‘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 God, 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 thunderstruck silence, and for some time after he 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 tomorrow?’
‘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 Gad he’s worse than that! He’s – !’
Fanny fled incontinently from the room.
Thirty
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 Lavoulère, 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 co
me to listen, madame.’
She laughed at him.
‘You will be so 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 the 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 in 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’s 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 to 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 Lavoulère, 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 Châtalet 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 nearby. ‘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!’