‘We are all fond of him,’ said Hugh. ‘But he is an imp.’
‘Undoubtedly. Do not allow him to tease you; he is an impertinent child. Unhappily he cannot be brought to realise that fact. And here he is.’
Léon came in and smiled confidingly as he met the Duke’s eyes.
‘Monseigneur, you told me to be ready to accompany you out at three, and it is now half-past the hour,’ he said.
Hugh’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter; he turned away, coughing.
‘It would appear that I owe you an apology,’ said his Grace. ‘Pray hold me excused for once. I am not going out after all. Come here.’
Léon approached.
‘Yes, Monseigneur?’
‘I am going into the country for a few days, my infant, from to-morrow. Oblige me by looking on M. Davenant as master in mine absence, and do not, on any account, leave the house until I return.’
‘Oh!’ Léon’s face fell. ‘Am I not to come with you?’
‘I am denying myself that honour. Please do not argue with me. That is all that I wished to say.’
Léon turned away and went with lagging steps to the door. A small sniff escaped him, and at the sound of it Avon smiled.
‘Infant, the end of the world has not come. I shall return, I hope, within the week.’
‘I wish – oh, I wish that you would take me!’
‘That is hardly polite to M. Davenant. I do not think he is likely to ill-use you. I am not going out to-night, by the way.’
Léon came back.
‘You – you won’t go to-morrow without saying goodbye, will you, Monseigneur?’
‘You shall hand me into my coach,’ promised the Duke, and gave him his hand to kiss.
Seven
Satan and Priest at One
The village of Bassincourt, which lay some six or seven miles to the west of Saumur, in Anjou, was a neat and compact place whose white houses were for the most part gathered about its hub, a square market-place paved by cobblestones as large as a man’s fist. On the north the square was flanked by various houses of the more well-to-do inhabitants; on the west by smaller cottages, and by a lane that led into the square at right angles to this side, and which stretched out into the open country, winding this way and that to touch each of the three farms that lay to the west of Bassincourt. On the south side was the small grey church, within whose square tower a cracked bell was wont to ring out its summons to the villagers. The church stood back from the market-place with its burial ground all about it and beyond, on one side, the Curé’s modest house, squatting in its own garden, and seeming to smile across the square in gentle rulership.
The east side of the square was close-packed by shops, a blacksmith’s yard, and a white inn, over whose open door hung a gay green shield, with a painting of the Rising Sun thereon. The sign swung to and fro with every wind that blew, creaking a little if the gale were fierce, but more often sighing only on its rusted chains.
On this particular day of November the square was a-hum with voices, and echoing occasionally to a child’s shrill laugh, or to the stamp of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Old Farmer Mauvoisin had driven into Bassincourt with three pigs for sale in his cart, and had drawn up at the inn to exchange the time of day with the landlord, and to quaff a tankard of thin French ale while his pigs grunted and snuffled behind him. Close by, gathered about a stall where La Mère Gognard was selling vegetables, was a group of women, alternately haggling and conversing. Several girls in stiff gowns kilted high above their ankles, their feet in clumsy wooden sabots, stood chattering beside the ancient porch which led into the graveyard; in the centre of the square, near to the fountain, some sheep were herded, while a party of possible buyers picked their way amongst them, prodding and inspecting at will. From the blacksmith’s yard came the ring of hammer on anvil, mingled with spasmodic snatches of song.
Into this busy, contented scene rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He came trotting into the market-place from the eastern road that led to Saumur, dressed all in sombre black, with lacing of gold. As soon as his horse’s hoofs struck the uneven cobblestones he reined in, and sitting gracefully at ease in the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly on his hip, cast a languid glance round.
He attracted no little attention. The villagers stared at him from his point-edged hat to his spurred boots, and back again. One tittering girl, remarking those cold eyes and the thin, curling lips, whispered that it was the devil himself come amongst them. Although her companion scoffed at her for a foolish maid, she crossed herself surreptitiously, and drew back into the shelter of the porch.
The Duke’s glance swept all round the square, and came to rest at last on a small boy, who watched him with goggling eyes, and his thumb in his mouth. One hand in its embroidered gauntlet beckoned imperiously, and the small boy took a hesitating step forward in answer to the Duke’s summons.
