These Old Shades

maid.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Please, what does it mean?”

“I have not the slightest idea. It is a vulgarity. There are many sins, ma belle, but only one that is unforgivable. That is vulgarity.”

“I won’t say it again,” promised Leonie. “I will say instead—tiens, what is it?—Tare an’ ouns!”

“I beg you will do no such thing, ma fille. If you must indulge in forceful expressions confine them to ’pon rep, or merely Lud!”

“Lud? Yes, that is a pretty one. I like it. I like Lawks best, though. Monseigneur is not angry?”

“I am never angry,” said Avon.

At other times he fenced with her, and this she enjoyed most of all. She donned shirt and breeches for the pastime, and displayed no little aptitude for the game. She had a quick eye and a supple wrist, and she very soon mastered the rudiments of this manly art. The Duke was one of the first swordsmen of the day, but this in no wise discomposed Leonie. He taught her to fence in the Italian manner, and showed her many subtle passes which he had learned abroad. She experimented with one of them, and since his Grace’s guard, at that moment, was lax, broke through. The button of her foil came to rest below his left shoulder.

“Touche,” said Avon. “That was rather better, infant.”

Leonie danced in her excitement.

“Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! you are dead!”

“You display an unseemly joy,” he remarked. “I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.”

“But it was so clever of me!” she cried. “Was it not, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” he said crushingly. “My guard was weak.”

Her mouth dropped.

“Oh, you let me do it!”

His Grace relented.

“No, you broke through, ma fille.”

Sometimes he talked to her of personalities of the day, explaining who this was, and who that, and how they were related.

“There is March,” he said, “who will be Duke of Queensberry. You have heard me speak of him. There is Hamilton, who is famous for his wife. She was one of the Miss Gunnings—beauties, my dear, who set London by the ears not so many years ago. Maria Gunning married Coventry. If you want wit, there is Mr. Selwyn, who has quite an inimitable way with him. And we must not forget Horry Walpole: he would hate to be forgotten. He lives in Arlington Street, child, and wherever you go you may be sure of meeting him. In Bath I believe Nash still reigns. A parvenu, infant, but a man of some genius. Bath is his kingdom. One day I will take you there. Then we have the Cavendish—Devonshire, my dear; and the Seymours, and my Lord Chesterfield, whom you will know by his wit, and his dark eyebrows. Whom else? There is my Lord of Bath, and the Bentincks, and his Grace of Newcastle, of some fame. If you want the Arts you have the tedious Johnson: a large man, my dear, with a larger head. He is not worth your consideration. He lacks polish. There is Colley Cibber, one of our poets, Mr. Sheridan, who writes plays for us, and Mr. Garrick, who acts them; and a score of others, In painting we have Sir Joshua Reynolds, who shall paint you, perhaps, and a great many others whose names elude me.”

Leonie nodded.

“Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.”

“Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Conde, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age—r peu prcs. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthicvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard—Comte de Chavigny, child—a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.”

“And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?”

“I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,” said his Grace gently. “We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit—a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.”

“No, Monseigneur,” said Leonie abashed. “Please tell me some more.”

“You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulcre comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Marcherand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Chateau-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguery’s salons are world-famed. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.”

“And M. de Saint-Vire.”

“My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child—you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, but why?”

“That also I will tell you one day,” said his Grace calmly.

CHAPTER XIV

The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair

When Avon left the country Leonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Leonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.

When she rode out Leonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.

Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale, and his beautiful wife, Jennifer. My lord had grown indolent of late years, and my lady, for two short seasons London’s toast, had no love for town life. Nearly all the year they lived in Hampshire, but sometimes they spent the winter in Bath, and occasionally, my lord being smitten with a longing for the friends of his youth, they journeyed to town. More often my lord went alone on these expeditions, but he was never away for long.

It was not many weeks before Leonie rode out in the direction of the Place. The woods that lay about the old white house lured her, and she rode into them, looking around with great interest.

The trees were sprouting new leaves, and here and there early spring flowers peeped up between the blades of grass. Leonie picked her way through the undergrowth, delighting in the wood’s beauty, until she came to where a stream bubbled and sang over the rounded stones on its bed. Beside this stream, on a fallen tree-trunk, a dark lady was seated, with a baby playing on the rug at her feet. A small boy, in a very muddied coat, was fishing hopefully in the stream.

Leonie reined in short, guiltily aware of trespass. The youthful fisherman saw her first, and called to the lady on the tree-trunk.

“Look, mamma!”

The lady looked in the direction of his pointing finger, and raised her brows in quick surprise.

“I am very sorry,” Leonie stammered. “The wood was so pretty—I will go.”

The lady rose, and went forward across the strip of grass that separated them.

“It’s very well, madam. Why should you go?” Then she saw that the little face beneath the hat’s big brim was that of a child, and she smiled. “Will you not dismount, my dear, and bear me company a while?”

The wistful, uncertain look went out of Leonie’s eyes. She dimpled, nodding.

“S’il vous plait, madame.”

“You’re French? Are you staying here?” inquired the lady.

Leonie kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid to the ground.

“But yes, I am staying at Avon. I am the—bah, I have forgotten the word!—the—ward of Monseigneur le