These Old Shades

“I don’t know. How does he manage to hold his audience so still, I wonder?”

His Grace went on, speaking very slowly and dispassionately.

“Cain, being the elder of these two brothers, succeeded in due course to his father, who was a Comte and went the way of all flesh. If you imagine that the enmity now subsided between him and Abel, I beg you will permit me to disabuse your minds of so commonplace a thought. Cain’s succession but added fuel to the fire of hatred, and whereas our friend Abel was consumed of a desire to stand in his brother’s shoes, Cain was consumed of a like desire to keep him out of them. A situation fraught with possibilities, you perceive.” He paused to survey his audience; they watched him in mingled bewilderment and curiosity. “With this life-ambition in view, then, our single-minded friend Cain took a wife unto himself and doubtless thought himself secure. But Fate, capricious jade, evidently disliked him, for the years went by, and still there came no son to gladden Cain’s heart. You conceive the chagrin of Cain? Abel, however, grew more and more jubilant, and I fear he did not hesitate to make—er—a jest of his brother’s ill-luck. It was perhaps unwise of him.” His Grace glanced at Madame de Saint-Vire, who sat rigid, and very pale, beside Lady Fanny. His Grace began to wave his fan rhythmically to and fro. “I believe Cain’s wife presented him once with a still-born child. It began to seem unlikely that Cain would realize his ambition, but, contrary to Abel’s expectations, Madame la Comtesse raised her husband’s hopes once more. This time Cain determined that there should be no mistake. Possibly he had learned to mistrust his luck. When madame’s time was upon her he carried her off to his estates, where she was delivered of—a daughter.” Again he paused, and looked across the room at Saint-Vire. He saw the Comte cast a furtive glance towards the door, and colour angrily at sight of Rupert lounging there. His Grace smiled, and swung his eyeglass on its riband. “Of a daughter. Now observe the cunning of Cain. On his estate, possibly in his employ, there dwelt a farm-labourer, as I judge, whose wife had just presented him with a second son. Fate, or Chance, thus set a trap for Cain, into which he walked. He bribed this peasant to give him his lusty son in exchange for his daughter.”

“But what infamy!” exclaimed Madame de Vauvallon comfortably. “You shock me, Duc!”

“Strive, to bear with me, madame. There is always the moral. This exchange, then, was effected, none being the wiser save the parents of each child, and of course the midwife who attended Madame la Comtesse. What became of her I do not know.”

“Mon Dieu, what a tale!” remarked Madame du Deffand. “I so dislike these villains!”

“Go on, Justin!” said Armand sharply. “You interest me extraordinarily!”

“Yes, I thought that I should,” nodded his Grace pensively.

“What became of—Cain’s daughter?”

“Patience, Armand. Let us first dispose of Cain and his supposed son. Cain presently brought his family back to Paris—did I tell you that this tale takes place in France?—leaving instructions that his daughter’s foster-father was to leave his estates for some remote spot, unknown to anyone, including himself. In Cain’s place I think I should not have desired so ardently to lose all trace of the child, but no doubt he acted as he thought wisest.”

“Duc,” interposed Madame de la Roque, “it is inconceivable that any mother could consent to such a wicked plan!”

Madame de Saint-Vire held her handkerchief to her mouth with one shaking hand.

“Al-most inconceivable,” Avon said gently. “Probably the lady feared her husband. He was a most unpleasant person, believe me.”

“We can easily believe that,” Madame smiled. “A villainous creature! Go on!”

From under his heavy lids Avon watched Saint-Vire tug at his cravat; his eyes travelled on to Merivale’s intent countenance, and he smiled faintly.

“Cain, and his wife, and his pretended son, returned to Paris, as I have said, and greatly discomposed poor Abel. When Abel watched his nephew grow up with no trace of his family’s characteristics either in face or nature, he was more than ever enraged, but although he wondered at the boy the truth never occurred to him. Why should it?” Avon shook out his ruffles. “Having disposed of Cain for the moment, we will return to Cain’s daughter. For twelve years she remained in the heart of the country, with her foster-parents, and was reared as their own child. But at the end of those years Fate once more turned her attention to Cain’s affairs, and sent a plague to sweep the neighbourhood where the daughter was. This plague struck down both foster-father and mother, but my heroine escaped, as did also her foster-brother, of whom more anon. She was sent to the Curé of the village, who housed her, and cared for her. I beg you will not forget the Curé. He plays a small but important part in my story.”

“Will it serve?” Davenant muttered.

“Look at Saint-Vire!” Marling answered. “The Curé was an inspiration! It has taken him completely by surprise.”

“We shall remember the Curé,” said Armand grimly. “When does he play his part?”

“He plays it now, Armand, for it was into his hands that my heroine’s foster-mother, before she died, placed her—written—confession.”

“Oh, she could write, then, this peasant woman?” said Condé, who had been listening with knit brows.

“I imagine, prince, that she had once been tirewoman to some lady, for certainly she could write.” Avon saw Madame de Saint-Vire’s hands grip together in her lap, and was satisfied. “That confession lay for many years in a locked drawer in the Curé’s house.”

“But he should have published it abroad!” Madame de Vauvallon said quickly.

“So I think, madame, but he was a singularly conscientious priest and he held that the seal of the confessional could never be broken.”

“What of the girl?” asked Armand.

His Grace twisted his rings.

