‘But I do not understand! I cannot imagine what you think to do with –’
‘Then pray do not try, Armand. I have said that you shall not be disappointed.’
‘I am to be dumb? But all Paris will be talking of it soon!’
‘So I think,’ agreed his Grace.
‘Henri won’t like it,’ pondered Armand. ‘But I do not see that it can harm him. So why do you –’
‘My dear, the game is more intricate than you think. You are better out of it, believe me.’
‘Well!’ Armand bit his finger. ‘I can trust you to deal with Henri, I suppose. You love him as much as I do, hein ?’
‘Less than that,’ said his Grace, and went slowly to the couch where Léonie sat. He bowed to Madame de Saint-Vire. ‘Your servant, madame. Once again we meet in this exceedingly draughty salon. My very dear Comte!’ He bowed to Saint-Vire. ‘You renew your acquaintance with my ward?’
‘As you see, Duc.’
Léonie had risen, and stood now beside his Grace. He took her hand, and looked mockingly at the Comtesse.
‘I had the felicity of meeting my very dear friend in the most unexpected spot only a month ago,’ he told her. ‘We were both, an I remember rightly, in search of – er – lost property. Quite a curious coincidence, was it not? It seems that there are some sad rogues in this delightful country.’ He pulled out his snuff-box, and saw the Comte redden.
Then the Vicomte de Valmé came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.
‘Your so charming son,’ purred Avon.
Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.
The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Léonie.
‘Your servant, Duc.’ He turned to Saint-Vire. ‘Will you present me, sir?’
‘My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!’ Saint-Vire said brusquely.
Léonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.
‘You are ennuyé, Vicomte, as usual?’ Avon fobbed his snuff-box. ‘You pine for the country, and – a farm, was it not?’
The Vicomte smiled.
‘Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.’
‘But surely a most – ah – praiseworthy ambition?’ drawled Avon. ‘We will hope that you may one day realise it.’ He inclined his head, offered his arm to Léonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.
Léonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.
‘Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!’
‘What, my infant, is “it”?’
‘That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was like. But just now it came to me! He is like Jean. It is ridiculous, is it not?’
‘Most ridiculous, ma fille. I desire you will not repeat that to anyone.’
‘No, Monseigneur, of course not. I am very discreet now, you know.’
Avon saw Condé in the distance, with the violets pinned to his coat, and smiled a little.
‘I did not know it, infant, nor have I observed any signs of discretion in you, but let that pass. Where, I wonder, is Fanny?’
‘She is talking to M. de Penthièvre, Monseigneur. I think he likes her – oh much! Here she is! She looks very pleased, so I expect M. de Penthièvre has told her that she is just as beautiful as she was when she was nineteen.’
Avon put up his glass.
‘My infant, you are becoming positively shrewd. Do you know my sister so well?’
‘I am very fond of her, Monseigneur,’ Léonie hastened to add.
‘I do not doubt it, ma fille.’ He looked towards Fanny, who had paused to speak to Raoul de Fontanges. ‘It is most surprising, nevertheless.’
‘But she is so kind to me, Monseigneur. Of course, she is sometimes very s –’ Léonie stopped, and peeped up at the Duke uncertainly.
‘I entirely agree with you, infant. Very silly,’ said his Grace imperturbably. ‘Well, Fanny, can we now depart?’
‘That was exactly what I had a mind to ask you!’ said my lady. ‘What a crush! Oh, my dear Justin, de Penthièvre has been saying such things to me! I vow I am all one blush! What are you smiling at? My love, what had Madame de Saint-Vire to say to you?’
‘She is mad,’ said Léonie, with conviction. ‘She looked as though she were going to cry, and I did not like it at all. Oh, here is Rupert! Rupert, where have you been?’
Rupert grinned.
‘Faith, asleep, in the little salon over there. What, are we going at last? God be praised!’
‘Asleep! Oh, Rupert!’ Léonie cried. ‘It has been fort amusant ! Monseigneur, who is that pretty lady over there?’
‘La, child, that is La Pompadour!’ whispered Fanny. ‘Will you present her, Justin?’
