These Old Shades

And perhaps you will——”

“I do not put myself in the hands of a pig-person,” Leonie said crushingly. “I will disappear, bien entendu, but I will go to one who loves me, not to you, who are without doubt a villain.” She swallowed hard, and her hand clutched on the pistol. “I give you my word that I will disappear.”

He held out his hand.

“Poor child, this is a sad day for you. There is nothing I can say, but that I am sorry. It is for the best, as you will see. Where do you go?”

She held her head high.

“I do not tell you or anyone that,” she said. “I make just one prayer to the good God that I may never see you again.” Words choked in her throat; she made a gesture of loathing, and went to the door. There she turned. “I forget. You will swear to me that you will say nothing that may harm Monseigneur. Swear it on the Bible!”

“I swear,” he said. “But there is no need. Once you are gone there will be no occasion for me to speak. I want no scandal.”

“Bon!” she said. “I do not trust your oath, but I think you are a great coward, and you would not like to make a scandal. I hope you will be punished one day.” She flung the door-key down on the floor, and went quickly out.

Saint-Vire passed his handkerchief across his brow.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispered. “She showed me how to play my ace! Now, Satanas, we shall see who wins!”

CHAPTER XXIX

The Disappearance of Leonie

Lord Rupert yawned mightily, and heaved himself up in his chair.

“What do we do to-night?” he asked. “’Pon my soul, I’ve never been to so many balls in my life! It’s no wonder I’m worn out.”

“Oh, my dear Rupert, I am nigh dead with fatigue!” Fanny cried. “At least we have this one evening quiet! To-morrow there is Madame du Deffand’s soiree.” She nodded to Leonie. “You will enjoy that, my love, I assure you. A few poems to be read, discussion, all the wit of Paris present—oh, ’twill be a most amusing evening, I vow! There is no one who will not be there.”

“What, so we have respite to-day, have we?” said Rupert. “Now, what shall I do?”

“I thought you said you were worn out?” Marling remarked.

“So I am, but I can’t sit at home all the evening. What do you do?”

“Hugh and I are bound for de Chatelet’s, to visit Merivale. Will you accompany us?”

Rupert considered for a while.

“No, I believe I’ll go to this new gaming-house I hear tell of.”

Avon put up his glass.

“Oh? What, and where, is the novelty?”

“In the Rue Chambery. It’s like to kill Vassaud’s if what they say is true. I’m surprised you’d not heard of it.”

“Yes, it is not in keeping with the part,” Avon said. “I believe I will go with you there this evening, child. It will not do for Paris to think I did not know of it.”

“What, will you all be out?” Fanny asked. “And I had promised to dine with my dear Julie! Leonie, I am sure that she will be pleased if you come with me.”

“Oh madame, I am so tired!” Leonie protested. “I would like to go to bed early to-night.”

Rupert stretched his long legs out before him.

“Tired at last!” he said. “Faith, I thought you’d never be wearied out!”

“My dearest life, I will tell the servants to take a tray to your room,” Fanny said. “You must not be tired tomorrow, for I am determined you shall come to Madame du Deffand’s soiree! Why, Conde is sure to be there!”

Leonie smiled rather wanly, and encountered Avon’s scrutiny.

“My infant, what has happened to trouble you?” he asked.

She opened wide her eyes.

“But nothing, Monseigneur! It is just that I have a touch of the migraine.”

“To be sure, I am not surprised.” My lady shook her head wisely. “We have been abroad late every night this week. It is I who am at fault to have permitted it.”

“Oh, but madame, it has been fort amusant!” Leonie said. “I have enjoyed myself so much!”

“Egad, and so have I!” Rupert remarked. “It has been a mad two months, and I scarce know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. Are you off already, Hugh?”

“We are dining with de Chatelet at four,” Hugh explained. “I’ll say good night, Leonie. You’ll be abed when we return.”

She gave him her hand; her eyes were downcast. Both he and Marling kissed the slender fingers. Hugh made some joke to Rupert, and they went out.

“Do you dine at home, Justin?” asked my lady. “I must go change my gown, and order the light chaise to take me to Julie.”

“I will bear my infant company at dinner,” said Avon. “And then she shall go to bed. Rupert?”

“No, I’m off at once,” said Rupert. “I’ve a little matter to talk over with d’Anvau. Come, Fan!”

They went out together. Avon crossed over to the couch where Leonie sat, and tweaked one of her curls.

“Child, you are strangely silent.”

“I was thinking,” she said gravely.

“Of what, ma mie?”

“Oh, I shall not tell you that, Monseigneur!” she said, and smiled. “Let us—let us play at piquet until it is time for dinner!”

So they played at piquet, and presently Lady Fanny came in to say good night, and was gone again in a minute, having adjured Leonie to be sure and retire to bed immediately after dinner. She kissed Leonie, and was surprised to receive a quick hug from her. Rupert went away with Fanny, and Leonie was left alone with the Duke.

“They are gone,” she said in a curious voice.

“Yes, child. What of it?” His Grace dealt the cards with an expert hand.

“Nothing, Monseigneur. I am stupid to-night.”

They played on until dinner was served, and then went into the big dining-room, and sat down together at the table. Avon soon sent the lackeys away, whereat Leonie gave a sigh of relief.

“That is nice,” she remarked. “I like to be alone again. I wonder whether Rupert will lose much money to- night?”

“We will hope not, infant. You will know by his expression to-morrow.”

She did not reply, but began to eat a sweetmeat, and did not look at his Grace.

“You eat too many sweetmeats, ma fille,” he said. “It’s no wonder you are growing pale.”

“You see, Monseigneur, I had never eaten any until you bought me from Jean,” she explained.

“I know, child.”

“So now I eat too many,” she added. “Monseigneur, I am very glad that we are alone together to-night, like this.”

“You flatter me,” he bowed.

“No. Since we came back to Paris we have hardly ever been alone, and I have wanted—oh, many times!—to thank you for being so very kind to me.”

He frowned down at the walnut he was cracking.

“I pleased myself, infant. I believe I told you once before that I am no hero.”

“Did it please you to make me your ward?” she asked.

“Evidently, ma fille, else I had not done so.”