“Will it serve?” Davenant muttered.
“Look at Saint-Vire!” Marling answered. “The Curé was an inspiration! It has taken him completely by surprise.”
“We shall remember the Curé,” said Armand grimly. “When does he play his part?”
“He plays it now, Armand, for it was into his hands that my heroine’s foster-mother, before she died, placed her—written—confession.”
“Oh, she could write, then, this peasant woman?” said Condé, who had been listening with knit brows.
“I imagine, Prince, that she had once been tirewoman to some lady, for certainly she could write.” Avon saw Madame de Saint-Vire’s hands grip together in her lap, and was satisfied. “That confession lay for many years in a locked drawer in the Curé’s house.”
“But he should have published it abroad!” Madame de Vauvallon said quickly.
“So I think, madame, but he was a singularly conscientious priest and he held that the seal of the confessional could never be broken.”
“What of the girl?” asked Armand.
His grace twisted his rings.
“She, my dear Armand, was taken to Paris by her foster-brother, a youth many years her senior. His name was Jean, and he bought a tavern in one of the meanest and most noisome of your streets. And since it was inconvenient for him to have a girl of my heroine’s tender years upon his hands, he dressed her as a boy.” The gentle voice grew harder. “As a boy. I shall not discompose you by telling you of her life in this guise.”
Something like a sob broke from Madame de Saint-Vire.
“Ah, mon Dieu!”
Avon’s lips sneered.
“It is a harrowing tale, is it not, madame?” he purred.
Saint-Vire half rose from his chair, and sank back again. People were beginning to look questioningly at one another.
“Further,” continued the Duke, “he married a slut whose care was to ill-use my heroine in every conceivable way. At this woman’s hands she suffered for seven long years.” His eyes wandered round the room. “Until she was nineteen,” he said. “During those years she learned to know Vice, to Fear, and to know the meaning of that ugly word Hunger. I do not know how she survived.”
“Duc, you tell us a ghastly tale!” said Condé. “What happened then?”
“Then, Prince, Fate stepped in again, and cast my heroine across the path of a man who had never had cause to love our friend Cain. Into this man’s life came my heroine. He was struck by her likeness to Cain, and of impulse he bought her from her foster-brother. He had waited for many years to pay in full a debt he owed Cain; in this child he saw a possible means to do so, for he too had remarked the plebeian manners and person of Cain’s supposed son. Chance favoured him, and when he flaunted my heroine before Cain’s eyes he saw Cain’s consternation, and slowly pieced the tale together. Cain sent an envoy to buy his daughter from this man whom he knew to be his enemy. Thus the suspicion that this new player in the game fostered grew to be a conviction.”
“Good God, d’Anvau,” murmured de Sally, “can it be—?”
“H’sh!” d’Anvau answered. “Listen! This grows very interesting.”
“From Jean,” Avon continued, “Cain’s enemy learned of my heroine’s old home, and of the Curé who lived there. I trust you have not forgotten the Curé?”
All eyes were on the Duke; one or two men had begun to see daylight. Condé nodded impatiently.
“No. Go on, I beg of you!”
The emerald on the Duke’s finger glinted evilly.
“I am relieved. This man journeyed to the remote village, and—er—wrought with the Curé. When he returned to Paris he brought with him—that.” From his pocket Avon drew a dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He looked mockingly at Saint-Vire, who sat as though carved in stone. “That,” repeated his Grace, and laid the paper down on the mantelpiece behind him.
The tension could be felt. Davenant drew a deep breath.
“For a moment—I almost believed it was a confession!” he whispered. “They’re beginning to guess, Marling.”
His Grace studied the painting on his fan.
“You may wonder, perhaps, why he did not expose Cain at once. I admit that was his first thought. But he remembered, messieurs, the years that Cain’s daughter had spent in hell, and he determined that Cain too should know hell—a little, a very little.” His voice had grown stern; the smile was gone from his lips. Madame du Deffand was watching him with horror in her face. “And therefore, messieurs, he held his hand, and played—a waiting game. That was his way of justice.” Again he swept a glance round the room; he held his audience silent and expectant, dominated by his personality. Into the silence his words fell slowly, quite softly. “I think he felt it,” he said. “From one day to the next he knew not when the blow would fall; he lived in dread; he was torn this way and that by hope, and—fear, messieurs. Even he was cheated into the belief that his enemy had no proof, and for a while thought himself secure.” Avon
