She said nothing. After a moment he continued.
‘In our world, child, we dislike open scandal. That is why I tried to rescue you from Avon a while back. I wish that I had told you then why I carried you off, but I thought to spare you that unpleasant knowledge.’
‘How you are kind!’ marvelled Léonie. ‘Of a truth it is a great thing to be the daughter of M. de Saint-Vire!’
He flushed.
‘You thought me brutal, I know, but I acted for the best. You outwitted me, and I saw that it would have been wiser to have told you of your birth. The secret cannot be kept, for you resemble me too greatly. We are like to be plunged in a scandal now that will hurt us all.’
‘It seems that most people know who I am,’ Léonie answered, ‘but I am very well received, je vous assure.’
‘At the moment you are, but when I openly acknowledge you – what then?’
‘Tiens! ’ Léonie stared at him. ‘Why should you do that?’
‘I have no cause to love your – guardian,’ Saint-Vire said, and kept a wary eye on the pistol. ‘And I do not think that he would be pleased if the world knew he had adopted a base-born child of mine. His pride would be humbled, I think.’
‘What if he knows already?’ Léonie asked. ‘If others know so must he.’
‘Do you think he does?’ Saint-Vire said.
She was silent.
‘He might suspect,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps he does; I do not know. Yet I think if he had done so he would hardly have brought you to Paris. He would not like Society to laugh at him as Society will laugh when it learns who you are, I can harm him greatly in this matter.’
‘How can you harm him, you – you pig-person?’
Saint-Vire smiled.
‘Were you not his page, ma fille ? It is not convenable for young girls to masquerade as boys in the house of an Alastair. Think of the scandal when I tell that tale! Be very sure that I shall take care to set Paris about M. le Duc’s ears. His morals are well known, and I do not think that Paris will believe in his innocence, or yours.’
Léonie curled her lip.
‘Voyons, am I a fool? Paris would not care that Monseigneur had made a bastard his mistress.’
‘No, child, but would not Paris care that Avon had had the audacity to take his base-born mistress into Society? You have queened it right royally, and I hear that you even have Condé in your toils. That will not make Paris more lenient. You have been too great a success, my dear. You are a masquerader, and Avon has cheated Society with you. Do you think Society will forgive that? I think we shall not see M. le Duc in France again, and it is possible that scandal might spread to London. His reputation would not aid him to kill the scandal, I assure you.’
‘I wonder if it would be better that I kill you now?’ Léonie said slowly. ‘You shall not harm Monseigneur, pig-person. That I swear!’
‘I have no great wish to harm him,’ Saint-Vire said indifferently. ‘But I cannot see my child in his care. Some paternal feeling you will allow me. Put yourself in my hands, and Avon has nothing to fear from me. All my wish is to see you safely disposed in life. There need be no scandal if you disappear from Society, but if you remain under Avon’s roof scandal must come. And since I am like to be involved in it, I prefer to head the cry.’
‘And if I go you will say nothing?’
‘Not a word. Why should I? Let me make provision for you. I can find a home for you. I will send you money. And perhaps you will –’
‘I do not put myself in the hands of a pig-person,’ Léonie said crushingly. ‘I will disappear, bien entendu, but I will go to one who loves me, not to you, who are without doubt a villain.’ She swallowed hard, and her hand clutched on the pistol. ‘I give you my word that I will disappear.’
He held out his hand.
‘Poor child, this is a sad day for you. There is nothing I can say, but that I am sorry. It is for the best, as you will see. Where do you go?’
She held her head high.
‘I do not tell you or anyone that,’ she said. ‘I make just one prayer to the good God that I may never see you again.’ Words choked in her throat; she made a gesture of loathing, and went to the door. There she turned. ‘I forget. You will swear to me that you will say nothing that may harm Monseigneur. Swear it on the Bible!’
‘I swear,’ he said. ‘But there is no need. Once you are gone there will be no occasion for me to speak. I want no scandal.’
‘Bon! ’ she said. ‘I do not trust your oath, but I think you are a great coward, and you would not like to make a scandal. I hope you will be punished one day.’ She flung the door-key down on the floor, and went quickly out.
