Léonie was gazing into the fire again.
“Verchoureux?” she said musingly. “I do not think …”
“It’s very well,” said his Grace.
Then Hugh Davenant came into the room, and his Grace, looking at him, did not see the telltale blush that crept on Léonie’s cheeks.
XXVIII
The Comte de Saint-Vire Discovers an Ace in His Hand
The comment that Léonie was exciting in the Polite World reduced Madame de Saint-Vire to a state of nervous dread. Her mind was in a tumult; she watered her pillow nightly with useless, bitter tears and was smitten alike with fear, and devastating remorse. She tried to hide these sensations from her husband, of whom she was afraid, but she could hardly bring herself to speak to her pseudo-son. Before her eyes, day and night, was Léonie’s image, and her poor cowed spirit longed for this daughter, and her arms ached to hold her. Saint-Vire spoke roughly when he saw her red eyes, and wan looks.
“Have done with these lamentations, Marie! You’ve not seen the girl since she was a day old, so you can have no affection for her.”
“She is mine!” Madame said with trembling lips. “My own daughter! You do not understand, Henri. You cannot understand.”
“How should I understand your foolish megrims? You’ll undo me with your sighing and your weeping! Have you thought what discovery would mean?”
She wrung her hands, and her weak eyes filled again with tears.
“Oh, Henri, I know, I know! It’s ruin! I—I would not betray you, but I cannot forget my sin. If you would but let me confess to Father Dupré!”
Saint-Vire clicked his tongue impatiently.
“You must be mad!” he said. “I forbid it! You understand?”
Out came Madame’s handkerchief.
“You are so hard!” she wept. “Do you know that they are saying she is—she is—your baseborn child? My little, little daughter.”
“Of course I know it! It’s a loophole for escape, but I do not yet see how I can turn it to account. I tell you, Marie, this is not the time for repentance, but for action! Do you want to see our ruin? Do you know how complete it would be?”
She shrank from him.
“Yes, Henri, yes! I—I know, and I am afraid! I scarce dare show my face abroad. Every night I dream that it is all discovered. I shall go mad, I think.”
“Calm yourself, madame. It may be that Avon plays this waiting game to fret my nerves so that I confess. If he had proof he would surely have struck before.” Saint-Vire bit his fingernail, scowling.
“That man! That horrible, cruel man!” Madame shuddered. “He has the means to crush you, and I know that he will do it!”
“If he has no proof he cannot. It’s possible that Bonnard confessed, or that his wife did. They must both be dead, for I’ll swear Bonnard would not have dared let the girl out of his keeping! Bon Dieu, why did I not inquire whither they went when they left Champagne?”
“You thought—you thought it would be better not to know,” Madame faltered. “But where did that man find my little one? How could he know—?”
“He is the devil himself. I believe there is naught he does not know. But if I can only get the girl out of his hands he can do nothing. I am convinced he has no proof.”
Madame began to pace the room, twisting her hands together.
“I cannot bear to think of her in his power!” she exclaimed. “Who knows what he will do to her? She’s so young, and so beautiful—”
“She’s fond enough of Avon,” Saint-Vire said, and laughed shortly. “And she’s well able to care for herself, little vixen!”
Madame stood still, hope dawning in her face.
“Henri, if Avon has no proof how can he know that Léonie is my child? Does he not perhaps think that she is—what they are saying? Is that not possible?”
“It is possible,” Saint-Vire admitted. “And yet, from things he has said to me, I feel sure that he has guessed.”
“And Armand!” she cried. “Will he not guess? Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what can we do? Was it worth it, Henri? Oh, was it worth it, just to spite Armand?”
“I don’t regret it!” snapped Saint-Vire. “What I have done I have done, and since I cannot now undo it I’ll not waste my time wondering if it was worth it! You’ll be good enough to show your face abroad, madame. I do not desire to give Avon more cause for suspicion.”
“But what will he do?” Madame asked. “Why does he wait like this? What is in his mind?”
“Sangdieu, madame, if I knew do you suppose that I should stand thus idle?”
“Does—does she know, think you?”
“No, I’d stake mine honour she does not know.”
Madame laughed wildly.
“Your honour! Your honour! Grand Dieu, you can speak of that?”
He took an angry step towards her; her fingers were about the door-handle.
“It was dead when you made me give up my child!” she cried. “You will see your name dragged in the mud! And mine! And mine! Oh, can you do nothing?”
“Be silent, madame!” he hissed. “Do you want the lackeys to hear you?”
She started, and cast a quick, furtive glance round.
“Discovery—will kill me, I think,” she said, quite quietly, and went out.
Saint-Vire flung himself into a chair, and stayed there, frowning. To him came presently a lackey.
“Well?” Saint-Vire shot the word out.
“Monsieur, there is a lady who desires speech with you.”
“A lady?” Saint-Vire was surprised. “Who?”
“Monsieur, I do not know. She awaits you in the smaller salon, and she says that she will see you.”
“Of what like is she?”
“Monsieur, she is veiled.”
“An intrigue, enfin!” Saint-Vire rose. “In the smaller salon?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
Saint-Vire went out, and crossed the hall to the little withdrawing-room. A lady was standing by the window, enveloped in a cloak, and with a veil hanging down over her face. She turned as Saint-Vire came in,
