These Old Shades (44 page)

There was a sudden uproar; Davenant wiped the sweat from his brow.

“My God!” he said huskily. “What a night’s work! Clever, clever devil!”

In the confusion a woman’s voice sounded, bewildered.

“I don’t understand! Why—what—is that the end of the story?”

Avon did not turn his head.

“No, mademoiselle. I am still awaiting the end.”

A sudden scuffle in the alcove drew all attention from Madame de Saint-Vire to the Comte. He had sprung up as Madame’s control left her, knowing that her outburst had betrayed him completely, and now he was struggling madly with Merivale, one hand at his hip. Even as several men rushed forward he wrenched free, livid and panting, and they saw that he held a small pistol.

Condé leaped suddenly in front of the Duke, and faced that pistol.

It was over in a few seconds. They heard Saint-Vire’s voice rise on a note almost of insanity:

“Devil! Devil!”

Then there was a deafening report, a woman screamed, and Rupert strode forward, and flung his handkerchief over Saint Vire’s shattered head. He and Merivale bent over the Comte’s body, and his Grace came slowly up to them, and stood for a moment looking down at that which had been Saint-Vire. At the far end of the room a woman was in hysterics. His Grace met Davenant’s eyes.

“I said that it should be poetic, did I not, Hugh?” he remarked, and went back to the fireplace. “Mademoiselle” —he bowed to the frightened girl who had asked him for the story’s end— “M. de Saint-Vire has provided the end to my tale.” He took the soiled paper from the mantelshelf where he had left it, and threw it into the fire, and laughed.

CHAPTER XXXI

His Grace of Avon Wins All

Into the village of Bassincourt once again rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He was dressed in breeches of buff cloth, and a coat of dull purple velvet, laced with gold. His high spurred boots were dusty; he carried his gloves in one hand, with his long riding crop. Into the market-place he came, from the Saumur road, and reined in as he met the uneven cobble-stones. The villagers, and the farmers’ wives who had come into Bassincourt for the market, gaped at him, as they had gaped before, and whispered, one to the other.

The horse picked its way towards the Curé’s house, and there stopped. His Grace looked round, and, seeing a small boy standing near to him, beckoned, and swung himself lightly down from the saddle.

The boy came running.

“Be so good as to take my horse to the inn, and see it safely housed and watered,” said his Grace, and tossed the boy a louis. “You may tell the landlord that I shall come to pay the reckoning later.”

“Yes, milor’! Thank you, milor’!” stammered the boy, and clutched his louis.

His Grace opened the little gate that led into the Curé’s garden, and walked up the neat path to the front door. As before, the rosy-cheeked housekeeper admitted him. She recognized him, and dropped a curtsy.

“
Bonjour, m’sieur
! M. le Curé is in his room.”

“Thank you,” said his Grace. He followed her along the passage to de Beaupré’s study, and stood for a moment on the threshold, point-edged hat in hand.

The Curé rose politely.

“M’sieur?” Then, as Avon smiled, he hurried forward. “
Eh, mon fils
!”

Avon took his hand.

“My ward, father?”

The Curé beamed.

“The poor little one! Yes, my son, I have her safe.”

Avon seemed to sigh.

“You have relieved my mind of a load that was—almost too great for it to bear,” he said.

The Curé smiled. “My son, in a little while I think I should have broken my promise to her and sent a message to you. She suffers—ah, but how she suffers. And that villain—that Saint-Vire?”

“Dead,
mon père
, by his own hand.”

De Beaupré made the sign of the cross.

“By his own hand you say, my son?”

“And by my contrivance,” bowed his Grace. “I come now to fetch—Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.”

“It is really so?” De Beaupré spoke anxiously. “You are sure, Duc?”

“I am sure. All Paris knows. I saw to that.”

De Beaupré caught his hands and pressed them.

“M’sieur, you bring the child happiness, then. God will forgive you much for your kindness to her. She has told me.” He smiled benevolently. “I see that I have no cause to regret my alliance with—with Satanas. You have given her life, and more than that.”

“My father, I advise you not to credit all that my infant says of me,” said Avon dryly. “She has seen fit to place me upon a pedestal. I do not sit well there.”

De Beaupré opened the door.

“No, my son, she knows what ‘Monseigneur’s’ life has been,” he said. “Now come to her.” He led the way to the sunny parlour at the back of the house, and, opening the door, spoke almost gleefully.
“Petite,
I bring you a visitor.” Then he stood back so that Avon might pass in, and went out quietly, and quietly shut the door.

“Of a surety God is very good,” he said wisely, and went back to his study.

In the parlour Léonie was seated by the window, with a book open on her lap. And since she had been crying she did not at once turn her head. She heard a light, firm tread, and then a beloved voice.

“
Ma fille
, what does all this mean?”

She flew up out of her chair then, and cried out in joy and astonishment.

“Monseigneur!” She was at his feet, laughing and weeping, his hand to her lips. “You have come! You have come to me!”

He bent over her, his fingers on her curls.

“Did I not say,
ma fille
, that I should not lose you very easily. You should have trusted me, child. There was no need for your flight.”

She rose to her feet, and swallowed hard.

“Monseigneur, I—I know! I could not—you do not understand! It was not possible—Oh, Monseigneur, Monseigneur, why have you come?”

“To take you back, my infant. What else?”

She shook her head.

