plan!”
Madame de Saint-Vire held her handkerchief to her mouth with one shaking hand.
“Al-most inconceivable,” Avon said gently. “Probably the lady feared her husband. He was a most unpleasant person, believe me.”
“We can easily believe that,” Madame smiled. “A villainous creature! Go on!”
From under his heavy lids Avon watched Saint-Vire tug at his cravat; his eyes travelled on to Merivale’s intent countenance, and he smiled faintly.
“Cain, and his wife, and his pretended son, returned to Paris, as I have said, and greatly discomposed poor Abel. When Abel watched his nephew grow up with no trace of his family’s characteristics either in face or nature, he was more than ever enraged, but although he wondered at the boy the truth never occurred to him. Why should it?” Avon shook out his ruffles. “Having disposed of Cain for the moment, we will return to Cain’s daughter. For twelve years she remained in the heart of the country, with her foster-parents, and was reared as their own child. But at the end of those years Fate once more turned her attention to Cain’s affairs, and sent a plague to sweep the neighbourhood where the daughter was. This plague struck down both foster-father and mother, but my heroine escaped, as did also her foster-brother, of whom more anon. She was sent to the Cure of the village, who housed her, and cared for her. I beg you will not forget the Cure. He plays a small but important part in my story.”
“Will it serve?” Davenant muttered.
“Look at Saint-Vire!” Marling answered. “The Cure was an inspiration! It has taken him completely by surprise.”
“We shall remember the Cure,” said Armand grimly. “When does he play his part?”
“He plays it now, Armand, for it was into his hands that my heroine’s foster-mother, before she died, placed her—written—confession.”
“Oh, she could write, then, this peasant woman?” said Conde, who had been listening with knit brows.
“I imagine, prince, that she had once been tirewoman to some lady, for certainly she could write.” Avon saw Madame de Saint-Vire’s hands grip together in her lap, and was satisfied. “That confession lay for many years in a locked drawer in the Cure’s house.”
“But he should have published it abroad!” Madame de Vauvallon said quickly.
“So I think, madame, but he was a singularly conscientious priest and he held that the seal of the confessional could never be broken.”
“What of the girl?” asked Armand.
His Grace twisted his rings.
“She, my dear Armand, was taken to Paris by her foster-brother, a youth many years her senior. His name was Jean, and he bought a tavern in one of the meanest and most noisome of your streets. And since it was inconvenient for him to have a girl of my heroine’s tender years upon his hands, he dressed her as a boy.” The gentle voice grew harder. “As a boy. I shall not discompose you by telling you of her life in this guise.”
Something like a sob broke from Madame de Saint-Vire.
“
Avon’s lips sneered.
“It is a harrowing tale, is it not, madame?” he purred.
Saint-Vire half rose from his chair, and sank back again. People were beginning to look questioningly at one another.
“Further,” continued the Duke, “he married a slut whose care was to ill-use my heroine in every conceivable way. At this woman’s hands she suffered for seven long years.” His eyes wandered round the room. “Until she was nineteen,” he said. “During those years she learned to know Vice, to Fear, and to know the meaning of that ugly word Hunger. I do not know how she survived.”
“Duc, you tell us a ghastly tale!” said Conde. “What happened then?”
“Then, Prince, Fate stepped in again, and cast my heroine across the path of a man who had never had cause to love our friend Cain. Into this man’s life came my heroine. He was struck by her likeness to Cain, and of impulse he bought her from her foster-brother. He had waited for many years to pay in full a debt he owed Cain; in this child he saw a possible means to do so, for he too had remarked the plebeian manners and person of Cain’s supposed son. Chance favoured him, and when he flaunted my heroine before Cain’s eyes he saw Cain’s consternation, and slowly pieced the tale together. Cain sent an envoy to buy his daughter from this man whom he knew to be his enemy. Thus the suspicion that this new player in the game fostered grew to be a conviction.”
“Good God, d’Anvau,” murmured de Sally, “can it be——?”
“H’sh!” d’Anvau answered. “Listen! This grows very interesting.”
“From Jean,” Avon continued, “Cain’s enemy learned of my heroine’s old home, and of the Cure who lived there. I trust you have not forgotten the Cure?”
All eyes were on the Duke; one or two men had begun to see daylight. Conde nodded impatiently.
“No. Go on, I beg of you!”
The emerald on the Duke’s finger glinted evilly.
“I am relieved. This man journeyed to the remote village, and—er—wrought with the Cure. When he returned to Paris he brought with him—that.” From his pocket Avon drew a dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He looked mockingly at Saint-Vire, who sat as though carved in stone. “That,” repeated his Grace, and laid the paper down on the mantelpiece behind him.
The tension could be felt. Davenant drew a deep breath.
“For a moment—I almost believed it was a confession!” he whispered. “They’re beginning to guess, Marling.”
His Grace studied the painting on his fan.
“You may wonder, perhaps, why he did not expose Cain at once. I admit that was his first thought. But he remembered, messieurs, the years that Cain’s daughter had spent in hell, and he determined that Cain too should know hell—a little, a very little.” His voice had grown stern; the smile was gone from his lips. Madame du Deffand was watching him with horror in her face. “And therefore, messieurs, he held his hand, and played—a waiting game. That was his way of justice.” Again he swept a glance round the room; he held his audience silent and expectant, dominated by his personality. Into the silence his words fell slowly, quite softly. “I think he felt it,” he said. “From one day to the next he knew not when the blow would fall; he lived in dread; he was torn this way and that by hope, and—fear, messieurs. Even he was cheated into the belief that his enemy had no proof, and for a while thought himself secure.” Avon laughed soundlessly, and saw Saint-Vire wince. “But the old doubts came back, messieurs; he could not be sure that there was no proof. Thus he lived in an agony of uncertainty.” Avon shut his fan. “My heroine was taken by her guardian to England, and taught to be a girl again. She was left on her guardian’s estates in the care of one of his kinswomen. Little by little, messieurs, she learned to like her girlhood, and to forget, in part, the horrors that lay in the past. Then, messieurs, Cain came to England.” His Grace took snuff. “Like a thief,” he said gently. “He stole my heroine, he drugged her, and carried her to his yacht that awaited him at Portsmouth.”
“Good God!” gasped Madame de Vauvallon.
“He’ll fail!” whispered Davenant suddenly. “Saint-Vire has himself well in hand.”
“Watch his wife!” Marling retorted.
His Grace flicked another speck of snuff from his golden sleeve.
“I will not weary you with the tale of my heroine’s escape,” he said. “There was another player in the game who followed hot-foot to the rescue. She contrived to escape with him, but not before Cain had sent a bullet into his shoulder. Whether the shot was meant for him or for her I know not.”
Saint-Vire made a hasty movement, and was quiet again.
“That such villains live!” gasped de Chatelet.
“The wound, messieurs, was severe, and compelled the fugitives to put up at a small inn not many miles from Le Havre. Happily my heroine’s guardian found her there, some two hours before the indefatigable Cain arrived.”
“He did arrive, then?” said de Sally.
“But could you doubt it?” smiled his Grace. “He arrived,
