These Old Shades

“I have been very happy, Monseigneur.”

“If that is so it is very well,” he said.

She rose, and put down her napkin.

“I am growing more and more tired,” she said. “I hope Rupert wins to-night. And you.”

“I always win, child.” He opened the door for her, and went with her to the foot of the stairs. “I wish you a good night’s rest, ma belle.”

She dropped suddenly on one knee, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment.

“Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit!” she said huskily. Then she rose again, and ran up the stairs to her chamber.

Her maid was there, agog with excitement. Leonie shut the door carefully, brushing past the girl, and flung herself on to the bed, and cried as though her heart would break. The abigail hovered over her, soothing and caressing.

“Oh, mademoiselle, why will you run away like this? Must we go to-night indeed?”

Downstairs the great front door shut; Leonie clasped her hands over her eyes.

“Gone! Gone! Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” She lay battling with her sobs, and presently rose, quiet and resolute, and turned to her maid. “The travelling-coach, Marie?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I hired one this morning, and ’tis to await us at the corner of the road in an hour’s time. But it has cost you the best part of six hundred francs, mademoiselle, and the man did not like to start so late. We shall not reach farther than Chartres to-night, he says.”

“It’s no matter. I have enough money left to pay for everything. Bring me paper now, and ink. Are you sure —are you sure that you wish to come with me?”

“But yes, mademoiselle!” the girl averred. “M. le Duc would be wroth with me an I let you go alone.”

Leonie looked at her drearily.

“I tell you we shall never, never see him again.”

Marie shook her head sceptically, but merely said that she had quite made up her mind to go with mademoiselle. Then she fetched ink and paper, and Leonie sat down to write her farewell.

Upon her return Lady Fanny peeped into Leonie’s room to see whether she slept. She held her candle high so that the light fell on the bed, and saw that it was empty. Something white lay upon the coverlet; she darted forward, and with a trembling hand held two sealed notes to the candlelight. One was addressed to herself; the other to Avon.

Lady Fanny felt suddenly faint, and sank down into a chair, staring numbly at the folded papers. Then she set her candle down upon the table, and tore open the note that was for her.

“My dear Madame,” (she read),—

“I write this to say Fare Well, and Because I want to Thank you for your Kindness to me. I have told Monseigneur why I must go. You have been so very Good to me, and I Love you, and indeed, indeed I am sorry thatt I can only write to you. I shall never forget you.

“Leonie.”

Lady Fanny flew up out of her chair.

“Oh, good God!” she cried. “Leonie! Justin! Rupert! Oh, is no one here? Heavens, what shall I do?” Down the stairs she ran, and, seeing a lackey by the door, hurried up to him. “Where’s mademoiselle? When did she go out? Answer me, dolt!”

“Madame? Mademoiselle is abed.”

“Fool! Imbecile! Where’s her maid?”

“Why, madame, she went out just before six, with—Rachel, I think it was.”

“Rachel is in my chamber!” snapped her ladyship. “Oh, what in God’s name shall I do? Is his Grace returned?”

“No, madame, not yet.”

“Send him to me in the library as soon as he comes in!” Lady Fanny commanded, and went there herself, and read Leonie’s note again.

Twenty minutes later his Grace entered.

“Fanny? What’s to do?”

“Oh, Justin, Justin!” she said on a sob. “Why did we leave her? She’s gone! Gone, I tell you!”

His Grace strode forward.

“Leonie?” he said sharply.

“Who else?” demanded my lady. “Poor, poor child! She left this for me, and one for you. Take it!”

His Grace broke the seal of his note, and spread out the thin sheet. Lady Fanny watched him while he read, and saw his mouth set hard.

“Well?” she said. “What does she write to you? For heaven’s sake tell me!”

The Duke handed the note to her, and went to the fire, and stared down into it.

“Monseigneur,—

“I have run away from you because I have discovered thatt I am not what you Think me. I told you a Lie when I said thatt Madame de Verchoureux had not Spoken to me the other Night. She told me thatt Every One knows I am a Base-born daughter of Saint-Vire. It is Quite True, Monseigneur, for on Thursday I slipped out with my Maid, and went to his House, and asked him if it were indeed so. Monseigneur, it is not convenable thatt I stay with you. I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you, and I know that I must do this if I stay with you, for M. de Saint-Vire will say thatt I am his Bastard, and your Mistress. I do not want to go, Monseigneur, but it is best thatt I should. I tried to Thank you To-night, but you would not let me. Please, you must not be anxious for me. I wanted at first to Kill myself, but then I saw thatt thatt is Cowardly. I am Quite Safe, and I am going very far away to Some One who will be good to me, I know. I have left all my Things, except the Money you gave me, which I must take to pay my Journey, and the Sapphire Chain which you gave me when I was your Page. I thought you would not Mind if I took thatt, because it is the only thing I have kept which you gave me. Marie goes with me, and Please you must not be Angry with the Lackeys for letting me go, for they thought I was Rachel. I leave for Rupert, and M. Davenant, and M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale my so Great Love for them. And for you, Monseigneur. I cannot write it. I am Glad thatt we were Alone to-night.

“A Dieu.

“Infant.”

Lady Fanny’s face worked for a minute, then she whisked out her handkerchief and cried into it, regardless of paint and powder. His Grace picked up the note, and read it through again.

“Poor little infant!” he said softly.

“Oh, Justin, we must find her!” sniffed her ladyship.

“We shall find her,” he answered. “I think I know where she has gone.”

“Where? Can you go after her? Now? She is such a babe, and she has only a foolish abigail with her.”

“I believe that she has gone to—Anjou.” His Grace folded the note and put it into his pocket. “She has left me because she fears to endanger my—reputation. It is somewhat ironic, is it not?”

Lady Fanny blew her nose vigorously, and gave yet another watery sniff.

“She loves you, Justin.”

He was silent.

“Oh Justin, do you not care? I felt so certain that you loved her!”

“I love her—too well to marry her, my dear,” said his Grace.

“Why?” Lady Fanny put away her handkerchief.

“There are so many reasons,” sighed his Grace. “I am too old for her.”

“Oh, fiddle!” said my lady. “I thought that maybe ’twas her birth you cavilled at.”

“Her birth, Fanny, is as good as yours. She is Saint-Vire’s legitimate daughter.”

Lady Fanny gaped at him.

“In her place he has put the clod you know as de Valme. His name is Bonnard. I have waited too long, but I strike now.” He picked up a hand-bell, and rang it. To the lackey who came he said: “You will go at once to the Hotel de Chatelet, and request M. Marling and M. Davenant to return at once. Ask Milor’ Merivale to accompany them. You may go.” He turned again to his sister. “What did the child write to you?”

“Only farewell!” Lady Fanny bit her lip. “And I wondered why she kissed me so sweetly to-night! Oh dear, oh