“That is a nice dress, I think,” she said.
Avon bowed.
“I like it,” Léonie said. “Monseigneur, I feel very brave now. What will you do to this pig-person when he comes?”
“I shall have the honour of presenting you, my dear,” Avon answered. “Let him have your haughtiest curtsy. It is a little game we play.”
“Yes? But I do not want to curtsy to him. I want to make him sorry.”
“Believe me, he will be very sorry, but the time is not yet. Bear in mind, ma fille, that you have not till now set eyes on my dear friend.”
“Ah, bah, what is this?” she demanded. “I know him well, and he knows me!”
“Strive to cultivate a little imagination,” sighed his Grace. “The so dear Comte stole my page, Léon. You are my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard.”
“Oh!” said Léonie doubtfully. “I must be polite, enfin?”
“Very polite, child. And remember, you and I are here for our health. We know naught of abductions, or evil drinks, or even—er—pig-persons. Can you play the game of pretence?”
“But yes, Monseigneur! Will he pretend, do you think?”
“I have reason to think, child, that he will follow my lead.”
“Why, Monseigneur?”
“Because, child, he has a secret which he suspects I share. But since it is a highly discreditable secret he would not like me to think that he had any knowledge of it. We fence, you see, but whereas I see my way clearly, he moves in darkness.”
“Oh, I see!” she said. “He will be surprised to find you, n’est-ce pas?”
“I rather think he will,” agreed his Grace. He went to the table and poured out two glasses of canary. One of them he gave to Léonie. “My dear, I drink to your safe deliverance.”
“Oh, I thank you, Monseigneur! What shall I drink to?” She put her head on one side. “Voyons, I will just drink to mon cher seigneur!”
“Quite neat,” said the Duke. “Gaston? A la bonne heure! You will journey back to Avon, Gaston, at once.”
Gaston’s face fell.
“But yes, Monseigneur.”
“Bearing with you this letter to my cousin. She will accompany you to France again.”
Gaston brightened perceptibly.
“Further, you will go to Milor’ Merivale and obtain from him the clothes of Milor’ Rupert. It is understood?”
“All Milor’ Rupert’s clothes, Monseigneur?” asked Gaston, aghast.
“All of them. If he is there, bring milor’s valet also. I had well-nigh forgot Mademoiselle Léonie’s maid. Instruct her to pack the rest of mademoiselle’s clothes, and bring her—and them—to me here.”
Gaston blinked rapidly.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said with an effort.
“You will board the Silver Queen, of course, and you will convey your charges by coach to Portsmouth.” His Grace tossed a fat purse to him. “At Portsmouth, on your way to Avon, you will seek out a certain roan horse.”
“Bon Dieu!” muttered Gaston. “A roan horse, Monseigneur, yes.”
“A roan horse belonging to one Mr. Manvers of Crosby Hall, sold by Milor’ Rupert on Monday. You will buy it back.” Another purse followed the first. “The price is of no moment. You will have the animal conveyed to Crosby Hall, with Milor’ Rupert’s compliments and—er—thanks. That also is understood?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Gaston dismally.
“Bien. This is, I think, Wednesday. You will be here again no later than Monday. Send Meekin to me now. You may go.”
The groom came speedily.
“Your Grace sent for me?”
“I did. You will start for Paris, my friend, within the hour.”
“Ay, your Grace.”
“To apprise the admirable Walker of my coming. You will bring back with you the large berline, the smaller travelling coach, and a light chaise for my Lord Rupert’s baggage. You will arrange for change of horses to await me at Rouen, at Tign, and at Pontoise. I shall rest at the Coq d’Or at Rouen for one night.”
“Very good, your Grace. Which day am I to tell the landlord?”
“I have not the least idea,” said the Duke. “But when I come I shall require four bedchambers, a private parlour, and quarters for my servants. I trust I make myself plain?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“That is all,” said Avon.
Meekin bowed, and went out.
“Voyons,” said Léonie from her seat by the fire. “It gives me great pleasure to hear you say ‘Do this—do that!’ I like to hear them answer only, ‘Yes, Monseigneur,’ and go so quickly to do your bidding.”
Avon smiled.
“I have only once in my life had a servant in mine employ who dared to question my commands,” he said.
“Oh?” Léonie looked up in all innocence. “Who was that, Monseigneur?”
“A page I had, my dear, by name—er—Léon.”
Her eyes sparkled, but she folded her hands demurely.
“Tiens! I wonder he dared, Monseigneur.”
“I believe there was nothing he would not dare,” said Avon.
“Truly? Did you like him, Monseigneur?”
“You are a minx, my dear.”
She laughed, blushed and nodded.
“It is not a compliment,” said his Grace, and came to the fire, and sat down. “I have sent for your duenna, you hear.”
“Yes.” She grimaced. “But she will not come till Monday, will she? Why are we going to Paris?”
“As well Paris as anywhere else,” Avon replied. “Your education is nearly complete. You are going to make your curtsy to the Polite World.”
“Am I, Monseigneur? Vraiment? I think it will be fort amusant. Shall I go to Vassaud’s?”
The Duke’s brows twitched together.
“No, ma fille, you will not. Vassaud’s is one of those places which you will strive to forget.”
Léonie peeped at him.
“And—and the Maison Chourval?”
“Did I take you there?” His Grace was still frowning.
“But yes, Monseigneur, only you sent me to wait for you in the vestibule.”
“I had that much decency left, then. You will most assuredly forget the Maison Chourval. It would be interesting to know what you made of it?”
“Very little, Monseigneur. It is not a nice place, I think.”
“No, infant,
