These Old Shades

“Scelerat!” snapped Conde, and cast one glance at Madame de Saint-Vire, who seemed to cower in her chair, and fixed his eyes on the Duke again.

“Exactly, Prince,” said his Grace smoothly. “We return now to Paris, where her guardian presented my heroine to Polite Society. Be silent, Armand, I am nearing the end of my story. She made no little stir, I assure you, for she was not an ordinary debutante. She was sometimes, messieurs, just a babe, but withal she had great wisdom, and greater spirit. I might talk to you of her for hours, but I will only say that she was something of an imp, very outspoken, full of espicglerie, and very beautiful.”

“And true!” Conde interjected swiftly.

His Grace inclined his head.

“And true, Prince, as I know. To resume: Paris began presently to remark her likeness to Cain. He must have been afraid then, messieurs. But one day it came to the child’s ears that the world thought her a base-born daughter of Cain.” He paused, and raised his handkerchief to his lips. “Messieurs, she loved the man who was her guardian,” he said very levelly. “His reputation was soiled beyond repair, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. She called him her—seigneur.”

Saint-Vire’s underlip was caught between his teeth, but he sat perfectly still, apparently listening with only a casual interest. There were many shocked eyes upon him, but he made no sign. In the doorway Rupert fingered his sword-hilt lovingly.

“When the child learned what the world said of her,” Avon continued, “she went to Cain’s house and asked him if she was indeed his base-born daughter.”

“Yes? Allons!” Conde exclaimed.

“He conceived, messieurs, that Chance favoured him at last. He told the child that it was so.” Avon held up his hand as Armand jumped. “He threatened, messieurs, to expose her in the eyes of the world as his bastard—and that other man’s mistress. He told her—he was her father, messieurs—that he would do this that her guardian might be ruined socially for having dared to foist his base-born light-o’-love into Society.”

Madame de Saint-Vire was sitting straight in her chair now, gripping its arms with her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she was very near to breaking point, and it was evident that this part of the tale was new to her.

“Ah, but what a cur!” cried Lavoulcre.

“Wait, my dear Lavoulcre. He was kind enough to offer the child an alternative. He promised to keep silence if she would disappear from the world she had only just entered.” Avon’s eyes grew harder, his voice was like ice. “I have said that she loved her guardian, messieurs. To leave him, to be condemned to go back to the old, sordid life, was worse than death to her. She had just—tasted the cup of happiness.”

There were very few people in the room now who did not understand the tale; horror was in many faces; the silence was complete. Conde was leaning forward in his chair, his face grim and anxious.

“But continue!” he said harshly. “She—went back?”

“No, Prince,” Avon answered.

“What then?” Conde had risen.

“Prince, for those who are desperate, for the unwanted, for the broken-hearted, there is always a way out.”

Madame du Deffand shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hand.

“You mean?”

Avon pointed to the window.

“Outside, Prince, not so very far away, runs the river. It has hidden many secrets, many tragedies. This child is just one more tragedy that has ended in its tide.”

A choked scream rang out, piercing and shrill. Madame de Saint-Vire came to her feet as though forced, and stumbled forward like one distraught.

“Ah no, no, no!” she gasped. “Not that! not that! Oh, my little, little one! God, have you no mercy? She is not dead!” Her voice rose, and was strangled in her throat. She flung up her arm, and collapsed at Avon’s feet, and lay there, sobbing wildly.

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Oh, poor thing! No, no, madame, she is alive, I swear! Help me, someone! Madame, madame, calm yourself!”

There was a sudden uproar; Davenant wiped the sweat from his brow.

“My God!” he said huskily. “What a night’s work! Clever, clever devil!”

In the confusion a woman’s voice sounded, bewildered.

“I don’t understand! Why—what—is that the end of the story?”

Avon did not turn his head.

“No, mademoiselle. I am still awaiting the end.”

A sudden scuffle in the alcove drew all attention from Madame de Saint-Vire to the Comte. He had sprung up as Madame’s control left her, knowing that her outburst had betrayed him completely, and now he was struggling madly with Merivale, one hand at his hip. Even as several men rushed forward he wrenched free, livid and panting, and they saw that he held a small pistol.

Conde leaped suddenly in front of the Duke, and faced that pistol.

It was over in a few seconds. They heard Saint-Vire’s voice rise on a note almost of insanity:

“Devil! Devil!”

Then there was a deafening report, a woman screamed, and Rupert strode forward, and flung his handkerchief over Saint Vire’s shattered head. He and Merivale bent over the Comte’s body, and his Grace came slowly up to them, and stood for a moment looking down at that which had been Saint-Vire. At the far end of the room a woman was in hysterics. His Grace met Davenant’s eyes.

“I said that it should be poetic, did I not, Hugh?” he remarked, and went back to the fireplace. “Mademoiselle”—he bowed to the frightened girl who had asked him for the story’s end—“M. de Saint-Vire has provided the end to my tale.” He took the soiled paper from the mantelshelf where he had left it, and threw it into the fire, and laughed.

CHAPTER XXXI

His Grace of Avon Wins All

Into the village of Bassincourt once again rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He was dressed in breeches of buff cloth, and a coat of dull purple velvet, laced with gold. His high spurred boots were dusty; he carried his gloves in one hand, with his long riding crop. Into the market-place he came, from the Saumur road, and reined in as he met the uneven cobble-stones. The villagers, and the farmers’ wives who had come into Bassincourt for the market, gaped at him, as they had gaped before, and whispered, one to the other.

The horse picked its way towards the Cure’s house, and there stopped. His Grace looked round, and, seeing a small boy standing near to him, beckoned, and swung himself lightly down from the saddle.

The boy came running.

“Be so good as to take my horse to the inn, and see it safely housed and watered,” said his Grace, and tossed the boy a louis. “You may tell the landlord that I shall come to pay the reckoning later.”

“Yes, milor’! Thank you, milor’!” stammered the boy, and clutched his louis.

His Grace opened the little gate that led into the Cure’s garden, and walked up the neat path to the front door. As before, the rosy-cheeked housekeeper admitted him. She recognized him, and dropped a curtsy.

“Bonjour, m’sieur! M. le Cure is in his room.”

“Thank you,” said his Grace. He followed her along the passage to de Beaupre’s study, and stood for a moment on the threshold, point-edged hat in hand.

The Cure rose politely.

“M’sieur?” Then, as Avon smiled, he hurried forward. “Eh, mon fils!”

Avon took his hand.

“My ward, father?”

The Cure beamed.

“The poor little one! Yes, my son, I have her safe.”

Avon seemed to sigh.

“You have relieved my mind of a load that was—almost too great for it to bear,” he said.

The Cure smiled. “My son, in a little while I think I should have broken my promise to her and sent a message