‘No, Fanny, I will not,’ said his Grace gently.
‘Here’s a haughtiness,’ remarked Rupert. ‘For the Lord’s sake let us be gone before all these young pups crowd round Léonie again.’
‘But, Justin, will it serve?’ asked my lady. ‘She will take offence, belike.’
‘I am not a French satellite,’ said his Grace. ‘And therefore I shall not present my ward to the King’s mistress. I believe Léonie can dispense with the lady’s smiles or frowns.’
‘But, Monseigneur, it would please me to –’
‘Infant, you will not argue with me, I think.’
‘Oh, won’t she!’ said Rupert, sotto voce.
‘No, Monseigneur. But I did want to –’
‘Silence, my child.’ Avon led her to the door. ‘Content yourself with having been presented to their Majesties. They are not, perhaps, so powerful as La Pompadour, but they are infinitely better born.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Justin!’ gasped my lady. ‘You’ll be heard!’
‘Think of us!’ Rupert besought him. ‘You’ll have the lot of us clapped up, if you’re not careful, or hounded out of the country.’
Avon turned his head.
‘If I thought that there was the smallest chance of getting you clapped up, child, I would shout my remarks to the whole of this very overcrowded room,’ he said.
‘I think you are not at all in a nice humour, Monseigneur,’ said Léonie reproachfully. ‘Why may I not be presented to La Pompadour?’
‘Because, infant,’ replied his Grace, ‘She is not – er – enough respectable.’
Twenty-seven
The Hand of Madame de Verchoureux
And Paris began to talk, in whispers at first, then gradually louder, and more openly. Paris remembered an old, old scandal, and said that the English Duc had adopted a base-born daughter of Saint-Vire in revenge for past injuries. Paris thought that it must irk Saint-Vire considerably to see his offspring in the hands of his greatest enemy. Then Paris wondered what the English Duc meant to do with Mademoiselle de Bonnard, and found no solution to the riddle. Paris shook its head, and thought that the ways of Avon were inscrutable and probably fiendish.
Meanwhile Lady Fanny swept through the town with Léonie, and saw to it that her social activities this season should not easily be forgotten. Léonie enjoyed herself very much, and Paris enjoyed her even more. In the mornings she rode out with Avon, and two factions sprang up thereafter amongst her admirers. One faction held that the divine Léonie was seen at her best in the saddle; the other faction was firm that in the ballroom she was incomparable. One excitable young gentleman challenged another on this score, but Hugh Davenant was present, and he took both young hotheads severely to task for bandying Léonie’s name about over their cups, and the affair came to naught.
Others tried to make love to Léonie, whereat she was angry, and turned a cold shoulder on their enthusiasms. She could be dignified when she chose, and her admirers were speedily abashed. Learning of their discomfiture one evening when she was helping Léonie to dress, Lady Fanny forgot herself, and excl
aimed:
‘Oh, splendidly done, my love! What a duchess you will make, to be sure!’
‘A duchess, madame?’ Léonie said. ‘How could I be that?’
Lady Fanny looked at her, and then at a new bracelet that lay on the table.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know, puss!’
Léonie was trembling now.
‘Madame –’
‘Oh, my dear, he’s head over ears in love with you, as all the world must know! I have watched it grow, and – my dearest life, there is no one I would sooner have for my sister than you, I do assure you!’
‘Madame, you – you must be mistaken!’
‘Mistaken? I? Trust me to read the signs, my love! I have known Justin many years, and never have I seen him as he is now. Silly child, why does he give you all these jewels?’
‘I – I am his ward, madame.’
‘Pooh!’ My lady snapped her fingers. ‘A fig for that! Tell me why he made you his ward?’
‘I – I do not know, madame. I – did not think.’
My lady kissed her again.
‘You will be a duchess before the year is out, never fear!’
Léonie pushed her away.
‘It’s not true! You shall not say these things!’
‘Why, here’s a heat! Is there ever a man you have liked as you liked “Monseigneur”?’
