“Ay, you were in our escapade, weren’t you?” said Rupert. “Gad, what a chase! How does my friend—stap me if I have not forgot his name again!—Manvers! That’s the fellow! How does he?”
Merivale flung out a hand.
“I beg you’ll not mention that name to me!” he said. “All three of you fled the country, and faith, it’s as well you did!”
“I suggest we repair to the smaller salon,” Avon said, and led the way there. “I trust you were able to satisfy Mr. Manvers?”
Merivale shook his head.
“Nothing less than your blood is like to satisfy him,” he said. “Tell me all that happened to you.”
“In English,” drawled his Grace, “and softly.”
So once again the tale was told of Léonie’s capture and rescue. Then Madame de Vauvallon came in search of Léonie, and bore her away to dance with an ardent youth. Rupert wandered away to the card-room.
Merivale looked at the Duke.
“And what does Saint-Vire say to Léonie’s success?” he inquired.
“Very little,” replied his Grace. “But he is not pleased, I fear.”
“She does not know?”
“She does not.”
“But the likeness is striking, Alastair. What says Paris?”
“Paris,” said his Grace, “talks in whispers. Thus my very dear friend Saint-Vire lives in some dread of discovery.”
“When do you intend to strike?”
Avon crossed his legs, and eyed one diamond shoe-buckle pensively.
“That, my dear Merivale, is still on the knees of the gods. Saint-Vire himself must supply the proof to my story.”
“It’s awkward, damned awkward!” Merivale commented. “You’ve no proof at all?”
“None.”
Merivale laughed.
“It does not seem to worry you!”
“No,” sighed his Grace, “no. I believe I can trap the Comte through his so charming wife. I play a waiting game, you see.”
“I am glad that I am not Saint-Vire. Your game must be torture to him.”
“Why, so I think,” agreed Avon pleasantly. “I am not anxious to put an end to his agonies.”
“You’re very vindictive!”
There was a moment’s silence; then Avon spoke.
“I wonder if you have realised to the full my friend’s villainy. Consider for a moment, I beg of you. What mercy would you show to a man who could condemn his own daughter to the life my infant has led?”
Merivale straightened in his chair.
“I know nothing of her life. It was bad?”
“Yes, my dear, it was indeed bad. Until she was twelve years old she, a Saint-Vire, was reared as a peasant. After that she lived among the canaille of Paris. Conceive a tavern in a mean street, a bully for master, a shrew for mistress, and Vice, in all its lowest forms, under my infant’s very nose.”
“It must have been—hell!” Merivale said.
“Just so,” bowed his Grace. “It was the very worst kind of hell, as I know.”
“The wonder is that she has come through it unscathed.”
The hazel eyes lifted.
“Not quite unscathed, my dear Anthony. Those years have left their mark.”
“It were inevitable, I suppose. But I confess I have not seen the mark.”
“Possibly not. You see the roguery, and the dauntless spirit.”
“And you?” Merivale watched him curiously.
“Oh, I see beneath, my dear! But then, I have had experience of the sex, as you know.”
“And you see—what?”
“A certain cynicism, born of the life she has led; a streak of strange wisdom; the wistfulness behind the gaiety; sometimes fear; and nearly always the memory of loneliness that hurts the soul.”
Merivale looked down at his snuffbox, and fell to tracing the pattern on it with one finger.
“Do you know,” he said slowly, “I think that you have grown, Alastair?”
His Grace rose.
“Quite a reformed character, in fact,” he said.
“You can do no wrong in Léonie’s eyes.”
“No, it is most amusing, is it not?” Avon smiled, but there was bitterness in his smile, which Merivale saw.
Then they went back into the ballroom, and learned from Lady Fanny that Léonie had disappeared some time ago on Rupert’s arm, and had not since been seen.
She had indeed gone out with Rupert to a small salon where he brought her refreshment. Then had come towards them one Madame de Verchoureux, a handsome termagant who had been all things to Avon when Léonie had first come to him. She looked at Léonie with hatred in her eyes, and paused for a moment beside her couch.
Rupert came to his feet, and bowed. Madame swept a curtsy.
“It is—Mademoiselle de Bonnard?” she said.
“Yes, madame.” Léonie got up, and curtsied also. “I am very stupid, but I cannot at once recall madame’s name.”
Rupert, supposing the lady to be one of Fanny’s friends, lounged back into the ballroom; Léonie was left looking up at Avon’s slighted mistress.
“I felicitate you, mademoiselle,” said the lady sarcastically. “You are more fortunate than I was, it seems.”
“Madame?” The sparkle was gone from Léonie’s eyes. “Have I the honour of madame’s acquaintance?”
“I am one Henriette de Verchoureux. You do not know me.”
“Pardon, madame, but I know of you—much,” Léonie said swiftly. Madame had steered clear of open scandal, but she was somewhat notorious. Léonie remembered the days when Avon had visited her so often.
Madame flushed angrily.
“Indeed, mademoiselle. And of Mademoiselle de Bonnard is also known—much. Mademoiselle is very clever, sans doute, but to those who know Avon the so strict chaperon is a poor disguise.”
Léonie raised her eyebrows.
“Is it possible that madame imagines that I have succeeded where she failed?”
“Insolent!” Madame’s hand clenched on her fan.
“Madame?”
Madame stared down at Youth, and knew the pangs of jealousy.
“Brazen it out!” she said shrilly. “You hope to marry in all honour, little fool, but be advised by me, and leave him, for Avon will wed no baseborn girl!”
Léonie’s eyelids flickered, but she said nothing. Madame changed her tactics suddenly, and stretched out her hand.
“My dear, I protest I pity you! You are so young; you do not know the ways of this world of ours. Avon would not be fool enough to wed with one of your blood, believe me. He were surely lost an he dared!” She laughed, covertly watching Léonie. “Even
