and beckoned to a lackey. “Two chairs for mesdames.”

“There is not the need,” said Madame hurriedly. “My husband will give me his——”

“Oh no, madame, you must not leave me thus alone!” said Fanny gaily. “Ah, here are chairs! I vow we have the best place in the room!” She whisked Madame into a spindle-legged chair that had been brought by the lackey, so that she sat by the fireplace, to one side, able to see the room, and to be seen by nearly everyone. On the same side, but withdrawn a little into the alcove, her husband sat, and could only see her profile. She turned to look at him imploringly; he sent her a warning glance, and set his teeth. Merivale swung one leg gently, and smiled across at Davenant, leaning against the doorpost.

Madame du Deffand settled herself beside a small table, and laughed up at Avon.

“Now, my friend, let us hear your fairy tale! I hope it is exciting?”

“Of that, madame, I shall leave you to judge,” Avon replied. He took up his stand before the fire, and opened his snuff-box, and helped himself delicately to a pinch of snuff. The firelight and the candlelight played upon him; his face was inscrutable, except that the strange eyes held a mocking gleam.

“There’s something afoot, I’ll swear!” d’Anvau confided to his neighbour. “I mislike that look on our friend’s face.”

His Grace shut his snuff-box, and flicked a speck of snuff from one great cuff.

“My story, madame, begins as all good stories should,” he said, and though he spoke softly his voice carried through the room. “Once upon a time—there were two brothers. I have forgotten their names, but since they detested each other, I will call them Cain and—er—Abel. I have no idea whether the original Abel detested the original Cain, and I beg that no one will enlighten me. I like to think that he did. If you ask me whence sprang this hatred between the brothers I can only suggest that it may have originated in the heads of each. Their hair was so fiery that I fear some of the fire must have entered into the brain.” His Grace spread open his fan, and looked serenely down into Armand de Saint-Vire’s face of dawning wonderment. “Quite so. The hatred grew and flourished until I believe there was nothing one brother would not do to spite the other. It became a veritable obsession with Cain, a madness that recoiled on him in the most disastrous manner, as I shall show you. My tale is not without a moral, you will be relieved to hear.”

“What in the world does all this mean?” whispered Lavoulčre to a friend. “Is it a fairy tale, or does something lie behind.”