These Old Shades (39 page)

“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 tonight.”

“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 we 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 trust 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 gaizng 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 to Léonie’s cheeks.

CHAPTER XXVIII

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 ça
,” 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 what 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 my 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.

“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.”