“She, my dear Armand, was taken to Paris by her foster-brother, a youth many years her senior. His name was Jean, and he bought a tavern in one of the meanest and most noisome of your streets. And since it was inconvenient for him to have a girl of my heroine’s tender years upon his hands, he dressed her as a boy.” The gentle voice grew harder. “As a boy. I shall not discompose you by telling you of her life in this guise.”

Something like a sob broke from Madame de Saint-Vire.

“Ah, mon Dieu!”

Avon’s lips sneered.

“It is a harrowing tale, is it not, madame?” he purred.

Saint-Vire half rose from his chair, and sank back again. People were beginning to look questioningly at one another.

“Further,” continued the Duke, “he married a slut whose care was to ill-use my heroine in every conceivable way. At this woman’s hands she suffered for seven long years.” His eyes wandered round the room. “Until she was nineteen,” he said. “During those years she learned to know Vice, to Fear, and to know the meaning of that ugly word Hunger. I do not know how she survived.”

“Duc, you tell us a ghastly tale!” said Condé. “What happened then?”

“Then, Prince, Fate stepped in again, and cast my heroine across the path of a man who had never had cause to love our friend Cain. Into this man’s life came my heroine. He was struck by her likeness to Cain, and of impulse he bought her from her foster-brother. He had waited for many years to pay in full a debt he owed Cain; in this child he saw a possible means to do so, for he too had remarked the plebeian manners and person of Cain’s supposed son. Chance favoured him, and when he flaunted my heroine before Cain’s eyes he saw Cain’s consternation, and slowly pieced the tale together. Cain sent an envoy to buy his daughter from this man whom he knew to be his enemy. Thus the suspicion that this new player in the game fostered grew to be a conviction.”

“Good God, d’Anvau,” murmured de Sally, “can it be——?”

“H’sh!” d’Anvau answered. “Listen! This grows very interesting.”

“From Jean,” Avon continued, “Cain’s enemy learned of my heroine’s old home, and of the Curé who lived there. I trust you have not forgotten the Curé?”

All eyes were on the Duke; one or two men had begun to see daylight. Condé nodded impatiently.

“No. Go on, I beg of you!”

The emerald on the Duke’s finger glinted evilly.

“I am relieved. This man journeyed to the remote village, and—er—wrought with the Curé. When he returned to Paris he brought with him—that.” From his pocket Avon drew a dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He looked mockingly at Saint-Vire, who sat as though carved in stone. “That,” repeated his Grace, and laid the paper down on the mantelpiece behind him.

The tension could be felt. Davenant drew a deep breath.

“For a moment—I almost believed it was a confession!” he whispered. “They’re beginning to guess, Marling.”

His Grace studied the painting on his fan.

“You may wonder, perhaps, why he did not expose Cain at once. I admit that was his first thought. But he remembered, messieurs, the years that Cain’s daughter had spent in hell, and he determined that Cain too should know hell—a little, a very little.” His voice had grown stern; the smile was gone from his lips. Madame du Deffand was watching him with horror in her face. “And therefore, messieurs, he held his hand, and played—a waiting game. That was his way of justice.” Again he swept a glance round the room; he held his audience silent and expectant, dominated by his personality. Into the silence his words fell slowly, quite softly. “I think he felt it,” he said. “From one day to the next he knew not when the blow would fall; he lived in dread; he was torn this way and that by hope, and—fear, messieurs. Even he was cheated into the belief that his enemy had no proof, and for a while thought himself secure.” Avon laughed soundlessly, and saw Saint-Vire wince. “But the old doubts came back, messieurs; he could not be sure that there was no proof. Thus he lived in an agony of uncertainty.” Avon shut his fan. “My heroine was taken by her guardian to England, and taught to be a girl again. She was left on her guardian’s estates in the care of one of his kinswomen. Little by little, messieurs, she learned to like her girlhood, and to forget, in part, the horrors that lay in the past. Then, messieurs, Cain came to England.” His Grace took snuff. “Like a thief,” he said gently. “He stole my heroine, he drugged her, and carried her to his yacht that awaited him at Portsmouth.”

“Good God!” gasped Madame de Vauvallon.

“He’ll fail!” whispered Davenant suddenly. “Saint-Vire has himself well in hand.”

“Watch his wife!” Marling retorted.

His Grace flicked another speck of snuff from his golden sleeve.

“I will not weary you with the tale of my heroine’s escape,” he said. “There was another player in the game who followed hot-foot to the rescue. She contrived to escape with him, but not before Cain had sent a bullet into his shoulder. Whether the shot was meant for him or for her I know not.”

Saint-Vire made a hasty movement, and was quiet again.

“That such villains live!” gasped de Châtelet.

“The wound, messieurs, was severe, and compelled the fugitives to put up at a small inn not many miles from Le Havre. Happily my heroine’s guardian found her there, some two hours before the indefatigable Cain arrived.”

“He did arrive, then?” said de Sally.

“But could you doubt it?” smiled his Grace. “He arrived, bien sűr, to find that Fate had foiled him once again. He said then, messieurs, that the game was not played out yet. Then he—er—retreated.”

“Scélérat!” snapped Condé, and cast one glance at Madame de Saint-Vire, who seemed to cower in her chair, and fixed his eyes on the Duke again.