His Grace looked down at him, faintly smiling. He pointed to the house beside the church.
‘Am I right in thinking that that is the abode of your Curé?’
The boy nodded.
‘Yes, milor’.’
‘Do you think that I shall find him within?’
‘Yes, milor’. He came back from the house of Madame Tournaud an hour since, if you please, milor’.’
Avon swung himself lightly down from the saddle, and twitched the bridle over his horse’s head.
‘Very well, child. Be so good as to hold this animal for me until I return. You will thus earn a louis.’
The boy took the bridle willingly.
‘A whole louis, milor?’ For holding your horse?’ he said breathlessly.
‘Is it a horse?’ The Duke eyed the animal through his quizzing glass. ‘Perhaps you are right. I thought it was a camel. Take it away and water it.’ He turned on his heel, and sauntered up to the Curé’s house. The wondering villagers saw M. de Beaupré’s housekeeper admit him, and started to propound their views on this strange visitation, one to the other.
His Grace of Avon was led through a tiny spotless hall to the Curé’s sanctum, a sunny room at the back of the house. The rosy-cheeked housekeeper ushered him into her master’s presence with unruffled placidity.
‘Here, mon père, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,’ she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.
The Curé was seated at a table by the window, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up to see who was his visitor, and perceiving a stranger, laid down his quill and rose. He was slight, with thin, beautiful hands, calm blue eyes, and aristocratic features. He wore a long soutane, and his head was uncovered. For an instant Avon thought that the milky-white hair was a wig, so ordered were the soft waves, and then he saw that it was natural, brushed smoothly back from a broad low brow.
‘M. de Beaupré, I believe?’ His Grace bowed deeply.
‘Yes, m’sieur, but you have the advantage of me.’
‘I am one Justin Alastair,’ said the Duke, and laid his hat and gloves on the table.
‘Yes? You will pardon me, monsieur, if I do not at once recognise you. I have been out of the world for many years, and for the moment I cannot call to mind whether you are of the Alastairs of Auvergne, or of the English family.’ De Beaupré cast him an appraising look, and put forward a chair.
Justin sat down.
‘The English family, monsieur. You perhaps knew my father?’
‘Slightly, very slightly,’ answered De Beaupré. ‘You are the Duc of Avon, I think? What may I have the honour of doing for you?’
‘I am the Duke of Avon, m’sieur, as you say. Am I right in thinking that I address a relative of the Marquis de Beaupré?’
‘His uncle, m’sieur.’
‘Ah!’ Justin bowed. ‘You are the Vicomte de Marrillon, then.’
The Curé seated himself at the table again.
‘I renounced that title years ago, m’sieur, deeming it empty. My family will tell you that I am mad.
They do not mention my name.’ He smiled. ‘Naturally, I have disgraced them. I chose to work amongst my people here when I might have worn a cardinal’s hat. But I suppose you did not come all the way to Anjou to hear that. What is it I may do for you?’
Justin offered his host some snuff.
‘I hope, m’sieur, that you may be able to enlighten me,’ he said.
De Beaupré took a pinch of snuff, holding it delicately to one nostril.
‘It is hardly probable, m’sieur. As I said, I have long since withdrawn from the world, and what I knew of it I have well-nigh forgotten.’
‘This, mon père, has naught to do with the world,’ replied his Grace. ‘I want you to cast your mind back seven years.’
‘Well?’ De Beaupré picked up his quill and passed it through his fingers. ‘Having done that, mon fils, what then?’
‘Having done that, m’sieur, you may perhaps recall a family living here of the name of Bonnard.’
The Curé nodded. His eyes never wavered from Avon’s face.
‘More particularly the child – Léonie.’
‘One wonders what the Duc of Avon knows of Léonie. I am not likely to forget.’ The blue eyes were quite inscrutable.
His Grace swung one booted leg gently to and fro.
‘Before I go further, mon père, I would have you know that I speak in confidence.’
The Curé brushed his quill lightly across the table.
‘And before I consent to respect the confidence, my son, I will learn what it is you want of a peasant girl, and what that peasant girl is to you,’ he answered.
‘At the moment she is my page,’ said Avon blandly.
The Curé raised his brows.
‘So? Do you usually employ a girl as your page, M. le Duc?’
