These Old Shades

“Not quite unscathed, my dear Anthony. Those years have left their mark.”

“It were inevitable, I suppose. But I confess I have not seen the mark.”

“Possibly not. You see the roguery, and the dauntless spirit.”

“And you?” Merivale watched him curiously.

“Oh, I see beneath, my dear! But then, I have had experience of the sex, as you know.”

“And you see—what?”

“A certain cynicism, born of the life she has led; a streak of strange wisdom; the wistfulness behind the gaiety; sometimes fear; and nearly always the memory of loneliness that hurts the soul.”

Merivale looked down at his snuff-box, and fell to tracing the pattern on it with one finger.

“Do you know,” he said slowly, “I think that you have grown, Alastair?”

His Grace rose.

“Quite a reformed character, in fact,” he said.

“You can do no wrong in Leonie’s eyes.”

“No, it is most amusing, is it not?” Avon smiled, but there was bitterness in his smile, which Merivale saw.

Then they went back into the ballroom, and learned from Lady Fanny that Leonie had disappeared some time ago on Rupert’s arm, and had not since been seen.

She had indeed gone out with Rupert to a small salon where he brought her refreshment. Then had come towards them one Madame de Verchoureux, a handsome termagant who had been all things to Avon when Leonie had first come to him. She looked at Leonie with hatred in her eyes, and paused for a moment beside her couch.

Rupert came to his feet, and bowed. Madame swept a curtsy.

“It is—Mademoiselle de Bonnard?” she said.

“Yes, madame.” Leonie got up, and curtsied also. “I am very stupid, but I cannot at once recall madame’s name.”

Rupert, supposing the lady to be one of Fanny’s friends, lounged back into the ballroom; Leonie was left looking up at Avon’s slighted mistress.

“I felicitate you, mademoiselle,” said the lady sarcastically. “You are more fortunate than I was, it seems.”

“Madame?” The sparkle was gone from Leonie’s eyes. “Have I the honour of madame’s acquaintance?”

“I am one Henriette de Verchoureux. You do not know me.”

“Pardon, madame; but I know of you—much,” Leonie said swiftly. Madame had steered clear of open scandal, but she was somewhat notorious. Leonie remembered the days when Avon had visited her so often.

Madame flushed angrily.

“Indeed, mademoiselle? And of Mademoiselle de Bonnard is also known—much. Mademoiselle is very clever, sans doute, but to those who know Avon the so strict chaperon is a poor disguise.”

Leonie raised her eyebrows.

“Is it possible that madame imagines that I have succeeded where she failed?”

“Insolent!” Madame’s hand clenched on her fan.

“Madame?”

Madame stared down at Youth, and knew the pangs of jealousy.

“Brazen it out!” she said shrilly. “You hope to marry in all honour, little fool, but be advised by me, and leave him, for Avon will wed no base-born girl!”

Leonie’s eyelids flickered, but she said nothing. Madame changed her tactics suddenly, and stretched out her hand.

“My dear, I protest I pity you! You are so young; you do not know the ways of this world of ours. Avon would not be fool enough to wed with one of your blood, believe me. He were surely lost an he dared!” She laughed, covertly watching Leonie. “Even an English Duke would not be received were he wedded to such as you,” she said.

“Tiens, am I so base?” Leonie said with polite interest. “I think it is not possible that madame should have known my parents.”

Madame shot her a piercing look.

“Can it be that you do not know?” she asked, and flung back her head, and laughed again. “Have you not heard the whispers? Have you not seen that Paris watches you, and wonders?”

“But yes, madame, I know that I am quite the rage.”

“Poor child, is that all you know? Why, where is your mirror? Where are your eyes? Have you never looked at that fiery head of yours, never asked whence came your black brows and lashes? All Paris knows, and you are ignorant?”

“Eh bien!” Leonie’s heart beat fast, but she maintained her outward composure. “Enlighten me, madame! What does Paris know?”

“That you are a base-born child of the Saint-Vire, my child. And we—nous autres— laugh to see Avon all unconsciously harbouring a daughter of his dearest enemy!”

Leonie was as white as her ruffle.

“You lie!”

Madame laughed tauntingly.

“Ask your fine father if I lie!” She gathered her skirts about her and made a gesture of disdain. “Avon must know soon, and then what comes to you? Little fool, best leave him now while you may do so of your own choice!” She was gone on the word, leaving Leonie to stand alone in the salon, her hands clasped together tightly, her face set and rigid.

Gradually she relaxed her taut muscles, and sank down again upon the couch, trembling. Her impulse was to seek shelter at Avon’s side, but she restrained herself, and stayed where she was. At first she was incredulous of Madame de Verchoureux’s pronouncement, but little by little she came to see the probability of the story’s truth. Saint-Vire’s attempt to kidnap her was thus explained, as was also the interest he had always taken in her. Sick disgust rose in her.

“Bon Dieu, what a father I have!” she said viciously. “Pig-person! Bah!”

Disgust gave way to a feeling of horror, and of fright. If Madame de Verchoureux had spoken the truth, Leonie could see the old loneliness stretching ahead, for it was clearly unthinkable that such a one as Avon could marry, or even adopt, a girl of her birth. He came of the nobility; she felt herself to be of mongrel blood. Lax he might be, but Leonie knew that if he married her he would disgrace the ancient name he bore. Those who knew him said that he would count no cost, but Leonie would count the cost for him, and because she loved him, because he was her seigneur, she would sacrifice everything sooner than drag him down in the eyes of his world.

She bit hard on her lip; it was better by far to think herself of peasant blood than a bastard daughter of Saint-Vire. Her world was toppling about her ears, but she rose up, and went back into the ballroom.

Avon came to her soon, and gave her his arm.

“I believe you are tired, my infant. We will find Lady Fanny.”

Leonie tucked her hand in his arm, and gave a little sigh.

“Monseigneur, let us go, and leave Lady Fanny, and Rupert. I do not want them.”

“Very well, infant.” Avon beckoned to Rupert across the room, and when he came to them, said languidly: “I am taking the child home, Rupert. Oblige me by waiting to escort Fanny.”

“I’ll take Leonie home,” offered Rupert with alacrity. “Fanny won’t come away for hours!”

“That is why I am leaving you to look to her,” said his Grace. “Come, ma fille.”

He took Leonie home in his light town chaise, and during the short drive she forced herself to talk gaily of the rout they had left, of this man and that, and a thousand other trivialities. Arrived at the Hotel Avon she went at once to the library. His Grace followed.

“Well, ma mie, what now?”

“Now it is just as it used to be,” Leonie said wistfully, and sat down on a low stool beside the Duke’s chair.

His Grace poured out a glass of wine, and looked down at Leonie with a questioning lift to his brows.