“Exactly, Prince,” said his Grace smoothly. “We return now to Paris, where her guardian presented my heroine to Polite Society. Be silent, Armand, I am nearing the end of my story. She made no little stir, I assure you, for she was not an ordinary debutante. She was sometimes, messieurs, just a babe, but withal she had great wisdom, and greater spirit. I might talk to you of her for hours, but I will only say that she was something of an imp, very outspoken, full of espičglerie, and very beautiful.”

“And true!” Condé interjected swiftly.

His Grace inclined his head.

“And true, Prince, as I know. To resume: Paris began presently to remark her likeness to Cain. He must have been afraid then, messieurs. But one day it came to the child’s ears that the world thought her a base-born daughter of Cain.” He paused, and raised his handkerchief to his lips. “Messieurs, she loved the man who was her guardian,” he said very levelly. “His reputation was soiled beyond repair, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. She called him her—seigneur.”

Saint-Vire’s underlip was caught between his teeth, but he sat perfectly still, apparently listening with only a casual interest. There were many shocked eyes upon him, but he made no sign. In the doorway Rupert fingered his sword-hilt lovingly.

“When the child learned what the world said of her,” Avon continued, “she went to Cain’s house and asked him if she was indeed his base-born daughter.”

“Yes? Allons!” Condé exclaimed.

“He conceived, messieurs, that Chance favoured him at last. He told the child that it was so.” Avon held up his hand as Armand jumped. “He threatened, messieurs, to expose her in the eyes of the world as his bastard—and that other man’s mistress. He told her—he was her father, messieurs—that he would do this that her guardian might be ruined socially for having dared to foist his base-born light-o’-love into Society.”

Madame de Saint-Vire was sitting straight in her chair now, gripping its arms with her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she was very near to breaking point, and it was evident that this part of the tale was new to her.

“Ah, but what a cur!” cried Lavoulčre.

“Wait, my dear Lavoulčre. He was kind enough to offer the child an alternative. He promised to keep silence if she would disappear from the world she had only just entered.” Avon’s eyes grew harder, his voice was like ice. “I have said that she loved her guardian, messieurs. To leave him, to be condemned to go back to the old, sordid life, was worse than death to her. She had just—tasted the cup of happiness.”

There were very few people in the room now who did not understand the tale; horror was in many faces; the silence was complete. Condé was leaning forward in his chair, his face grim and anxious.

“But continue!” he said harshly. “She—went back?”

“No, Prince,” Avon answered.

“What then?” Condé had risen.

“Prince, for those who are desperate, for the unwanted, for the broken-hearted, there is always a way out.”

Madame du Deffand shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hand.

“You mean?”

Avon pointed to the window.

“Outside, Prince, not so very far away, runs the river. It has hidden many secrets, many tragedies. This child is just one more tragedy that has ended in its tide.”

A choked scream rang out, piercing and shrill. Madame de Saint-Vire came to her feet as though forced, and stumbled forward like one distraught.

“Ah no, no, no!” she gasped. “Not that! not that! Oh, my little, little one! God, have you no mercy? She is not dead!” Her voice rose, and was strangled in her throat. She flung up her arm, and collapsed at Avon’s feet, and lay there, sobbing wildly.

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Oh, poor thing! No, no, madame, she is alive, I swear! Help me, someone! Madame, madame, calm yourself!”

There was a sudden uproar; Davenant wiped the sweat from his brow.

“My God!” he said huskily. “What a night’s work! Clever, clever devil!”

In the confusion a woman’s voice sounded, bewildered.

“I don’t understand! Why—what—is that the end of the story?”

Avon did not turn his head.

“No, mademoiselle. I am still awaiting the end.”

A sudden scuffle in the alcove drew all attention from Madame de Saint-Vire to the Comte. He had sprung up as Madame’s control left her, knowing that her outburst had betrayed him completely, and now he was struggling madly with Merivale, one hand at his hip. Even as several men rushed forward he wrenched free, livid and panting, and they saw that he held a small pistol.

Condé leaped suddenly in front of the Duke, and faced that pistol.

It was over in a few seconds. They heard Saint-Vire’s voice rise on a note almost of insanity:

“Devil! Devil!”

Then there was a deafening report, a woman screamed, and Rupert strode forward, and flung his handkerchief over Saint Vire’s shattered head. He and Merivale bent over the Comte’s body, and his Grace came slowly up to them, and stood for a moment looking down at that which had been Saint-Vire. At the far end of the room a woman was in hysterics. His Grace met Davenant’s eyes.

“I said that it should be poetic, did I not, Hugh?” he remarked, and went back to the fireplace. “Mademoiselle”—he bowed to the frightened girl who had asked him for the story’s end—“M. de Saint-Vire has provided the end to my tale.” He took the soiled paper from the mantelshelf where he had left it, and threw it into the fire, and laughed.

CHAPTER XXXI

His Grace of Avon Wins All

Into the village of Bassincourt once again rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He was dressed in breeches of buff cloth, and a coat of dull purple velvet, laced with gold. His high spurred boots were dusty; he carried his gloves in one hand, with his long riding crop. Into the market-place he came, from the Saumur road, and reined in as he met the uneven cobble-stones. The villagers, and the farmers’ wives who had come into Bassincourt for the market, gaped at him, as they had gaped before, and whispered, one to the other.

The horse picked its way towards the Curé’s house, and there stopped. His Grace looked round, and, seeing a small boy standing near to him, beckoned, and swung himself lightly down from the saddle.

The boy came running.

“Be so good as to take my horse to the inn, and see it safely housed and watered,” said his Grace, and tossed the boy a louis. “You may tell the landlord that I shall come to pay the reckoning later.”