Saint-Vire passed his handkerchief across his brow.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he whispered. ‘She showed me how to play my ace! Now, Satanas, we shall see who wins!’
Twenty-nine
The Disappearance of Léonie
Lord Rupert yawned mightily, and heaved himself up in his chair.
‘What do we do to-night?’ he asked. ‘’Pon my soul, I’ve never been to so many balls in my life! It’s no wonder I’m worn out.’
‘Oh, my dear Rupert, I am nigh dead with fatigue!’ Fanny cried. ‘At least we have this one evening quiet! To-morrow there is Madame du Deffand’s soirée.’ She nodded to Léonie. ‘You will enjoy that, my love, I assure you. A few poems to be read, discussion, all the wit of Paris present – oh, ’twill be a most amusing evening, I vow! There is no one who will not be there.’
‘What, so we have respite to-day, have we?’ said Rupert. ‘Now, what shall I do?’
‘I thought you said you were worn out?’ Marling remarked.
‘So I am, but I can’t sit at home all the evening. What do you do?’
‘Hugh and I are bound for de Châtelet’s, to visit Merivale. Will you accompany us?’
Rupert considered for a while.
‘No, I believe I’ll go to this new gaming-house I hear tell of.’
Avon put up his glass.
‘Oh? What, and where, is the novelty?’
‘In the Rue Chambéry. It’s like to kill Vassaud’s if what they say is true. I’m surprised you’d not heard of it.’
‘Yes, it is not in keeping with the part,’ Avon said. ‘I believe I will go with you there this evening, child. It will not do for Paris to think I did not know of it.’
‘What, will you all be out?’ Fanny asked. ‘And I had promised to dine with my dear Julie! Léonie, I am sure that she will be pleased if you come with me.’
‘Oh madame, I am so tired!’ Léonie protested. ‘I would like to go to bed early to-night.’
Rupert stretched his long legs out before him.
‘Tired at last!’ he said. ‘Faith, I thought you’d never be wearied out!’
‘My dearest life, I will tell the servants to take a tray to your room,’ Fanny said. ‘You must not be tired to-morrow, for I am determined you shall come to Madame du Deffand’s soirée! Why, Condé is sure to be there!’
Léonie smiled rather wanly, and encountered Avon’s scrutiny.
‘My infant, what has happened to trouble you?’ he asked.
She opened wide her eyes.
‘But nothing, Monseigneur! It is just that I have a touch of the migraine.’
‘To be sure I am not surprised.’ My lady shook her head wisely. ‘We have been abroad late every night this week. It is I who am at fault to have permitted it.’
‘Oh, but madame, it has been fort amusant !’ Léonie said. ‘I have enjoyed myself so much!’
‘Egad, and so have I!’ Rupert remarked. ‘It has been a mad two months, and I scarce know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. Are you off already, Hugh?’
‘We are dining with de Châtelet at four,’ Hugh explained. ‘I’ll say good night, Léonie. You’ll be abed when we return.’
She gave him her hand; her eyes were downcast. Both he and Marling kissed the slender fingers. Hugh made some joke to Rupert, and they went
out.
‘Do you dine at home, Justin?’ asked my lady. ‘I must go change my gown, and order the light chaise to take me to Julie.’
‘I will bear my infant company at dinner,’ said Avon. ‘And then she shall go to bed. Rupert?’
‘No, I’m off at once,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve a little matter to talk over with d’Anvau. Come, Fan!’
They went out together. Avon crossed over to the couch where Léonie sat, and tweaked one of her curls.
‘Child, you are strangely silent.’
‘I was thinking,’ she said gravely.
‘Of what, ma mie ?’
‘Oh, I shall not tell you that, Monseigneur!’ she said, and smiled. ‘Let us – let us play at piquet until it is time for dinner!’
So they played at piquet, and presently Lady Fanny came in to say good night, and was gone again in a minute, having adjured Léonie to be sure and retire to bed immediately after dinner. She kissed Léonie, and was surprised to receive a quick hug from her. Rupert went away with Fanny, and Léonie was left alone with the Duke.
‘They are gone,’ she said in a curious voice.