“Never, never! I c-can’t! I know so well what——”

“Sit down, child. There is so much that I must tell you. Crying,
ma mie.”
He raised her hand to his lips, and his voice was very tender. “There’s naught now to distress you,
mignonne
, I swear.” He made her sit down on the couch, and placed himself beside her, still holding her hand. “Child, you are not base-born, you are not even peasant-born. You are, as I have known from the first, Léonie de Saint-Vire, daughter of the Comte and his wife, Marie de Lespinasse.”

Léonie blinked at him.

“Mon-monseigneur?” she gasped.

“Yes, my child, just that,” said his Grace, and told her briefly what was her history. She stared at him, round-eyed and with parted lips, and when he finished could find no words for a long minute.

“Then—then I am—noble!” she said at last. “I—Oh, is it true, Monseigneur? Is it really true?”

“I should not else have told you,
mignonne
.”

She sprang up, flushed and excited.

“I am well-born! I am—I am Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire! I can—I can come back to Paris! Monseigneur, I think I am going to cry!”

“I beg you will not,
ma fille
. Spare your tears for my next news.”

She paused in her dance across the room, and looked at him anxiously.

“I have to inform you, infant, that your father is dead.”

The colour returned to her cheeks.

“
Vraiment
?” she said eagerly. “Did you kill him, Monseigneur?”

“I am very sorry, infant, but I did not actually kill him. I induced him to kill himself.”

She came back to the couch, and sat down again.

“But tell me!” she said. “Please tell me quickly, Monseigneur! When did he kill himself?”

“On Tuesday, my child, at Madame du Deffand’s soirée.”

“
Tiens
!” She was entirely unperturbed. “Why,
enfin
?”

“I though that the earth had harboured him too long,” Avon replied.

“You did it! I know you did it!” she said exultantly. “You meant him to die that night!”

“I did, child.”

“Was Rupert there? And Lady Fanny?
How
Rupert must have been pleased!”

“Moderately, child. He did not display any signs of the unholy ecstasy you appear to feel.”

She tucked her hand in his, and smiled trustingly up at him.

“Monseigneur, he was a pig-person. Now tell me how it happened. Who was there?”

“We were all of us there, babe, even M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale. For the rest, there was Condé, the de la Roques, the d’Aiguillons, the Saint-Vires, including Armand; Lavoulère, d’Anvau—in fact, infant, all the world.”

“Did Lady Fanny and the others know that you were going to kill the pig-person, Monseigneur?”

“Infant, pray do not go through the world saying that I killed him.”

“No, Monseigneur. But did they know?”

“They knew that I meant to strike that night. They were all very bloodthirsty.”

“
Vraiment
? Even M. Marling?”

“Even he,” nodded Avon. “You see,
ma fille
, they all love you.”

She blushed.

“Oh . . . ! What did you wear, Monseigneur?”

“Thus the female mind,” murmured his Grace. “I wore gold, infant, and emeralds.”

“I know. It is a very fine dress, that one. Go on, please, Monseigneur.”

“Rupert and Hugh stood by the doors,” said his Grace, “and Merivale engaged Saint-Vire in pleasant converse. Lady Fanny had your mother in hand. I told them your story, child. That is all.”

“
Voyons
!” she exclaimed. “It is nothing! When you had told them, what happened?”

“Your mother collapsed. You see, my child, I let them think that you had drowned yourself. She cried out then, and Saint-Vire, since she had thus betrayed him, shot himself.”

“It must have been very exciting,” she remarked. “I wish I had been there. I am sorry for Madame de Saint-Vire, a little, but I am glad that the pig-person is dead. What will the Vicomte do? I think it is very sad for him.”

“I believe he will not be sorry,” replied Avon. “No doubt your uncle will make provision for him.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Voyons,
I have a family, it seems! How many uncles have I, Monseigneur?”

“I am not quite sure, infant. On your father’s side you have one uncle, and an aunt, who is married. On your mother’s side you have several uncles, I think, and probably many aunts and cousins.”

She shook her head.

“I find it very hard to understand it all, Monseigneur. And you knew? How did you know? Why did you not tell me?”

His Grace looked down at his snuff-box.

“My child, when I bought you from the estimable Jean it was because I saw your likeness to the Saint-Vire.” He paused. “I thought to use you as a weapon to—er—punish him for something—he had once done to me.”

“Is—is that why—why you made me your ward, and gave me so many, many things?” she asked in a small voice.

He rose, and went to the window, and stood looking out.

“Not entirely,” he said, and forgot to drawl.

She looked at him wistfully.

“Was it a little because you liked me, Monseigneur?”

“Afterwards. When I came to know you, child.”

She twisted her handkerchief.

“Am I—will you—still let me be your ward?”

He was silent for a moment.

“My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.”

“Yes?” she said.

His Grace’s profile was stern.

“They will be very good to you,
ma fille
,” he said evenly. “Having them—you cannot still be my ward.”

“N-need I have them?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.

His Grace did not smile.

“I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.”

“Do they?” She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. “They do not know me, Monseigneur.”

“They are your family, child.”

“I do not want them.”

At that he turned, and came to her, and took her hands.

“My dear,” he said, “it will be best for you to go to them, believe me. One day I think you will meet a younger man than I who will make you happy.”

Two great tears welled up! Léonie’s eyes looked piteously into the Duke’s.

“Monseigneur—please—do not talk to me of marriage!” she whispered.

“Child——” his clasp on her hands tightened. “I want you to forget me. I am no proper man for you. You will be wiser not to think of me.”

“Monseigneur, I never thought that you would marry me,” she said simply. “But if—you wanted me—I thought perhaps you would—take me—until I wearied you.”