“Yes, milor’! Thank you, milor’!” stammered the boy, and clutched his louis.

His Grace opened the little gate that led into the Curé’s garden, and walked up the neat path to the front door. As before, the rosy-cheeked housekeeper admitted him. She recognized him, and dropped a curtsy.

“Bonjour, m’sieur! M. le Curé is in his room.”

“Thank you,” said his Grace. He followed her along the passage to de Beaupré’s study, and stood for a moment on the threshold, point-edged hat in hand.

The Curé rose politely.

“M’sieur?” Then, as Avon smiled, he hurried forward. “Eh, mon fils!”

Avon took his hand.

“My ward, father?”

The Curé beamed.

“The poor little one! Yes, my son, I have her safe.”

Avon seemed to sigh.

“You have relieved my mind of a load that was—almost too great for it to bear,” he said.

The Curé smiled. “My son, in a little while I think I should have broken my promise to her and sent a message to you. She suffers—ah, but how she suffers. And that villain—that Saint-Vire?”

“Dead, mon pčre, by his own hand.”

De Beaupré made the sign of the cross.

“By his own hand you say, my son?”

“And by my contrivance,” bowed his Grace. “I come now to fetch—Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.”

“It is really so?” De Beaupré spoke anxiously. “You are sure, Duc?”

“I am sure. All Paris knows. I saw to that.”

De Beaupré caught his hands and pressed them.

“M’sieur, you bring the child happiness, then. God will forgive you much for your kindness to her. She has told me.” He smiled benevolently. “I see that I have no cause to regret my alliance with—with Satanas. You have given her life, and more than that.”

“My father, I advise you not to credit all that my infant says of me,” said Avon dryly. “She has seen fit to place me upon a pedestal. I do not sit well there.”

De Beaupré opened the door.

“No, my son, she knows what ‘Monseigneur’s’ life has been,” he said. “Now come to her.” He led the way to the sunny parlour at the back of the house, and, opening the door, spoke almost gleefully. “Petite, I bring you a visitor.” Then he stood back so that Avon might pass in, and went out quietly, and quietly shut the door.

“Of a surety God is very good,” he said wisely, and went back to his study.

In the parlour Léonie was seated by the window, with a book open on her lap. And since she had been crying she did not at once turn her head. She heard a light, firm tread, and then a beloved voice.

“Ma fille, what does all this mean?”

She flew up out of her chair then, and cried out in joy and astonishment.

“Monseigneur!” She was at his feet, laughing and weeping, his hand to her lips. “You have come! You have come to me!”

He bent over her, his fingers on her curls.

“Did I not say, ma fille, that I should not lose you very easily. You should have trusted me, child. There was no need for your flight.”

She rose to her feet, and swallowed hard.

“Monseigneur, I—I know! I could not—you do not understand! It was not possible—Oh, Monseigneur, Monseigneur, why have you come?”

“To take you back, my infant. What else?”

She shook her head.

“Never, never! I c-can’t! I know so well what——”

“Sit down, child. There is so much that I must tell you. Crying, ma mie.” He raised her hand to his lips, and his voice was very tender. “There’s naught now to distress you, mignonne, I swear.” He made her sit down on the couch, and placed himself beside her, still holding her hand. “Child, you are not base-born, you are not even peasant-born. You are, as I have known from the first, Léonie de Saint-Vire, daughter of the Comte and his wife, Marie de Lespinasse.”

Léonie blinked at him.

“Mon-monseigneur?” she gasped.

“Yes, my child, just that,” said his Grace, and told her briefly what was her history. She stared at him, round-eyed and with parted lips, and when he finished could find no words for a long minute.

“Then—then I am—noble!” she said at last. “I—Oh, is it true, Monseigneur? Is it really true?”

“I should not else have told you, mignonne.”

She sprang up, flushed and excited.

“I am well-born! I am—I am Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire! I can—I can come back to Paris! Monseigneur, I think I am going to cry!”

“I beg you will not, ma fille. Spare your tears for my next news.”

She paused in her dance across the room, and looked at him anxiously.

“I have to inform you, infant, that your father is dead.”

The colour returned to her cheeks.

“Vraiment?” she said eagerly. “Did you kill him, Monseigneur?”

“I am very sorry, infant, but I did not actually kill him. I induced him to kill himself.”

She came back to the couch, and sat down again.

“But tell me!” she said. “Please tell me quickly, Monseigneur! When did he kill himself?”

“On Tuesday, my child, at Madame du Deffand’s soirée.”

“Tiens!” She was entirely unperturbed. “Why, enfin?”

“I though that the earth had harboured him too long,” Avon replied.

“You did it! I know you did it!” she said exultantly. “You meant him to die that night!”

“I did, child.”

“Was Rupert there? And Lady Fanny? How Rupert must have been pleased!”

“Moderately, child. He did not display any signs of the unholy ecstasy you appear to feel.”

She tucked her hand in his, and smiled trustingly up at him.

“Monseigneur, he was a pig-person. Now tell me how it happened. Who was there?”

“We were all of us there, babe, even M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale. For the rest, there was Condé, the de la Roques, the d’Aiguillons, the Saint-Vires, including Armand; Lavoulčre, d’Anvau—in fact, infant, all the world.”

“Did Lady Fanny and the others know that you were going to kill the pig-person, Monseigneur?”