‘Yes, child. What of it?’ His Grace dealt the cards with an expert hand.
‘Nothing, Monseigneur. I am stupid to-night.’
They played on until dinner was served, and then went into the big dining-room, and sat down together at the table. Avon soon sent the lackeys away, whereat Léonie gave a sigh of relief.
‘That is nice,’ she remarked. ‘I like to be alone again. I wonder whether Rupert will lose much money to-night?’
‘We will hope not, infant. You will know by his expression to-morrow.’
She did not reply, but began to eat a sweetmeat, and did not look at his Grace.
‘You eat too many sweetmeats, ma fille,’ he said. ‘It’s no wonder you are growing pale.’
‘You see, Monseigneur, I had never eaten any until you bought me from Jean,’ she explained.
‘I know, child.’
‘So now I eat too many,’ she added. ‘Monseigneur, I am very glad that we are alone together to-night, like this.’
‘You flatter me,’ he bowed.
‘No. Since we came back to Paris we have hardly ever been alone, and I have wanted – oh, many times! – to thank you for being so very kind to me.’
He frowned down at the walnut he was cracking.
‘I pleased myself, infant. I believe I told you once before that I am no hero.’
‘Did it please you to make me your ward?’ she asked.
‘Evidently, ma fille, else I had not done so.’
‘I have been very happy, Monseigneur.’
‘If that is so it is very well,’ he said.
She rose, and put down her napkin.
‘I am growing more and more tired,’ she said. ‘I hope Rupert wins to-night. And you.’
‘I always win, child.’ He opened the door for her, and went with her to the foot of the stairs. ‘I wish you a good night’s rest, ma belle.’
She dropped suddenly on one knee, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment.
‘Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit! ’ she said huskily. Then she rose again, and ran up the stairs to her chamber.
Her maid was there, agog with excitement. Léonie shut the door carefully, brushed past the girl, and flung herself on to the bed, and cried as though her heart would break. The abigail hovered over her, soothing and caressing.
‘Oh, mademoiselle, why will you run away like this? Must we go to-night indeed?’
Downstairs the great front door shut; Léonie clasped her hands over her eyes.
‘Gone! Gone! Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur!’ She lay battling with her sobs, and presently rose, quiet and resolute, and turned to her maid. ‘The travelling-coach, Marie?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle, I hired one this morning, and ’tis to await us at the corner of the road in an hour’s time. But it has cost you the best part of six hundred francs, mademoiselle, and the man did not like to start so late. We shall not reach farther than Chartres to-night, he says.’
‘It’s no matter. I have enough money left to pay for everything. Bring me paper now, and ink. Are you sure – are you sure that you wish to come with me?’
‘But yes, mademoiselle!’ the girl averred. ‘M. le Duc would be wroth with me an I let you go alone.’
Léonie looked at her drearily.
‘I tell you we shall never, never see him again.’
Marie shook her head sceptically, but merely said that she had quite made up her mind to go with mademoiselle. Then she fetched ink and paper, and Léonie sat down to write her farewell.
Upon her return Lady Fanny peeped into Léonie’s room to see whether she slept. She held her candle high so that the light fell on the bed, and saw that it was empty. Something white lay upon the coverlet; she darted forward, and with a trembling hand held two sealed notes to the candlelight. One was addressed to herself; the other to Avon.
Lady Fanny felt suddenly faint, and sank down into a chair, staring numbly at the folded papers. Then she set her candle down upon the table, and tore open the note that was for her.
My Dear Madame, (she read), –
I write this to say Fare Well, and Because I want to Thank you for your Kindness to me. I have told Monseigneur why I must go. You have been so very Good to me, and I Love you, and indeed, indeed I am sorry thatt I can only write to you. I shall never forget you.
Léonie.
Lady Fanny flew up out of her chair.
‘Oh, good God!’ she cried. ‘Léonie! Justin! Rupert! Oh, is no one here? Heavens, what shall I do?’ Down the stairs she ran, and seeing a lackey by the door, hurried up to him. ‘Where’s mademoiselle? When did she go out? Answer me, dolt!’