‘Madame –’ Léonie pressed her hands together. ‘I am very ignorant, but I know – I have heard what people say when such as Monseigneur wed – wed ladies of no birth. I am only a tavern-keeper’s sister. Monseigneur could not marry me. I – I had not thought of it.’
‘’Tis I who am a fool to have put the idea into your head!’ said Fanny remorsefully.
‘Madame, I beg you will not say it to anyone.’
‘Not I, child, but everyone knows that you have Avon in your toils.’
‘I have not! I hate you when you talk like that!’
‘Oh, my dear, we are but two women! What matter? Justin will count no cost, believe me. You may be born as low as you please, but will he care once he looks into your eyes?’
Léonie shook her head stubbornly.
‘I know I am not a fool, madame. It would be a disgrace for him to marry me. One must be born.’
‘Fiddle, child! If Paris accepts you without question shall not Avon too?’
‘Madame, Monseigneur has no love for those who are lowborn. Many, many times I have heard him say so.’
‘Never think of it, child.’ Lady Fanny wished that she had not allowed her tongue to run away with her. ‘Come, let me tie your ribands!’ She bustled about Léonie, and presently whispered in her ear: ‘My sweet, do you not love him?’
‘Oh, madame, madame, I have always loved him, but I did not think – until you made me see –’
‘There, child, there! Do not cry, I implore you! You will make your eyes red.’
‘I do not care about my eyes!’ said Léonie, but she dried her tears, and permitted Lady Fanny to powder her face again.
When they went downstairs together Avon stood in the hall, and the sight of him brought the colour to Léonie’s cheeks. He looked at her closely.
‘What ails you, infant?’
‘Nothing, Monseigneur.’
He pinched her chin caressingly.
‘It is the thought of your princely admirer that makes you blush, ma fille ?’
Léonie recovered herself at this.
‘Ah bah!’ she said scornfully.
Condé was not present at Madame de Vauvallon’s rout that night, but there were many others who had come to see Léonie, and not a few who had come early in the hope of securing her hand for a dance. Avon arrived late, as ever, and Madame de Vauvallon, who had no daughters of marriageable age, greeted him with a laugh, and a gesture of despair.
‘My friend, I have a score of young beaux who give me no peace until I promise to present them to la petite ! Fanny, Marchérand is back! Let me find – oh, la la! I should say choose – a gallant for Léonie, and I’ll tell you the scandal! Come, little one!’ She took Léonie’s hand, and led her into the room. ‘How you have set Paris by the ears! Were my daughters older I should be so jealous! Now child, who will you have to lead you out?’
Léonie looked round the room.
‘I do not mind, madame. I will have – Oh, oh, oh!’ She let go Madame’s hand, and ran forward. ‘Milor’ Merivale, Milor’ Merivale!’ she cried joyfully.
Merivale turned quickly.
‘Léonie! Well, child, and how do you go on?’ He kissed her hand. She was radiant. ‘I hoped I might see you here to-night.’
Madame de Vauvallon bore down upon them.
‘Fie, what behaviour!’ she said indulgently. ‘Is this your cavalier? Very well, petite. You need no introduction, it seems.’ She smiled benignantly upon them, and went back to Fanny’s side.
Léonie tucked her hand in Merivale’s.
‘M’sieur, I am very pleased to see you. Is Madame here too?’
‘No, child, I am on one of my periodical visits. Alone. I won’t deny that I was drawn hither by certain rumours that reached us in London.’
She put her head on one side.
‘What rumours, m’sieur?’
His smile grew.
‘Faith, rumours of the succès fou that has been achieved by –’
‘Me!’ she cried, and clapped her hands. ‘Milor’, I am le dernier cri ! Vraiment, it is so! Lady Fanny says it is. C’est ridicule, n’est-ce pas? ’ She saw Avon coming towards them, and beckoned with pretty imperiousness. ‘Monseigneur, see whom I have found!’
‘Merivale?’ His Grace made a leg. ‘Now why?’
‘We have heard things in London,’ said Merivale. ‘Egad, I could not but come!’
‘Oh, and we are very glad!’ Léonie said enthusiastically.