“Infant, pray do not go through the world saying that I killed him.”

“No, Monseigneur. But did they know?”

“They knew that I meant to strike that night. They were all very bloodthirsty.”

“Vraiment? Even M. Marling?”

“Even he,” nodded Avon. “You see, ma fille, they all love you.”

She blushed.

“Oh . . . ! What did you wear, Monseigneur?”

“Thus the female mind,” murmured his Grace. “I wore gold, infant, and emeralds.”

“I know. It is a very fine dress, that one. Go on, please, Monseigneur.”

“Rupert and Hugh stood by the doors,” said his Grace, “and Merivale engaged Saint-Vire in pleasant converse. Lady Fanny had your mother in hand. I told them your story, child. That is all.”

“Voyons!” she exclaimed. “It is nothing! When you had told them, what happened?”

“Your mother collapsed. You see, my child, I let them think that you had drowned yourself. She cried out then, and Saint-Vire, since she had thus betrayed him, shot himself.”

“It must have been very exciting,” she remarked. “I wish I had been there. I am sorry for Madame de Saint-Vire, a little, but I am glad that the pig-person is dead. What will the Vicomte do? I think it is very sad for him.”

“I believe he will not be sorry,” replied Avon. “No doubt your uncle will make provision for him.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Voyons, I have a family, it seems! How many uncles have I, Monseigneur?”

“I am not quite sure, infant. On your father’s side you have one uncle, and an aunt, who is married. On your mother’s side you have several uncles, I think, and probably many aunts and cousins.”

She shook her head.

“I find it very hard to understand it all, Monseigneur. And you knew? How did you know? Why did you not tell me?”

His Grace looked down at his snuff-box.

“My child, when I bought you from the estimable Jean it was because I saw your likeness to the Saint-Vire.” He paused. “I thought to use you as a weapon to—er—punish him for something—he had once done to me.”

“Is—is that why—why you made me your ward, and gave me so many, many things?” she asked in a small voice.

He rose, and went to the window, and stood looking out.

“Not entirely,” he said, and forgot to drawl.

She looked at him wistfully.

“Was it a little because you liked me, Monseigneur?”

“Afterwards. When I came to know you, child.”

She twisted her handkerchief.

“Am I—will you—still let me be your ward?”

He was silent for a moment.

“My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.”

“Yes?” she said.

His Grace’s profile was stern.

“They will be very good to you, ma fille,” he said evenly. “Having them—you cannot still be my ward.”

“N-need I have them?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.

His Grace did not smile.

“I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.”

“Do they?” She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. “They do not know me, Monseigneur.”

“They are your family, child.”

“I do not want them.”

At that he turned, and came to her, and took her hands.

“My dear,” he said, “it will be best for you to go to them, believe me. One day I think you will meet a younger man than I who will make you happy.”

Two great tears welled up! Léonie’s eyes looked piteously into the Duke’s.

“Monseigneur—please—do not talk to me of marriage!” she whispered.

“Child——” his clasp on her hands tightened. “I want you to forget me. I am no proper man for you. You will be wiser not to think of me.”

“Monseigneur, I never thought that you would marry me,” she said simply. “But if—you wanted me—I thought perhaps you would—take me—until I wearied you.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then his Grace spoke, so harshly that Léonie was startled.

“You are not to talk in that fashion, Léonie. You understand me?”

“I—I am sorry!” she faltered. “I—I did not mean to make you angry, Monseigneur.”

“I am not angry,” he answered. “Even were it possible, Léonie, I would not take you as my mistress. That is not how I think of you.”

“You do not love me?” she said, like a child.

“Too—well to marry you,” he said, and released her hands. “It is not possible.”

She stayed quite still, looking down at the marks of his fingers about her wrists with a little wise smile.

“You will take me to this mother and uncle whom I do not know?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Monseigneur, I would rather stay here,” she said. “Since you do not want me, I will not go back. C’est fini, tout cela.” A sob rose in her throat. “You bought me, Monseigneur, and I am yours till I die. I told you—once—that it was so. You do not remember?”

“I remember every word you have spoken to me.”

“Monseigneur, I—I do not want to be a burden to you. You are tired of—of having a ward, and—and I would rather leave you than stay to weary you. But I cannot go back to Paris. I cannot! I shall be quite—happy—here with M. de Beaupré, but I cannot bear to go back alone—to the world I have lived in with you.”

He looked across at her. She saw his hand clenched hard on his snuff-box.

“Child, you do not know me. You have created a mythical being in my likeness whom you have set up as a god. It is not I. Many times, infant, I have told you that I am no hero, but I think you have not believed me. I tell you now that I am no fit mate for you. There are twenty years between us, and those years have not been well-spent by me. My reputation is damaged beyond repair, child. I come of vicious stock, and I have brought no honour to the name I bear. Do you know what men call me? I earned that nickname, child; I have even been proud of it. To no women have I been faithful; behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal. I have wealth, but I squandered one fortune in my youth, and won my present fortune at play. You have seen perhaps the best of me; you have not seen the worst. Infant, you are worthy of a better husband. I would give you a boy who might come to you with a clean heart, not one who was bred up in vice from his cradle.”

One large tear glistened on the end of her lashes.

“Ah, Monseigneur, you need not have told me this! I know—I have always known, and still I love you, I do not want a boy. I want only—Monseigneur.”

“Léonie, you will do well to consider. You are not the first woman in my life.”

She smiled through her tears.