‘It is not one of my most common practices, mon père. This girl does not know that I have discovered her sex.’
The quill brushed the table again, rhythmically.
‘No, my son? And what comes to her?’
Avon looked haughtily across at him.
‘M. de Beaupré, you will pardon me, I am sure, for pointing out to you that my morals are not your concern.’
The Curé met his look unflinchingly.
‘They are your own, my son, but you have seen fit to make them all the world’s. I might retort: Léonie’s welfare is not your concern.’
‘She would not agree with you, mon père. Let us understand one another. Body and soul she is mine. I bought her from the ruffian who called himself her brother.’
‘He had reason,’ said De Beaupré calmly.
‘Do you think so? Rest assured, m’sieur, that Léonie is safer with me than with Jean Bonnard. I have come to ask your help for her.’
‘I have never before heard that – Satanas – chose a priest for his ally, m’sieur.’
Avon’s teeth showed white for a moment in a smile.
‘Withdrawn as you are from the world, mon père, you yet have heard that?’
‘Yes, m’sieur. Your reputation is well known.’
‘I am flattered. In this case my reputation lies. Léonie is safe with me.’
‘Why?’ asked De Beaupré serenely.
‘Because, my father, there is a mystery attached to her.’
‘It seems an insufficient reason.’
‘Nevertheless it must suffice. My word, when I give it, is surety enough.’
The Curé folded his hands before him, and looked quietly into Avon’s eyes. Then he nodded.
‘It is very well, mon fils. Tell me what became of la petite. That Jean was worthless, but he would not leave Léonie with me. Where did he take her?’
‘To Paris, where he bought a tavern. He dressed Léonie as a boy, and a boy she has been for seven years. She is my page now, until I end that comedy.’
‘And when you end it, what then?’
Justin tapped one polished finger-nail against the lid of his snuff-box.
‘I take her to England – to my sister. I have some vague notion of – ah – adopting her. As my ward, you understand. Oh, she will be chaperoned, of course!’
‘Why, my son? If you desire to do good to la petite send her to me.’
‘My dear father, I have never desired to do good to anyone. I have a reason for keeping this child. And, strange to say, I have developed quite a keen affection for her. A fatherly emotion, believe me.’
The housekeeper entered at this moment, bearing a tray with wine and glasses upon it. She arranged the refreshment at her master’s elbow, and withdrew.
De Beaupré poured his visitor out a glass of canary.
‘Proceed, my son. I do not yet see how I can aid you, or why you have journeyed all this way to see me.’
The Duke raised the glass to his lips.
‘A most tedious journey,’ he agreed. ‘But your main roads are good. Unlike ours in England. I came, my father, to ask you to tell me all that you know of Léonie.’
‘I know very little, m’sieur. She came to this place as a babe, and left it when she was scarce twelve years old.’
Justin leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.
‘From where did she come, mon père ?’
‘It was always kept secret. I believe they came from Champagne. They never told me.’
‘Not even – under the seal of the confessional?’
‘No. That were of no use to you, my son. From chance words that the Mère Bonnard from time to time let fall I gathered that Champagne was their native country.’
‘M’sieur,’ Justin’s eyes widened a little, ‘I want you to speak plainly. Did you think when you saw Léonie grow from babyhood into girlhood that she was a daughter of the Bonnards?’
The Curé looked out of the window. For a moment he did not answer.
‘I wondered, monsieur…’
‘No more? Was there nothing to show that she was not a Bonnard?’
‘Nothing but her face.’
‘And her hair, and her hands. Did she remind you of no one, my father?’
‘It is difficult to tell at that age. The features are still unformed. When the Mère Bonnard was dying she tried to say something. That it concerned Léonie I know, but she died before she could tell me.’
His Grace frowned quickly.
‘How inconvenient!’
The Curé’s lips tightened.
‘What of la petite, sir? What became of her when she left this place?’
‘She was, as I told you, compelled to change her sex. Bonnard married some shrewish slut, and bought a tavern in Paris. Faugh!’ His Grace took snuff.
‘It was perhaps as well then that Léonie was a boy,’ said De Beaupré quietly.
‘Without doubt. I found her one evening when she was flying from punishment. I bought her, and she mistook me for a hero.’
‘I trust, mon fils, that she will never have cause to change her opinion.’
