Then the Vicomte de Valmé came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.
“Your so charming son,” purred Avon.
Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.
The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Léonie.
“Your servant, Duc.” He turned to Saint-Vire. “Will you present me, sir?”
“My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!” Saint-Vire said brusquely.
Léonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.
“You are ennuyé, Vicomte, as usual?” Avon fobbed his snuffbox. “You pine for the country, and—a farm, was it not?”
The Vicomte smiled.
“Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.”
“But surely a most—ah—praiseworthy ambition?” drawled Avon. “We will hope that you may one day realise it.” He inclined his head, offered his arm to Léonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.
Léonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.
“Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!”
“What, my infant, is ‘it’?”
“That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was like. But just now it came to me! He is like Jean. It is ridiculous, is it not?”
“Most ridiculous, ma fille. I desire you will not repeat that to anyone.”
“No, Monseigneur, of course not. I am very discreet now, you know.”
Avon saw Condé in the distance, with the violets pinned to his coat, and smiled a little.
“I did not know it, infant, nor have I observed any signs of discretion in you, but let that pass. Where, I wonder, is Fanny?”
“She is talking to M. de Penthièvre, Monseigneur. I think he likes her—oh much! Here she is! She looks very pleased, so I expect M. de Penthièvre has told her that she is just as beautiful as she was when she was nineteen.”
Avon put up his glass.
“My infant, you are becoming positively shrewd. Do you know my sister so well?”
“I am very fond of her, Monseigneur,” Léonie hastened to add.
“I do not doubt it, ma fille.” He looked towards Fanny, who had paused to speak to Raoul de Fontanges. “It is most surprising, nevertheless.”
“But she is so kind to me, Monseigneur. Of course, she is sometimes very s—” Léonie stopped, and peeped up at the Duke uncertainly.
“I entirely agree with you, infant. Very silly,” said his Grace imperturbably. “Well, Fanny, can we now depart?”
“That was exactly what I had a mind to ask you!” said my lady. “What a crush! Oh, my dear Justin, de Penthièvre has been saying such things to me! I vow I am all one blush! What are you smiling at? My love, what had Madame de Saint-Vire to say to you?”
“She is mad,” said Léonie, with conviction. “She looked as though she were going to cry, and I did not like it at all. Oh, here is Rupert! Rupert, where have you been?”
Rupert grinned.
“Faith, asleep, in the little salon over there. What, are we going at last? God be praised!”
“Asleep! Oh, Rupert!” Léonie cried. “It has been fort amusant! Monseigneur, who is that pretty lady over there?”
“La, child, that is La Pompadour!” whispered Fanny. “Will you present her, Justin?”
“No, Fanny, I will not,” said his Grace gently.
“Here’s a haughtiness,” remarked Rupert. “For the Lord’s sake let us be gone before all these young pups crowd round Léonie again.”
“But, Justin, will it serve?” asked my lady. “She will take offence, belike.”
“I am not a French satellite,” said his Grace. “And therefore I shall not present my ward to the King’s mistress. I believe Léonie can dispense with the lady’s smiles or frowns.”
“But, Monseigneur, it would please me to—”
“Infant, you will not argue with me, I think.”
“Oh, won’t she!” said Rupert, sotto voce.
“No, Monseigneur. But I did want to—”
“Silence, my child.” Avon led her to the door. “Content yourself with having been presented to their Majesties. They are not, perhaps, so powerful as La Pompadour, but they are infinitely better born.”
“For heaven’s sake, Justin!” gasped my lady. “You’ll be heard!”
“Think of us!” Rupert besought him. “You’ll have the lot of us clapped up, if you’re not careful, or hounded out of the country.”
Avon turned his head.
“If I thought that there was the smallest chance of getting you clapped up, child, I would shout my remarks to the whole of this very overcrowded room,” he said.
“I think you are not at all in a nice humour, Monseigneur,” said Léonie reproachfully. “Why may I not be presented to La Pompadour?”
“Because, infant,” replied his Grace, “She is not—er—enough respectable.”
XXVII
The Hand of Madame de Verchoureux
And Paris began to talk, in whispers at first, then gradually louder, and more openly. Paris remembered an old, old scandal, and said that the English Duc had adopted a baseborn daughter of Saint-Vire in revenge for past injuries. Paris thought that it must irk Saint-Vire considerably to see his offspring in the hands of his greatest enemy. Then Paris wondered what the English Duc meant to do with Mademoiselle de Bonnard, and found no solution to the riddle. Paris shook its head, and thought that the ways of Avon were inscrutable and probably fiendish.
Meanwhile Lady Fanny swept through the town with Léonie, and saw to it that her social activities this season should not easily be forgotten. Léonie enjoyed herself very much, and Paris enjoyed her even more. In the mornings she rode out with Avon, and two factions sprang up thereafter amongst her admirers. One faction held that the divine Léonie was seen at her best in the saddle; the other faction was firm that in the ballroom she was incomparable. One excitable young gentleman challenged another on this score, but Hugh Davenant was present, and he took both young hotheads severely to task for bandying Léonie’s name about over their cups, and the affair came to naught.
Others
