These Old Shades (11 page)

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 recognized 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 Curé, 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?”

“Impossible!” said De Beaupré sharply. “A fairy tale!”

“Nay, but listen,” purred his Grace. “I find Léonie in the streets of Paris.
Bien.
I take her to my hôtel, I clothe her as my page. She accompanies me everywhere, and thus I flaunt her under the nose of Saint-Vire. That same nose quivers with apprehension, mon pére. That is nothing, you say? Wait! I take Léon—I call her Léon—to Versailles, where Madame de Saint-Vire is in attendance. One may always trust a woman to betray a secret, monsieur. Madame was agitated beyond all words. She could not drag her eyes from Léon’s face. A day later I receive an offer from one of Saint-Vire’s satellites to buy Léon. You see? Saint-Vire dare not show his hand in the matter. He sends a friend to work for him. Why? If Léon is a base-born child of his what is simpler—if he wants to rescue her from my clutches—than to approach me, telling me all? He does not do that. Léonie is his legitimate daughter, and he is afraid. For aught he knows I may have proof of that fact. I should tell you,
mon père
, that he and I are not the closest of friends. He fears me, and he dare not move one way or the other lest I should suddenly disclose some proof of which he knows nothing. It may also be that he is not sure that I know, or even suspect, the truth. I do not quite think that. I have something of a reputation, my father, for—uncanny omniscience. Whence, in part, my sobriquet.” He smiled. “It is my business to know everything, father. I am thus a personality in polite circles. An amusing pose. To return: You perceive that M. le Comte de Saint-Vire finds himself in something of a quandary?”

The Curé came slowly to his chair, and sat down.

“But, m’sieur—what you suggest is infamous!”

“Of course it is. Now I had hoped,
mon père
, that you would know of some document to prove the truth of my conviction.”

De Beaupré shook his head.

“There was none. I went through all the papers with Jean, after the plague.”

“Saint-Vire is more clever than I had imagined, then. Nothing, you say? It seems that this game must be carefully played.”

De Beaupré was hardly listening.

“Then—at her death, when Madame Bonnard tried so hard to speak to me, it must have been that!”

“What did she say,
mon pére?”

“So little! ‘
Mon pere—écoutez donc—Léonie n’est pas—je ne peux plus
——!’ No more. She died with those words on her lips.”

“A pity. But Saint-Vire shall think that she made confession—in writing. I wonder if he knows that the Bonnards are dead? M. de Beaupré, if he should come here, on this same errand, allow him to think that I bore away with me—a document. I do not think he will come. It is probable that he purposely lost trace of the Bonnards.” Justin rose, and bowed. “My apologies for wasting your time in this fashion, my father.”

The Curé laid a hand on his arm.

“What are you going to do, my son?”

“If she is indeed what I think her I am going to restore Léonie to her family. How grateful they will be! If not——” He paused. “Well, I have not considered that possibility. Rest assured that I shall provide for her. For the present she must learn to be a girl again. After that we shall see.”

The Curé looked full into his eyes for a moment.

“My son, I trust you.”

“You overwhelm me, father. As it chances, I am to be trusted this time. One day I will bring Léonie to see you.”

The Curé walked with him to the door, and together they passed out into the little hall.

“Does she know, m’sieur?”

Justin smiled.

“My dear father, I am far too old to place my secrets in a woman’s keeping. She knows nothing.”

“The poor little one! Of what like is she now?”

Avon’s eyes gleamed.

“She is something of an imp,
mon pére
, with all the Saint-Vire spirit, and much impudence of which she is unaware. She has seen much, as I judge, and at times I espy a cynicism in her that is most entertaining. For the rest she is wise and innocent by turn. An hundred years old one minute, a babe the next. As are all women!”

They had come to the garden gate now, and Avon beckoned to the boy who held his horse.

Some of the anxious lines were smoothed from De Beaupré’s face.

“My son, you have described the little one with feeling. You speak as one who understands her.”

“I have reason to know her sex, my father.”

“That may be. But have you ever felt towards a woman as you feel towards this—imp?”

“She is more a boy to me than a girl. I admit I am fond of her. You see, it is so refreshing to have a child of her age—and sex—in one’s power, who thinks no ill of one, nor tries to escape. I am a hero to her.”

“I hope that you will ever be that. Be very good to her, I pray you.”

Avon bowed to him, kissing his hand with a gesture of half-ironical respect.

“When I feel that I can no longer maintain the heroic pose I will send Léonie—by the way, I am adopting her—back to you.”

“C’est entendu,”
nodded De Beaupré. “For the present I am with you. You will take care of the little one, and perhaps restore her to her own.
Adieu, mon fils.”

