These Old Shades (45 page)

There was a moment’s silence. Then his Grace spoke, so harshly that Léonie was startled.

“You are not to talk in that fashion, Léonie. You understand me?”

“I—I am sorry!” she faltered. “I—I did not mean to make you angry, Monseigneur.”

“I am not angry,” he answered. “Even were it possible, Léonie, I would not take you as my mistress. That is not how I think of you.”

“You do not love me?” she said, like a child.

“Too—well to marry you,” he said, and released her hands. “It is not possible.”

She stayed quite still, looking down at the marks of his fingers about her wrists with a little wise smile.

“You will take me to this mother and uncle whom I do not know?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Monseigneur, I would rather stay here,” she said. “Since you do not want me, I will not go back.
C’est fini, tout cela
.” A sob rose in her throat. “You bought me, Monseigneur, and I am yours till I die. I told you—once— that it was so. You do not remember?”

“I remember every word you have spoken to me.”

“Monseigneur, I—I do not want to be a burden to you. You are tired of—of having a ward, and—and I would rather leave you than stay to weary you. But I cannot go back to Paris. I cannot! I shall be quite—happy—here with M. de Beaupré, but I cannot bear to go back alone— to the world I have lived in with you.”

He looked across at her. She saw his hand clenched hard on his snuff-box.

“Child, you do not know me. You have created a mythical being in my likeness whom you have set up as a god. It is not I. Many times, infant, I have told you that 1 am no hero, but I think you have not believed me. I tell you now that I am no fit mate for you. There are twenty years between us, and those years have not been well-spent by me. My reputation is damaged beyond repair, child. I come of vicious stock, and I have brought no honour to the name I bear. Do you know what men call me? I earned that nickname, child; I have even been proud of it. To no women have I been faithful; behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal. I have wealth, but I squandered one fortune in my youth, and won my present fortune at play. You have seen perhaps the best of me; you have not seen the worst. Infant, you are worthy of a better husband. I would give you a boy who might come to you with a clean heart, not one who was bred up in vice from his cradle.”

One large tear glistened on the end of her lashes.

“Ah, Monseigneur, you need not have told me this! I know—I have always known, and still I love you, I do not want a boy. I want only—Monseigneur.”

“Léonie, you will do well to consider. You are not the first woman in my life.”

She smiled through her tears.

“Monseigneur, I would so much rather be the last woman than the first,” she said.

“Infant, it’s madness!”

She came to him, and put her hand on his arm.

“Monseigneur, I do not think that I can live without you. I must have you to take care of me, and to love me, and to scold me when I am
maladroite
.”

Involuntarily his hand went to hers.

“Rupert would be a more fitting bridegroom,” he said bitterly.

Her eyes flashed.

“Ah, bah!” she said scornfully. “Rupert is a silly boy, like the Prince de Condé! If you do not marry me, Monseigneur, I will not marry anyone!”

“That would be a pity,” he said. “Mignonne, are you— sure?”

She nodded; a tremulous smile curved her lips.

“Oh, Monseigneur, I never thought that you would be so very blind!” she said.

His Grace looked deep into her eyes, and then went down on one knee, and raised her hand to his lips.

“Little one,” he said, very low, “since you will stoop to wed me, I pledge you my word that you shall not in the future have cause to regret it.”

An insistent hand tugged at his shoulder. He rose, and opened wide his arms. Léonie flung herself into them, and they closed about her, and her lips met his.

M. de Beaupré entered softly, and, seeing, prepared to depart in haste. But they had heard the opening of the door, and they fell apart.

He beamed upon them.

“
Eh bien, mes enfants
?”

His Grace took Léonie’s hand in his, and led her forward.

“
Mon père
,” he said, “I want you to wed us.”

“Of a surety,
mon fils
,” said De Beaupré calmly, and stroked Léonie’s cheek. “I am waiting to do so.”

CHAPTER XXXII

His Grace of Avon Astonishes Everyone for the Last Time

“My dear Comte,” said Fanny, in a voice of long-suffering, “I have not seen Justin since that terrible night.”

Armand threw out his hands.

“But it is over a week ago!” he cried. “Where is he? Where is the child?”

Lady Fanny cast up her eyes. Davenant it was who answered.

“If we knew, Armand, we should be more at ease, I assure you. The last we saw of Avon was at Madame du Deffand’s.”

“Where did he go?” demanded Armand. “Did he not return here at all?”

Marling shook his head.

“He vanished,” he said. “We knew that he meant to set out for Anjou after the soirée, in search of Léonie, but he did not tell us exactly where he was bound. His valet is with him, and he has taken the light chaise. That is all we know.”

Armand sat down weakly.

“But—but did he set out in his ball-dress?” he said. “He must surely have returned here first to change it for something more
convenable
!”

“He didn’t,” Fanny replied positively. “That gold dress is not in his room. We looked.”

“Fi, donc
!” cried Armand. “Is he travelling through France in it?”

“I should hardly think so.” Davenant was amused. “He will have halted somewhere for the night, and if I know aught of Justin he did not set out without some baggage.”

Armand looked round helplessly.

“And not one of you in his confidence!” he said. “It becomes serious! Three times have I come to see——”

“Four,” said my lady wearily.

“Is it so, madame? Four times, then, I have come to see if you have news of him, and of my niece! What can have happened, think you?”

Davenant looked at him.

“We try not to think, Armand. Believe me, our anxiety is as great as yours. We do not know whether Léonie be alive or dead.”

Lady Fanny blew her nose, and cleared her throat.

“And we can’t do anything!” she said. “We must just sit idle, waiting!”

Marling patted her hand.

“You at least have not been idle, my love.”