“Monseigneur, I would so much rather be the last woman than the first,” she said.

“Infant, it’s madness!”

She came to him, and put her hand on his arm.

“Monseigneur, I do not think that I can live without you. I must have you to take care of me, and to love me, and to scold me when I am maladroite.”

Involuntarily his hand went to hers.

“Rupert would be a more fitting bridegroom,” he said bitterly.

Her eyes flashed.

“Ah, bah!” she said scornfully. “Rupert is a silly boy, like the Prince de Condé! If you do not marry me, Monseigneur, I will not marry anyone!”

“That would be a pity,” he said. “Mignonne, are you—sure?”

She nodded; a tremulous smile curved her lips.

“Oh, Monseigneur, I never thought that you would be so very blind!” she said.

His Grace looked deep into her eyes, and then went down on one knee, and raised her hand to his lips.

“Little one,” he said, very low, “since you will stoop to wed me, I pledge you my word that you shall not in the future have cause to regret it.”

An insistent hand tugged at his shoulder. He rose, and opened wide his arms. Léonie flung herself into them, and they closed about her, and her lips met his.

M. de Beaupré entered softly, and, seeing, prepared to depart in haste. But they had heard the opening of the door, and they fell apart.

He beamed upon them.

“Eh bien, mes enfants?”

His Grace took Léonie’s hand in his, and led her forward.

“Mon pčre,” he said, “I want you to wed us.”

“Of a surety, mon fils,” said De Beaupré calmly, and stroked Léonie’s cheek. “I am waiting to do so.”

CHAPTER XXXII

His Grace of Avon Astonishes Everyone for the Last Time

“My dear Comte,” said Fanny, in a voice of long-suffering, “I have not seen Justin since that terrible night.”

Armand threw out his hands.

“But it is over a week ago!” he cried. “Where is he? Where is the child?”

Lady Fanny cast up her eyes. Davenant it was who answered.

“If we knew, Armand, we should be more at ease, I assure you. The last we saw of Avon was at Madame du Deffand’s.”

“Where did he go?” demanded Armand. “Did he not return here at all?”

Marling shook his head.

“He vanished,” he said. “We knew that he meant to set out for Anjou after the soirée, in search of Léonie, but he did not tell us exactly where he was bound. His valet is with him, and he has taken the light chaise. That is all we know.”

Armand sat down weakly.

“But—but did he set out in his ball-dress?” he said. “He must surely have returned here first to change it for something more convenable!”

“He didn’t,” Fanny replied positively. “That gold dress is not in his room. We looked.”

“Fi, donc!” cried Armand. “Is he travelling through France in it?”

“I should hardly think so.” Davenant was amused. “He will have halted somewhere for the night, and if I know aught of Justin he did not set out without some baggage.”

Armand looked round helplessly.

“And not one of you in his confidence!” he said. “It becomes serious! Three times have I come to see——”

“Four,” said my lady wearily.

“Is it so, madame? Four times, then, I have come to see if you have news of him, and of my niece! What can have happened, think you?”

Davenant looked at him.

“We try not to think, Armand. Believe me, our anxiety is as great as yours. We do not know whether Léonie be alive or dead.”

Lady Fanny blew her nose, and cleared her throat.

“And we can’t do anything!” she said. “We must just sit idle, waiting!”

Marling patted her hand.

“You at least have not been idle, my love.”

“No, indeed!” Armand turned to her. “Madame, your kindness to my unfortunate sister overwhelms me! I can find no words! That you should have brought her here, and housed her—Madame, I can only thank——”

“Oh, fiddle!” said Fanny, reviving. “What else could I do? She is in no fit case to be alone, I do assure you. At one time I feared she was like to die of her hysterics, poor soul! She has seen a priest, and since she wrote her confession I do think she is easier. If only Justin would send us word! I cannot sleep o’ nights for thinking of what may have befallen that poor, poor child!”

Davenant stirred the fire to a blaze.

“In truth,” he said, “there can be no ease for any of us, until we know her to be safe.” His smile went awry. “The house is like a tomb since she left it.”

No one answered him. Rupert walked in, to an uncomfortable silence.

“Hey, in the dumps again?” he said breezily. “What, Armand here again? You’d best come and live with us, and ha’ done with it!”

“I don’t know how you can find the heart to laugh, Rupert!” said my lady.

“Why not?” replied the graceless Rupert, coming to the fire. “Justin told us that he knew where Léonie had gone, and I don’t see him failing now, Fan, damme, I don’t! I’ll lay a monkey he’ll bring her back before the week’s out, safe and sound.”

“If he finds her,” Marling said quietly. “It’s more than a week now, Rupert.”

“That’s right, Edward,” retorted his lordship. “Look on the cheerful side! Stap me if ever I met such a gloomy fellow! We don’t know how far Justin may have had to go.”

“But he’s sent us no word, Rupert!” Fanny said anxiously. “This silence frightens me!”

Rupert regarded her in some surprise.

“Lord, and did you ever know Justin send word of what he would be at?” he demanded. “He’ll play his own game, mark my words! He’s not one to take others into his confidence, and he don’t need any help.” He chuckled. “We saw that on Tuesday last, so we did! The man likes to keep us in the dark, and that’s all there is to it.”

A lackey announced my Lord Merivale, and Anthony came in.

“No news?” he asked, bowing over Fanny’s hand.

“No, alas!”

Rupert made room for my lord on the couch.