Avon mounted, tossed the small boy a louis, and bowed again, low over his horse’s withers.

“I thank you, father. It seems that we understand one another very well—Satan and priest.”

“Perhaps you have been misnamed, my son,” said De Beaupré, smiling a little.

“Oh, I think not! My friends know me rather well, you see. Adieu,
mon pére!
” He put on his hat, and rode forward across the square, towards Saumur.

The small boy, clutching his louis, raced to his mother’s side.

“
Maman, maman
! It was the Devil! He said so himself!”

CHAPTER VIII

Hugh Davenant is Amazed

A week after Avon’s departure for Saumur, Hugh Davenant sat in the library, endeavouring to amuse the very disconsolate Léon with a game of chess.

“I would like to play cards, if you please, m’sieur,” said Léon politely, on being asked his pleasure.

“Cards?” repeated Hugh.

“Or dice, m’sieur. Only I have no money.”

“We will play chess,” said Hugh firmly, and set out the ivory men.

“Very well, m’sieur.” Léon privately thought Hugh a little mad, but if he wished to play chess with his friend’s page he must of course be humoured.

“Do you think Monseigneur will return soon, m’sieur?” he asked presently. “I remove your bishop.” He did so, to Hugh’s surprise. “It was a little trap,” he explained. “Now it is check.”

“So I see. I grow careless. Yes, I expect Monseigneur will return quite soon. Farewell to your rook, my child.”

“I thought you would do that. Now I move a pawn forward, so!”

“Much ado about nothing, petit. Where did you learn to play this game? Check.”

Léon interposed one of his knights. He was not taking a very keen interest in the game.

“I forget, m’sieur.”

Hugh looked across at him shrewdly.

“You’ve a surprisingly short memory, have you not, my friend?”

Léon peeped at him through his lashes.

“Yes, m’sieur. It—it is very sad. And away goes your queen. You do not attend.”

“Do I not? Your knight is forfeit, Léon. You play a monstrous reckless game.”

“Yes, that is because I like to gamble. Is it true, m’sieur, that you leave us next week?”

Hugh hid a smile at the proprietary “us”.

“Quite true. I am bound for Lyons.”

Léon’s hand hovered uncertainly over the board.

“I have never been there,” he said.

“No? There is time yet.”

“Oh, but I do not wish to go!” Léon swooped down upon a hapless pawn, and took it. “I have heard that Lyons is a place of many smells, and not very nice people.”

“So you won’t go there? Well, perhaps you’re wise. What’s toward?” Hugh raised his head, listening.

There was some slight commotion without; the next moment a footman flung open the library door, and the Duke came slowly in.

Table, chessboard, and men went flying. Léon had sprung impetuously out of his chair, and had almost flung himself at Avon’s feet, all etiquette and decorum forgotten.

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur!”

Over his head Avon met Davenant’s eyes.

“He is mad, of course. I beg you will calm yourself, my Léon.”

Léon gave his hand a last kiss, and rose to his feet.

“Oh, Monseigneur, I have been miserable!”

“Now, I should never have suspected Mr. Davenant of cruelty to infants,” remarked his Grace. “How are you, Hugh?” He strolled forward, and just touched Hugh’s outstretched hands with his finger-tips. “Léon, signify your delight at seeing me by picking up the chessmen.” He went to the fire, and stood with his back to it, Hugh beside him.

“Have you had a pleasant time?” Hugh asked.

“A most instructive week. The roads here are remarkable. Allow me to point out to your notice, Léon, that an insignificant pawn lies under that chair. It is never wise to disregard the pawns.”

Hugh looked at him.

“What may that mean?” he inquired.

“It is merely advice, my dear. I should have made an excellent father. My philosophy is almost equal to Chesterfield’s.”

Hugh chuckled.

“Chesterfield’s conversation is marvellous.”

“A little tedious. Yes, Léon, what now?”

“Shall I bring wine, Monseigneur?”

“Mr. Davenant has certainly trained you well. No, Léon, you shall not bring wine. I trust he has been no trouble, Hugh?”

Léon cast Davenant an anxious glance. There had been one or two slight battles of will between them. Hugh smiled at him.

“His behaviour has been admirable,” he said.

His Grace had seen the anxious look, and the reassuring smile.

“I am relieved. May I now have the truth?”

Léon looked up at him gravely, but volunteered no word. Hugh laid his hand on Avon’s shoulder.

“We have had a few small disputes, Alastair. That is all.”

“Who won?” inquired his Grace.

“We reached the end by a compromise,” said Hugh solemnly.

“Very unwise. You should have insisted on utter capitulation.” He took Léon’s chin in his hand, and looked into the twinkling blue eyes. “Even as I should have done.” He pinched the chin. “Should I not, infant?”