‘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 Penthièvre was there to-night.’
‘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 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 tr
ust 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 on Léonie’s cheeks.
Twenty-eight
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 à ca,’ 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 w
hat 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 mine 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.