Again the Duke smiled.
‘It is a hard rôle to maintain, my father. Let us pass over that. When first I set eyes on her it flashed across my brain that she was related to – someone I know.’ He shot the Curé a swift glance, but De Beaupré’s face was impassive. ‘Someone I know. Yes. On the fleeting conviction I acted. The conviction has grown, mon père, but I have no proof. That is why I come to you.’
‘You come in vain, monsieur. There is nothing to tell whether Léonie be a Bonnard or not. I too suspected, and because of that I took pains with la petite, and taught her to the best of mine ability. I tried to keep her here when the Bonnards died, but Jean would not have it so. You say he ill-treated her? Had I thought that I would have done more to retain the child. I did not think it. True I had never an affection for Jean, but he was kind enough to la petite in those days. He promised to write to me from Paris, but he never did so, and I lost trace of him. Now it seems that Chance has led you to Léonie, and you suspect what I suspected.’
Justin set down his wine-glass.
‘Your suspicion, mon père ?’
It was spoken compellingly.
De Beaupré rose, and went to the window.
‘When I saw the child grow up in a delicate mould; when I saw those blue eyes, and those black brows, coupled with hair of flame, I was puzzled. I am an old man, and that was fifteen or more years ago. Yet even then I had been out of the world for many years, and I had seen no one of that world since the days of my youth. Very little news reaches us here, monsieur; you will find me strangely ignorant. As I say, I watched Léonie grow up, and every day I saw her become more and more like to a family I had known before I was a priest. It is not easy to mistake a descendant of the Saint-Vires, m’sieur.’ He turned, looking at Avon.
The Duke lay back in his chair. Beneath his heavy lids his eyes glittered coldly.
‘And thinking that – suspecting that, my father – you yet let Léonie slip through your fingers? You knew also that the Bonnards came from Champagne. It is to be supposed that you remembered where the Saint-Vire estate lay.’
The Curé looked down at him in surprised hauteur.
‘I fail to understand you, m’sieur. It is true that I thought Léonie a daughter of Saint-Vire, but what could that knowledge avail her? If Madame Bonnard wished her to know, she could have told her. But Bonnard himself recognised the child as his. It was better that Léonie should not know.’
The hazel eyes opened wide.
‘Mon père, I think we are at cross-purposes. In plain words, what do you think Léonie?’
‘The inference is sufficiently obvious, I think,’ said the Curè, flushing.
Avon shut his snuff-box with a click.
‘We will have it in plain words, nevertheless, my father. You deemed Léonie a base-born child of the Comte de Saint-Vire. It is possible that you have never appreciated the situation between the Comte and his brother Armand.’
‘I have no knowledge of either, m’sieur.’
‘It is manifest, mon père. Listen to me a while. When I found Léonie that night in Paris a dozen thoughts came into my head. The likeness to Saint-Vire is prodigious, I assure you. At first I thought as you. Then there flashed before mine eyes a picture of Saint-Vire’s son as last I had seen him. A raw clod, my father. A clumsy, thick-set yokel. I remembered that between Saint-Vire and his brother had ever been a most deadly hatred. You perceive the trend of the matter? Saint-Vire’s wife is a sickly creature; it was common knowledge that he married her simply to spite Armand. Now behold the irony of fate. Three years pass. Madame fails to present her lord with anything but a still-born child. Then – miraculously a son is born, in Champagne. A son who is now nineteen years old. I counsel you, my father, to put yourself in Saint-Vire’s place for one moment, not forgetting that the flame of the Saint-Vire hair is apt to enter the Saint-Vire head. He is determined that there shall be no mistake this time. He carries Madame into the country, where she is brought to bed, and delivered of – let us say – a girl. Conceive the chagrin of Saint-Vire! But, my father, we will suppose that he had prepared for this possibility. On his estate was a family of the name of Bonnard. We will say that Bonnard was in his employ. Madame Bonnard gives birth to a son some few days before the birth of – Léonie. In a fit of Saint-Vire madness the Comte exchanged the children. Evidently he bribed Bonnard very heavily, for we know that the Bonnard family came here and bought a farm, bringing with them Léonie de Saint-Vire, and leaving their son to become – Vicomte de Valmé. Eh bien? ’