“Fan’s in the dumps over it,” he said. “I’m telling her she should have more faith in Justin.” He wagged his finger at her. “He’s won every trick in the game, Fan, and he wouldn’t be Justin an he lost the last.”

“Faith, I believe Rupert is right,” Merivale agreed. “I am fast coming to think Avon omnipotent.”

Marling spoke gravely.

“He is a very dangerous man,” he said. “It will be long before I forget the happenings at that soirée.”

Rupert was disgusted.

“Y’know, Edward, you’re a kill-joy,” he said.

Fanny shuddered.

“Oh, Edward, pray do not speak of it! It was horrible, horrible!”

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead,” Davenant said, “but it was—justice.”

“Ay, and he did it well, by Gad!” said Rupert. “I can see him now, standing there like—damme, like an executioner! But he was devilish, oh, he was devilish! He had me fascinated, I give you my word!”

The door opened.

“Madame est servie,” bowed a lackey.

Fanny rose.

“You’ll dine with us, Comte? And you, Anthony?”

“I trespass upon your hospitality!” Armand protested.

“Devil a bit, man!” said Rupert. “It’s Avon’s hospitality you trespass on, and our patience.”

Fanny laughed.

“Disagreeable boy! Comte, will you give me your arm? I protest I am shy amongst so many of you men!”

“What of Madame?” Marling asked, as she passed him.

“She has a tray in her room,” Fanny replied. “I cannot induce her to join us yet, and indeed I think she is better alone.”

So they went into the dining-room, and seated themselves round the long table, Fanny at one end, and Marling at the other.

“Y’know, I scarce dare venture abroad nowadays,” remarked Rupert, shaking out his napkin. “Wherever I go I’m pounced on for news.”

“Ay, no one seems able to believe that we know no more than the rest of the world,” said Davenant.

“And the people who flock to the house to inquire if Léonie is safe!” said my lady. “This very day I have received Condé, and de Richelieu, and the de la Roques! The child will have a great welcome when—if—if she returns.”

“Plague take your ifs, Fan!” said Rupert. “Will you have claret, Tony?”

“Burgundy, I thank you, scamp.”

“I have ceased to answer the letters,” said Fanny. “People have been very kind, but in truth I cannot hope to reply to all.”

“Kind?” snorted Rupert. “Damned inquisitive, is what I say!”

“Armand, what becomes of de Valmé—I mean Bonnard?”

Armand laid down his fork.

“If you will believe me, the boy is almost glad!” he said. “He understood not in the least what was toward at Madame du Deffand’s that night, but when I explained the matter to him—what do you think he said?”

“We don’t know,” said Rupert. “We’ve enough mystery without you trying to start a fresh one, stap me if we’ve not!”

“Rupert!” My lady frowned upon him. “Rude boy!”

“He said,” Armand went on, “‘At last, at last I may have a farm!’” He looked round impressively. “Did you ever hear the like of it?”

“Never,” said Davenant gravely. “And so?”

“I shall buy him a farm, of course, and settle money upon him. I suggested that he might wish to remain in Paris, and assured him of my protection, but no! He hates town-life, if you please!”

“Mad,” said Rupert with conviction.

Merivale started up.

“Listen!” he said sharply.

Outside in the hall was some stir, as of an arrival. Those in the dining-room sprang up, looking half shamefacedly at each other.

“A—a caller,” Fanny said. “I’m sure it’s only——”

The door was flung open, and his Grace of Avon stood upon the threshold, booted and spurred, and great-coated. Beside him, her hand in his, was Léonie, flushed and radiant. She had shed her cloak and hat, and her bright curls were tumbled.

There was an outcry. Fanny ran forward, exclaiming incoherently; Rupert waved his napkin over his head.

“What did I tell you?” he shouted. “Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire!”

His Grace raised one white hand, holding them in check. A curiously proud smile hovered about his mouth.

“No, Rupert,” he said, and bowed slightly. “I have the honour to present to you all—my Duchess.”

“Thunder an’ turf!” gasped Rupert, and surged forward.

Fanny reached Léonie first.

“Oh, my sweet life! I am so glad—I can hardly believe—Where did you find her, Justin? Silly, silly child! We have been in such a taking—Kiss me again, my love!”

Rupert pushed her aside.

“Hey, you little madcap!” he said, and kissed her soundly. “What a sister you have given me, Justin! I knew you’d find her! But married already, egad! It beats all, so it does!”

Merivale thrust him away.

“My dear little Léonie!” he said. “Justin, I felicitate you!”

Then Marling and Davenant in their turn pushed forward. Armand grasped Avon’s hand.

“And my permission?” he asked with mock dignity.

Avon snapped his fingers.

“So much for your permission, my dear Armand,” he said, and looked across at Léonie, surrounded by the vociferous family.

“Where was she?” Armand tugged at his sleeve.

His Grace was still watching Léonie.

“Where was she? Where I had expected her to be. In Anjou, with the Curé I spoke of,” he said. “Well, Fanny? Have I your approval?”

She embraced him.

“My dear, ’tis what I planned for you months ago! But to be married thus secretly when I had dreamed of a truly magnificent wedding! It’s too bad, I declare! Dear, dear child! I could weep for joy!”

A hush fell. In the doorway, shrinking, Madame de Saint-Vire stood, her eyes fixed on Léonie. There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence. Then Léonie went forward, and put out her hand with pretty hesitancy.