‘Madame? Mademoiselle is abed.’
‘Fool! Imbecile! Where’s her maid?’
‘Why, madame, she went out just before six, with – Rachel, I think it was.’
‘Rachel is in my chambers!’ snapped her ladyship. ‘Oh, what in God’s name shall I do? Is his Grace returned?’
‘No, Madame, not yet.’
‘Send him to me in the library as soon as he comes in!’ Lady Fanny commanded, and went there herself, and read Léonie’s note again.
Twenty minutes later his Grace entered.
‘Fanny? What’s to do?’
‘Oh, Justin, Justin!’ she said on a sob. ‘Why did we leave her? She’s gone! Gone, I tell you!’
His Grace strode forward.
‘Léonie?’ he said sharply.
‘Who else?’ demanded my lady. ‘Poor, poor child! She left this for me, and one for you. Take it!’
His Grace broke the seal of his note, and spread out the thin sheet. Lady Fanny watched him while he read, and saw his mouth set hard.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What does she write to you? For heaven’s sake tell me!’
The Duke handed the note to her, and went to the fire, and stared down into it.
Monseigneur, –
I have run away from you because I have discovered thatt I am not what you Think me. I told you a Lie when I said that Madame de Verchoureux had not Spoken to me the other Night. She told me thatt Every One knows I am a Base-born daughter of Saint-Vire. It is Quite True, Monseigneur, for on Thursday I slipped out with my Maid, and went to his House, and asked him if it were indeed so. Monseigneur, it is not convenable thatt I stay with you. I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you, and I know thatt I must do this if I stay with you, for M. de Saint-Vire will say thatt I am his Bastard, and your Mistress. I do not want to go, Monseigneur, but it is best thatt I should. I tried to Thank you To-night, but you would not let me. Please, you must not be anxious for me. I wanted at first to Kill myself, but then I saw thatt thatt is Cowardly. I am Quite Safe, and I am going very far away to Some One who will be good to me, I know. I have left all my Things, except the Money you gave me, which I must take to pay my journey, and the Sapphire Chain which you gave me wh
en I was your Page. I thought you would not Mind if I took thatt, because it is the only thing I have kept which you gave me. Marie goes with me, and Please you must not be Angry with the lackeys for letting me go, for they thought I was Rachel. I leave for Rupert, and M. Davenant, and M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale my so Great Love for them. And for you, Monseigneur. I cannot write it. I am Glad thatt we were Alone to-night.
A Dieu
Infant.
Lady Fanny’s face worked for a minute, then she whisked out her handkerchief and cried into it, regardless of paint and powder. His Grace picked up the note, and read it through again.
‘Poor little infant!’ he said softly.
‘Oh Justin, we must find her!’ sniffed her ladyship.
‘We shall find her,’ he answered. ‘I think I know where she has gone.’
‘Where? Can you go after her? Now? She is such a babe, and she has only a foolish abigail with her.’
‘I believe that she has gone to – Anjou.’ His Grace folded the note and put it into his pocket. ‘She has left me because she fears to endanger my – reputation. It is somewhat ironic, is it not?’
Lady Fanny blew her nose vigorously, and gave yet another watery sniff.
‘She loves you, Justin.’
He was silent.
‘Oh Justin, do you not care? I felt so certain that you loved her!’
‘I love her – too well to marry her, my dear,’ said his Grace.
‘Why?’ Lady Fanny put away her handkerchief.
‘There are so many reasons,’ sighed his Grace. ‘I am too old for her!’
‘Oh, fiddle!’ said my lady. ‘I thought that maybe ’twas her birth you cavilled at.’
‘Her birth, Fanny, is as good as yours. She is Saint-Vire’s legitimate daughter.’
Lady Fanny gaped at him.
‘In her place he has put that clod you know as de Valmé. His name is Bonnard. I have waited too long, but I strike now.’ He picked up a handbell, and rang it. To the lackey who came he said: ‘You will go at once to the Hôtel de Châtelet, and request M. Marling and M. Davenant to return at once. Ask Milor’ Merivale to accompany them. You may go.’ He turned again to his sister. ‘What did the child write to you?’
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