These Old Shades

“Your suspicion, mon pcre?” It was spoken compellingly.

De Beaupre rose, and went to the window.

“When I saw the child grow up in a delicate mould; when I saw those blue eyes, and those black brows, coupled with hair of flame, I was puzzled. I am an old man, and that was fifteen or more years ago. Yet even then I had been out of the world for many years, and I had seen no one of that world since the days of my youth. Very little news reaches us here, monsieur; you will find me strangely ignorant. As I say, I watched Leonie grow up, and every day I saw her become more and more like to a family I had known before I was a priest. It is not easy to mistake a descendant of the Saint-Vires, m’sieur.” He turned, looking at Avon.

The Duke lay back in his chair. Beneath his heavy lids his eyes glittered coldly.

“And thinking that—suspecting that, my father—you yet let Leonie slip through your fingers? You knew also that the Bonnards came from Champagne. It is to be supposed that you remembered where the Saint-Vire estate lay.”

The Cure looked down at him in surprised hauteur.

“I fail to understand you, m’sieur. It is true that I thought Leonie 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 Leonie should not know.”

The hazel eyes opened wide.

“Mon pcre, I think we are at cross-purposes. In plain words, what do you think Leonie?”

“The inference is sufficiently obvious, I think,” said the Cure, flushing.

Avon shut his snuff-box with a click.

“We will have it in plain words, nevertheless, my father. You deemed Leonie 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 pcre. Listen to me a while. When I found Leonie 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 thickset 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—Leonie. 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 Leonie de Saint-Vire, and leaving their son to become—Vicomte de Valme. Eh bien?”

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

“Nay, but listen,” purred his Grace. “I find Leonie in the streets of Paris. Bien. I take her to my hotel, 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 pcre. That is nothing, you say? Wait! I take Leon—I call her Leon—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 Leon’s face. A day later I receive an offer from one of Saint-Vire’s satellites to buy Leon. You see? Saint- Vire dare not show his hand in the matter. He sends a friend to work for him. Why? If Leon 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. Leonie is his legitimate daughter, and he is afraid. For aught he knows I may have proof of that fact. I should tell you, mon pcre, 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 Cure 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 pcre, that you would know of some document to prove the truth of my conviction.”

De Beaupre 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 Beaupre 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 pcre?”

“So little! ‘Mon pcre—ecoutez donc—Leonie 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 Beaupre, 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 Cure 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 Leonie 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 Cure 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 Leonie to see you.”

The Cure 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 pcre, 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. A 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 Beaupre’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