“I am very well, madame. You are with—with your brother in—Paris?” Madame spoke with an effort.

“Yes, I am this child’s chaperon!” said Fanny. “Is it not ridiculous? I may present my brother’s ward? Mademoiselle de Bonnard, Madame de Saint-Vire!” She stood back.

Madame’s hand went out involuntarily.

“Child—” she said, and her voice trembled. “Sit with me a while, I beg!” She turned to Fanny. “Madame, I will have a care to her. I should—I should like to talk to her.”

“But certainly!” said Fanny, and walked away at once.

Leonie was left looking into her mother’s face. Madame took her hand, and patted it, and stroked it.

“Come, my little one!” she faltered. “There is a couch by the wall. You will stay with me a few—just a few —minutes?”

“Yes, madame,” said Leonie politely, and wondered why this faded lady should be so agitated. She was not at all pleased at being left with Saint-Vire’s wife, but she went with her to the couch, and sat down beside her.

Madame seemed to be at a loss. She held Leonie’s hand still, and her eyes devoured the girl.

“Tell me, cherie,” she said at last. “Are you—are you happy?”

Leonie was surprised.

“But yes, madame. Of course I am happy!”

“That man—” Madame pressed her handkerchief to her lips—“That man—is good to you?”

“You speak of Monseigneur, my guardian, madame?” Leonie spoke stiffly.

“Yes, petite, yes. Of him.” Madame’s hand trembled.

Naturellement he is good to me,” Leonie answered.

“Ah, you are offended, but indeed, indeed—— Child, you are so young! I—I might be—your mother!” She laughed rather wildly. “So you will not mind what I say to you, will you? He—your guardian—is not a good man, and you—you——”

“Madame—” Leonie drew her hand away—“I do not want to be rude to you, you understand, but I will not let you speak thus of Monseigneur.”

“You are so fond of him?”

“Yes, madame, I love him de tout mon csur.”

“Ah, mon Dieu!” Madame whispered. “And he—does he love you?”

“Oh no!” said Leonie. “At least, I do not know, madame. He is just very kind to me.”

Madame’s eyes searched her face.

“It is well,” she said, on a sigh. “Tell me, child, how long have you lived with him?”

“Oh—oh depuis longtemps!” Leonie said vaguely.

“Child, don’t tease me! I—I would not tell your secrets! Where did the Duc find you?”

“Pardon, madame. I have forgotten.”

“He told you to forget!” Madame said quickly. “That is so, is it not?”

Someone came to the couch; Madame shrank a little and was silent.

“Well met, mademoiselle,” said Saint-Vire. “I trust I see you in good health?”

Leonie’s chin was tilted.

“M’sieur?” she said blankly. “Ah, je me souviens! It is M. de Saint-Vire!” She turned to Madame. “I met m’sieur at—peste, I forget! Ah yes!—at Le Dennier, near Le Havre, madame.”

Saint-Vire’s brow darkened.

“You have a good memory, mademoiselle.”

Leonie looked him between the eyes.

“Yes, m’sieur. I do not forget people—ever!”

Not ten paces from them Armand de Saint-Vire was standing, as though rooted to the ground.

Nom d’un nom d’un nom d’un nom!” he gasped.

“That,” said a soft voice behind him, “is an expression which I have never admired. It lacks—er—force.”

Armand swung round to face the Duke.

“My friend, you shall tell me now who is this Mademoiselle de Bonnard!”

“I doubt it,” said his Grace, and took a pinch of snuff.

“But look at her!” said Armand urgently. “It is Henri! Henri to the life now that I see them side by side!”

“Do you think so?” asked his Grace. “I find her more beautiful than the so dear Comte, and more refined in type.”

Armand shook his arm.

“Who is she?”

“My dear Armand. I have not the slightest intention of telling you, so pray do not grip my arm thus violently.” He removed Armand’s hand from his sleeve, and smoothed the satin. “So. You will do well, my friend, to be blind and dumb concerning my ward.”

“Aha?” Armand looked at him inquisitively. “I wish I knew what game you are playing. She’s his daughter, Justin! I would swear to it!”

“It will be much better if you do no such thing, my dear,” said his Grace. “Leave me to play this game to a close. You shall not then be disappointed.”

“But I do not understand! I cannot imagine what you think to do with——”

“Then pray do not try, Armand. I have said that you shall not be disappointed.”

“I am to be dumb? But all Paris will be talking of it soon!”

“So I think,” agreed this Grace.

“Henri won’t like it,” pondered Armand. “But I do not see that it can harm him. So why do you——”

“My dear, the game is more intricate than you think. You are better out of it, believe me.”

“Well!” Armand bit his finger. “I can trust you to deal with Henri, I suppose. You love him as much as I do, hein?

“Less than that,” said his Grace, and went slowly to the couch where Leonie sat. He bowed to Madame de Saint-Vire. “Your servant, madame. Once again we meet in this exceedingly draughty salon. My very dear Comte!” He bowed to Saint-Vire. “You renew your acquaintance with my ward?”

“As you see, Duc.”

Leonie had risen, and stood now beside his Grace. He took her hand, and looked mockingly at the Comtesse.

“I had the felicity of meeting my very dear friend in the most unexpected spot only a month ago,” he told her. “We were both, as I remember rightly, in search of—er—lost property. Quite a curious coincidence, was it not? It seems there are some sad rogues in this delightful country.” He pulled out his snuff-box, and saw the Comte redden.

Then the Vicomte de Valme came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.

“Your so charming son,” purred Avon.

Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.

The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Leonie.

“Your servant, Duc.” He turned to Saint-Vire. “Will you present me, sir?”

“My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!” Saint-Vire said brusquely.

Leonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.

“You are ennuye, Vicomte, as usual?” Avon fobbed his snuff-box. “You pine for the country, and—a farm, was it not?”

The Vicomte smiled.

“Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.”

“But surely a most—ah—praiseworthy ambition?” drawled Avon. “We will hope that you may one day realize it.” He inclined his head, offered his arm to Leonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.

Leonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.

“Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!”

“What, my infant, is ‘it’?”

“That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was

Вы читаете These Old Shades
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату