smell of cooking, and of cabbage water, thrown carelessly out into the kennel. The coach drew up outside the inn, and one of the footmen sprang down to open the door for his Grace to alight. His countenance was quite impassive, and only by the lofty tilt of his chin did he betray his emotions.
His Grace came slowly down from the coach, his handkerchief held to his nose. He picked his way across the filth and garbage to the inn door, and entered what appeared to be the taproom and the kitchen. A greasy woman was bending over the fire at one end, a cooking-pot in her hand, and behind the counter opposite the door stood the man who had sold Leon to the Duke a month ago.
He gaped when he saw Avon enter, and for a moment did not recognize him. He came forward cringingly, rubbing his hands together, and desired to know Monseigneur’s pleasure.
“I think you know me,” said his Grace gently.
Bonnard stared, and suddenly his eyes dilated, and his full-blooded countenance turned a sickly grey.
“Leon! Milor’—I——”
“Precisely. I want two words with you in private.”
The man looked at him fearfully, passing his tongue between his lips.
“I swear by God——”
“Thank you. In private I said.”
The woman, who had watched the encounter open-mouthed, came forward now, arms akimbo. Her soiled dress was in disorder, cut low across her scraggy bosom, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
“Now, if the little viper has said aught against us,” she began shrilly, but was cut short by Avon’s lifted hand.
“My good woman, I have no desire to speak with you. You may return to your stew-pots. Bonnard, in private!”
Charlotte would have interrupted again, but her husband hustled her back to the stove, whispering to her to hold her tongue.
“Yes, milor’, indeed yes! If milor’ will follow me?” He pushed open the crazy, rat-eaten door at the other end of the room, and ushered his Grace into the parlour. The room was scantily furnished, but it was not so dirty as the taproom. Avon went to the table that stood by the window, flicked the dust from its surface with a corner of his cloak, and sat down on the edge of the rickety structure.
“Now, my friend. That you may not misunderstand me, or seek to evade me, let me tell you that I am the Duke of Avon. Yes, I thought that you would be surprised. You realize, I am sure, that it would be very dangerous to play with me. I am going to ask you one or two questions about my page. I wish to know first where he was born.”
“I—I think in the north, Monseigneur. In—Champagne, but I am not sure. Our—our parents never spoke of that time, and I can scarce remember—I——”
“No? It seems strange that you do not know why your worthy parents went so suddenly to live in Anjou.”
Bonnard looked at him helplessly.
“My—my father told me that he had come into money! Indeed, I know no more, Monseigneur! I would not lie. I swear I would not.”
The fine lips curled sardonically.
“We will pass over that. How comes it that Leon is so unlike you in face and form?”
Bonnard rubbed his forehead. There was no mistaking the perplexity in his eyes.
“I do not know, Monseigneur. I have often wondered. He was ever a weakly child, petted and cosseted when I was made to work on the farm. My mother cared nothing for me beside him. It was all Leon, Leon, Leon! Leon must learn to read and write, but I—the eldest—must tend the pigs! A sickly, pert lad he was ever, Monseigneur! A viper, a——”
Avon tapped the lid of his snuff-box with one very white finger.
“Do not let us misunderstand one another, my friend. There never was a Leon. A Leonie, perhaps. I want that explained.”
The man shrank.
“Ah, Monseigneur! Indeed, indeed I did it for the best! It was impossible to have a girl of that age here, and there was work to be done. It was better to dress her as a boy. My wife—Monseigneur will understand—women are jealous, milor’. She would not have a girl here. Indeed, indeed, if the boy—girl—has said aught against us, he lies! I could have turned him out into the streets, for he had no claim on me. Instead, I kept him, clothed him, fed him, and if he says he was ill-treated it is a lie! He is a wicked brat with a vicious temper. You could not blame me for hiding his sex, Monseigneur! It was for his sake, I swear! He liked it well enough. Never did he demand to be a girl!”
“No doubt he had forgotten,” said Avon dryly. “Seven years a boy . . . Now——” He held up a louis. “Mayhap this will refresh your memory. What do you know of Leon?”
The man looked at him in a puzzled way.
“I—do not understand, Monseigneur. What do I know of him?”
Avon leaned forward slightly, and his voice became menacing.
“It will not serve you to feign ignorance, Bonnard. I am very powerful.”
Bonnard’s knees shook.
“Indeed, Monseigneur, I do not understand! I cannot tell you what I do not know! Is—is aught amiss with Leon?”
“You never thought that he was, perhaps, not your parents’ child?”
Bonnard’s jaw dropped.
“Not—Why, Monseigneur, what do you mean? Not my parents’ child. But——”
Avon sat back.
“Does the name Saint-Vire convey aught to you?”
“Saint-Vire . . . Saint-Vire . . . no. Stay, the name has a familiar ring! But—Saint-Vire—I do not know.” He shook his head hopelessly. “It may be that I have heard my father speak the name, but I cannot remember.”
“A pity. And when your parents died was there no document found belonging to them which concerned Leon?”
“If there was, milor’, I never saw it. There were old accounts and letters—I cannot read, Monseigneur, but I have them all.” He looked at the louis, and licked his lips. “If Monseigneur would care to see for himself? They are here, in that chest.”
Avon nodded.
“Yes. All of them.”
Bonnard went to the chest and opened it. After some search he found a sheaf of papers, which he brought to the Duke. Avon went through them quickly. For the most part they were, as Bonnard had said, farm accounts, with one or two letters amongst them. But at the bottom of the pile was a folded slip of paper, addressed to Jean Bonnard, on the estate of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire, in Champagne. It was only a letter from some friend, or relation, and it held nothing of importance, save the address. The Duke held it up.
“This I will take.” He tossed the louis to Bonnard. “If you have lied to me, or deceived me, you will be sorry. At present I am willing to believe that you know nothing.”
“I have spoken naught but the truth, Monseigneur, I swear!”
“Let us hope that it is so. One thing, however—” he produced another louis—“you can tell me. Where shall I find the cure at Bassincourt, and what is his name?”
“M. de Beaupre, Monseigneur, but he may be dead now, for aught I know. He was an old man when we left Bassincourt. He used to live in a little house beside the church. You cannot mistake it.”
Avon threw the louis into his eager hand.
“Very well.” He went to the door. “Be advised by me, my friend, and strive to forget that you ever had a sister. For you had not, and it might be that if you remembered a Leonie there would be a reckoning to be paid for your treatment of her. I shall not forget you, I assure you.” He swept out, and through the taproom to his coach.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
That afternoon, when Avon sat in the library of his house, writing to his sister, a footman came to him and