His Grace offered Merivale snuff.
‘Why, I believe my infant speaks for us all,’ he said.
‘Hey, is it you, Tony, or am I in my cups?’ demanded a jovial voice. Lord Rupert came up, and wrung Merivale’s hand. ‘Where are you staying? When did you come?’
‘Last night. I am with De Châtelet. And –’ he looked from one to the other – ‘I am something anxious to hear what befell you all!’
‘Ay, you were in our escapade, weren’t you?’ said Rupert. ‘Gad, what a chase! How does my friend – stap me if I have not forgot his name again! – Manvers! That’s the fellow! How does he?’
Merivale flung out a hand.
‘I beg you’ll not mention that name to me!’ he said. ‘All three of you fled the country, and faith, it’s as well you did!’
‘I suggest we repair to the smaller salon,’ Avon said, and led the way there. ‘I trust you were able to satisfy Mr Manvers?’
Merivale shook his head.
‘Nothing less than your blood is like to satisfy him,’ he said. ‘Tell me all that happened to you.’
‘In English,’ drawled his Grace, ‘and softly.’
So once again the tale was told of Léonie’s capture and rescue. Then Madame de Vauvallon came in search of Léonie, and bore her away to dance with an ardent youth. Rupert wandered away to the card-room.
Merivale looked at the Duke.
‘And what does Saint-Vire say to Léonie’s success?’ he inquired.
‘Very little,’ replied his Grace. ‘But he is not pleased, I fear.’
‘She does not know?’
‘She does not.’
‘But the likeness is striking, Alastair. What says Paris?’
‘Paris,’ said his Grace, ‘talks in whispers. Thus my very dear friend Saint-Vire lives in some dread of discovery.’
‘When do you intend to strike?’
Avon crossed his legs, and eyed one diamond shoe-buckle pensively.
‘That, my dear Merivale, is still on the knees of the gods. Saint-Vire himself must supply the proof to my story.’
‘It’s awkward, damned awkward!’ Merivale commented. ‘You�
�ve no proof at all?’
‘None.’
Merivale laughed.
‘It does not seem to worry you!’
‘No,’ sighed his Grace, ‘no. I believe I can trap the Comte through his so charming wife. I play a waiting game, you see.’
‘I am glad that I am not Saint-Vire. Your game must be torture to him.’
‘Why, so I think,’ agreed Avon pleasantly. ‘I am not anxious to put an end to his agonies.’
‘You’re very vindictive!’
There was a moment’s silence; then Avon spoke.
‘I wonder if you have realised to the full my friend’s villainy. Consider for a moment, I beg of you. What mercy would you show to a man who could condemn his own daughter to the life my infant has led?’
Merivale straightened in his chair.
‘I know nothing of her life. It was bad?’
‘Yes, my dear, it was indeed bad. Until she was twelve years old she, a Saint-Vire, was reared as a peasant. After that she lived among the canaille of Paris. Conceive a tavern in a mean street, a bully for master, a shrew for mistress, and Vice, in all its lowest forms, under my infant’s very nose.’
‘It must have been – hell!’ Merivale said.
‘Just so,’ bowed his Grace. ‘It was the very worst kind of hell, as I know.’
‘The wonder is that she has come through it unscathed.’
The hazel eyes lifted.
‘Not quite unscathed, my dear Anthony. Those years have left their mark.’
‘It were inevitable, I suppose. But I confess I have not seen the mark.’
‘Possibly not. You see the roguery, and the dauntless spirit.’
‘And you?’ Merivale watched him curiously.
‘Oh, I see beneath, my dear! But then, I have had experience of the sex, as you know.’
‘And you see – what?’
‘A certain cynicism, born of the life she has led; a streak of strange wisdom; the wistfulness behind the gaiety; sometimes fear; and nearly always the memory of loneliness that hurts the soul.’
Merivale looked down at his snuff-box, and fell to tracing the pattern on it with one finger.
‘Do you know,’ he said slowly, ‘I think that you have grown, Alastair?’
Georgette Heyer - [Alastair 01] Page 28