“No, indeed!” Armand turned to her. “Madame, your kindness to my unfortunate sister overwhelms me! I can find no words! That you should have brought her here, and housed her—Madame, I can only thank——”

“Oh, fiddle!” said Fanny, reviving. “What else could I do? She is in no fit case to be alone, I do assure you. At one time I feared she was like to die of her hysterics, poor soul! She has seen a priest, and since she wrote her confession I do think she is easier. If only Justin would send us word! I cannot sleep o’ nights for thinking of what may have befallen that poor, poor child!”

Davenant stirred the fire to a blaze.

“In truth,” he said, “there can be no ease for any of us, until we know her to be safe.” His smile went awry. “The house is like a tomb since she left it.”

No one answered him. Rupert walked in, to an uncomfortable silence.

“Hey, in the dumps again?” he said breezily. “What, Armand here again? You’d best come and live with us, and ha’ done with it!”

“I don’t know how you can find the heart to laugh, Rupert!” said my lady.

“Why not?” replied the graceless Rupert, coming to the fire. “Justin told us that he knew where Léonie had gone, and I don’t see him failing now, Fan, damme, I don’t! I’ll lay a monkey he’ll bring her back before the week’s out, safe and sound.”

“If he finds her,” Marling said quietly. “It’s more than a week now, Rupert.”

“That’s right, Edward,” retorted his lordship. “Look on the cheerful side! Stap me if ever I met such a gloomy fellow! We don’t know how far Justin may have had to go.”

“But he’s sent us no word, Rupert!” Fanny said anxiously. “This silence frightens me!”

Rupert regarded her in some surprise.

“Lord, and did you ever know Justin send word of what he would be at?” he demanded. “He’ll play his own game, mark my words! He’s not one to take others into his confidence, and he don’t need any help.” He chuckled. “We saw that on Tuesday last, so we did! The man likes to keep us in the dark, and that’s all there is to it.”

A lackey announced my Lord Merivale, and Anthony came in.

“No news?” he asked, bowing over Fanny’s hand.

“No, alas!”

Rupert made room for my lord on the couch.

“Fan’s in the dumps over it,” he said. “I’m telling her she should have more faith in Justin.” He wagged his finger at her. “He’s won every trick in the game, Fan, and he wouldn’t be Justin an he lost the last.”

“Faith, I believe Rupert is right,” Merivale agreed. “I am fast coming to think Avon omnipotent.”

Marling spoke gravely.

“He is a very dangerous man,” he said. “It will be long before I forget the happenings at that soirée.”

Rupert was disgusted.

“Y’know, Edward, you’re a kill-joy,” he said.

Fanny shuddered.

“Oh, Edward, pray do not speak of it! It was horrible, horrible!”

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead,” Davenant said, “but it was—justice.”

“Ay, and he did it well, by Gad!” said Rupert. “I can see him now, standing there like—damme, like an executioner ! But he was devilish, oh, he was devilish! He had me fascinated, I give you my word!”

The door opened.

“
Madame est servie
,” bowed a lackey.

Fanny rose.

“You’ll dine with us, Comte? And you, Anthony?”

“I trespass upon your hospitality!” Armand protested.

“Devil a bit, man!” said Rupert. “It’s Avon’s hospitality you trespass on, and our patience.”

Fanny laughed.

“Disagreeable boy! Comte, will you give me your arm? I protest I am shy amongst so many of you men!”

“What of Madame?” Marling asked, as she passed him.

“She has a tray in her room,” Fanny replied. “I cannot induce her to join us yet, and indeed I think she is better alone.”

So they went into the dining-room, and seated themselves round the long table, Fanny at one end, and Marling at the other.

“Y’know, I scarce dare venture abroad nowadays,” remarked Rupert, shaking out his napkin. “Wherever I go I’m pounced on for news.”

“Ay, no one seems able to believe that we know no more than the rest of the world,” said Davenant.

“And the people who flock to the house to inquire if Léonie is safe!” said my lady. “This very day I have received Condé, and de Richelieu, and the de la Roques! The child will have a great welcome when—if—if she returns.”

“Plague take your ifs, Fan!” said Rupert. “Will you have claret, Tony?”

“Burgundy, I thank you, scamp.”

“I have ceased to answer the letters,” said Fanny. “People have been very kind, but in truth I cannot hope to reply to all.”

“Kind?” snorted Rupert. “Damned inquisitive, is what I say!”

“Armand, what becomes of de Valmé—I mean Bonnard?”

Armand laid down his fork.

“If you will believe me, the boy is almost glad!” he said. “He understood not in the least what was toward at Madame du Deffand’s that night, but when I explained the matter to him—what do you think he said?”

“We don’t know,” said Rupert. “We’ve enough mystery without you trying to start a fresh one, stap me if we’ve not!”

“Rupert!” My lady frowned upon him. “Rude boy!”

“He said,” Armand went on, “ ‘At last, at last I may have a farm!’ ” He looked round impressively. “Did you ever hear the like of it?”

“Never,” said Davenant gravely. “And so?”

“I shall buy him a farm, of course, and settle money upon him. I suggested that he might wish to remain in Paris, and assured him of my protection, but no! He hates town-life, if you please!”

“Mad,” said Rupert with conviction.

Merivale started up.

“Listen!” he said sharply.

Outside in the hall was some stir, as of an arrival. Those in the dining-room sprang up, looking half shamefacedly at each other.

“A—a caller,” Fanny said. “I’m sure it’s only——”

The door was flung open, and his Grace of Avon stood upon the threshold, booted and spurred, and great-coated. Beside him, her hand in his, was Léonie, flushed and radiant. She had shed her cloak and hat, and her bright curls were tumbled.