“Well, but, madame, Monseigneur allows me to say pig-person. You do not mind, do you, Monseigneur?”
“My infant, it is not a beautiful expression, nor am I in any way enamoured of it, but I believe that I did say I could support it as long as you refrained from talking of pig—er—wash.”
“Yes, you did,” she said triumphantly.
“But what do you mean?” demanded Davenant. “Who abducted Léonie? Is it true?”
Marling nodded to him across the table.
“As pretty a piece of villainy as ever I heard.”
“But who did it? Who is the—the pig-person?”
“The bad Comte de Saint-Vire!” said Léonie. “He gave me an evil drink, and brought me to France, and Rupert saved me!”
Davenant started, and stared at his Grace.
“Saint-Vire!” he said, and again, beneath his breath, “Saint-Vire.”
His Grace cast a quick look round, but the lackeys had left the room.
“Yes, Hugh, yes. The so dear Comte.”
Davenant opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again.
“Quite so,” said his Grace.
“But Avon”—it was Marling who spoke—“Fanny tells me that cards for the ball have been sent to Saint-Vire and his wife. Why did you do that?”
“I believe I had a reason,” said his Grace pensively. “No doubt it will return to my mind some time or other.”
“If the fellow comes I’ll never be able to contain myself!” Rupert said.
“I do not imagine that he will come, my child. Hugh, if you have finished, I suggest we repair to the library. It is the only room that Fanny has left undisturbed.”
Fanny rose, and shook her finger at him.
“I shall throw it open on the night of the ball, never fear! I have a mind to set card-tables there.”
“No,” said Léonie firmly. “It is our very own room, Monseigneur. You are not to let her!” She laid her fingertips on his crooked arm, and prepared to go out with him. Hugh heard an urgent whisper. “Monseigneur, not that room! We always sit there. You brought me to it the very first night.”
Avon turned his head.
“You hear, Fanny?”
“It’s most tiresome!” said her ladyship, in a long-suffering manner. “What odds can it make, child? What’s your reason?”
“Madame, I cannot think of the word. It is what Monseigneur says when you ask him why he does a thing.”
Rupert opened the door.
“Faith, I know what she means! A whim!”
“C’est cela!” Léonie gave a little skip. “You are very clever tonight, Rupert, I think.”
The ladies retired early to bed, and as Rupert dragged the unwilling Marling out to Vassaud’s, Avon and Hugh were left alone in the quiet library. Hugh looked round with a little smile.
“Egad, it’s like old times, Justin!”
“Three months ago, to be precise,” said his Grace. “I am becoming something of a patriarch, my dear.”
“Are you?” Davenant said, and smiled to himself. “May I compliment you on your ward?”
“Pray do! You find her to your taste?”
“Infinitely. Paris will be enchanted. She is an original.”
“Something of a rogue,” conceded his Grace.
“Justin, what has Saint-Vire to do with her?”
The thin brows rose.
“I seem to remember, my dear, that your curiosity was always one of the things I deplored in you.”
“I’ve not forgot the tale you told me—in this very room, Justin. Is Léonie the tool with which you hope to crush Saint-Vire?”
His Grace yawned.
“You fatigue me, Hugh. Do you know, I have ever had a fancy to play my game—alone.”
Davenant could make nothing of him, and gave up the attempt. Marling came in presently, and remarked that Rupert was not like to return until the morning.
“Who was there?” Davenant asked.
“The rooms were crowded, but I know so few people,” Marling said. “I left Rupert dicing with one Lavoulère.” He looked at the Duke. “The lad’s incorrigible, Avon. He will dice his soul away one of these days.”
“Oh, I trust not!” said Avon. “I suppose he is losing?”
“He is,” Marling replied. “It is not my affair, Justin, but I think you should strive to check this gambling fever in him.”
“I agree,” Davenant said. “The boy is too thoughtless.”
Avon strolled to the door.
“Beloved, I leave you to your moralities,” he said softly, and went out.
Hugh laughed, but Marling frowned.
“Impossible Satanas!” said Hugh.
“He seems not to trouble his head over Rupert’s welfare,” Marling spoke heavily. “He should have some hold over the boy.”
“Oh, my dear Marling, Rupert will come to heel whenever Avon chooses to lift his finger.”
“It’s very well, Hugh, but I have yet to see him lift it.”
“I have seen it,” Davenant answered. He drew his chair nearer to the fire. “I see also a vast change in our Satanas.”
“Ay,” Marling admitted. “It’s the child’s influence. My lady dreams of a bridal.”
“I would it might be so,” Hugh crossed his legs. “There is that in Avon’s eyes when he looks on Léonie—”
“I do not trust him.”
“Why, I think I do for once.” Hugh laughed a little. “When last I saw Léonie—Léon she was then—it was ‘Yes, Monseigneur’ and ‘No, Monseigneur.’ Now it is ‘Monseigneur, you must do this,’ and ‘Monseigneur, I want that!’ She twists him round her little finger, and, by Gad, he likes it!”
“Oh, but there’s naught of the lover in his manner, Hugh! You have heard him with her, scolding, correcting.”
“Ay, and I have heard the note in his voice of—faith, of tenderness! This wooing will be no ordinary one, methinks, but there is a bridal in the air.”
“She is twenty years behind him!”
“Do you think it signifies? I would not give Justin a bride his own age. I’d give him this babe who must be cherished and guarded. And I’ll swear he’d guard her well!”
“It may be. I do not know. She looks up to him, Davenant! She worships him!”
“Therein I see his salvation,” Hugh said.
XXV
Léonie Curtsies to the Polite World
Lady Fanny stepped back to obtain a better view of her handiwork.
“I cannot make up my mind,” she said. “Shall I put a ribbon in your hair, or—no, I have it!—a single white rose!” She picked one