“Ma—mčre?” she said.

Madame gave a shattering sob, and clung to her. Léonie put an arm about her waist, and led her quietly out.

Fanny’s handkerchief appeared.

“The dear, sweet child!” she said huskily.

Davenant took Avon’s hand, and wrung it.

“Justin, I cannot find words to tell you how glad I am!”

“My dear Hugh, this is most unexpected,” drawled his Grace. “I made sure of a despondent head-shake.”

Hugh laughed.

“No, no, my friend, not this time! You have learned to love another better than yourself at last, and I believe that you will make your Duchess a good husband.”

“It is mine intention,” said his Grace, and struggled out of his coat. There was a tinge of colour in his cheeks, but he put up his glass in the old manner, and surveyed the room. “My house seems to be remarkably full of people,” he observed. “Is it possible we were expected?”

“Expected?” echoed Rupert. “Stap me, but that’s rich! We’ve done naught but expect you for the past ten days, I’ll have you know! It’s very well for you to go careering off to Anjou, but it’s mighty poor sport for us. What with Armand hopping in and out like a jack-in-the-box, and Madame upstairs with the vapours, and half Paris forcing its way in to nose out the mystery, the house is a veritable ants’ nest. I believe Merivale still sleeps with de Châtelet, for I don’t see him here at breakfast, thank the Lord!”

“What I want to know,” said Merivale, ignoring his lordship, “is this: did you journey all the way to Anjou in that preposterous gold dress?”

“Faith, he must have startled the country-side!” chuckled Rupert.

“No, my friends, no,” sighed his Grace. “I changed it for more sober garments at the first halt. Armand, is all well?”

“Completely, Justin! My sister wrote her confession as soon as she was able, and mine erstwhile nephew is to have a farm, and retire from Society. I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never hope to repay.”

His Grace poured himself out a glass of burgundy.

“I have taken payment, my dear, in the person of your niece,” he said, and smiled.

Then Léonie came in, and went at once to Avon’s side.

“My mother desires to be left alone,” she said gravely. The sparkle came into her eyes again. “Oh, I am so very pleased to see you all again!”

Rupert nudged Davenant.

“Look at Justin’s face!” he whispered. “Did you ever see aught to equal the pride of him? Léonie, I’m devilish hungry, and with your permission I’ll go on with my capon.”

“I am very hungry too,” she nodded. “Madame, you have no idea how nice it is to be a married lady!”

“Oh, have I not indeed?” cried my lady. “How am I to take that?” She led Léonie to her own place at the foot of the table. “Sit down, my love!”

“Madame, that is where you sit!” Léonie said.

“My sweet, I am a guest in your house now,” said Fanny, and curtsied.

Léonie looked at Avon inquiringly.

“Yes, infant. Sit down.”

“Voyons, I feel very important!” Léonie said, settling herself in the high-backed chair. “Rupert shall sit beside me on one side, and—and——” she debated. “M. de Saint—I mean, my uncle, on the other.”

“Very prettily done, my dear,” nodded her ladyship, and went to a seat on Avon’s right.

“And since I am now a Duchess,” said Léonie, twinkling, “Rupert must treat me with respect, n’est-ce pas, Monseigneur?”

Avon smiled at her across the table.

“You have only to say the word, mignonne, and he shall be cast forth.”

“Respect be damned!” said Rupert. “I’ll have you remember you’re my sister now, child! Lord, where are my wits!” He sprang up, wine-glass in hand. “I give you all a toast!” he said. “The Duchess of Avon!”

They rose as one.

“The Duchess!” Davenant bowed.

“My dearest sister!” Fanny cried.

“My wife!” said his Grace softly.

Léonie stood up, blushing, and, taking Rupert’s hand, jumped on to her chair.

“Thank you very much!” she said. “May I give a toast, please?”

“Ay, bless you!” said Rupert.

“Monseigneur!” Léonie said, and made him a quaint little bow. “Oh, where is my glass? Rupert, hand it up to me quickly!”

The Duke’s health was duly drunk.

“And now,” said Léonie, “I drink to Rupert, because he has been very good, and useful to me!”

“Here’s to you, brave lad!” said his lordship gravely. “What now, minx?”

Still perched upon the chair Léonie said gleefully:

“Voyons, I get higher and higher in the world!”

“You’ll fall off the chair if you jump like that, silly chit!” Rupert warned her.

“Do not interrupt me,” said Léonie reprovingly. “I am making a speech.”

“Lord save us, what next will you be at?” Rupert said, unrepentant.

“Tais-toi, imbécile! . . . First I was a peasant, and then I became a page. Then I was made Monseigneur’s ward, and now I am a Duchess! I am become very respectable, n’est-ce pas?”

His Grace was at her side, and lifted her down from the chair.

“My infant,” he said, “duchesses do not dance on chairs, nor do they call their brothers ‘imbécile’.”

Léonie twinkled irrepressibly.

“I do,” she said firmly.

Rupert shook his head at her.

“Justin’s in the right of it,” he said. “You’ll have to mend your ways, spitfire. No more bouquets from Princes of the Blood, eh, Justin? Dignity! That’s the thing! You must let your hair grow too, and speak to me politely. I’ll be pinked an I’ll have a sister who tells all my friends I’m an imbecile! Politeness, my lady, and some of your husband’s haughtiness! That’s what you must have, isn’t it, Fan?”

“Ah, bah!” said the Duchess of Avon.