Léonie blinked at him.
“Mon-monseigneur?” she gasped.
“Yes, my child, just that,” said his Grace, and told her briefly what was her history. She stared at him, round-eyed and with parted lips, and when he finished could find no words for a long minute.
“Then—then I am—noble!” she said at last. “I—Oh, is it true, Monseigneur? Is it really true?”
“I should not else have told you, mignonne.”
She sprang up, flushed and excited.
“I am well-born! I am—I am Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire! I can—I can come back to Paris! Monseigneur, I think I am going to cry!”
“I beg you will not, ma fille. Spare your tears for my next news.”
She paused in her dance across the room, and looked at him anxiously.
“I have to inform you, infant, that your father is dead.”
The colour returned to her cheeks.
“Vraiment?” she said eagerly. “Did you kill him, Monseigneur?”
“I am very sorry, infant, but I did not actually kill him. I induced him to kill himself.”
She came back to the couch, and sat down again.
“But tell me!” she said. “Please tell me quickly, Monseigneur! When did he kill himself?”
“On Tuesday, my child, at Madame du Deffand’s soirée.”
“Tiens!” She was entirely unperturbed. “Why, enfin?”
“I thought that the earth had harboured him too long,” Avon replied.
“You did it! I know you did it!” she said exultantly. “You meant him to die that night!”
“I did, child.”
“Was Rupert there? And Lady Fanny? How Rupert must have been pleased!”
“Moderately, child. He did not display any signs of the unholy ecstasy you appear to feel.”
She tucked her hand in his, and smiled trustingly up at him.
“Monseigneur, he was a pig-person. Now tell me how it happened. Who was there?”
“We were all of us there, babe, even M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale. For the rest there was Condé, the de la Roques, the d’Aiguillons, the Saint-Vires, including Armand; Lavoulère, d’Anvau—in fact, infant, all the world.”
“Did Lady Fanny and the others know that you were going to kill the pig-person, Monseigneur?”
“Infant, pray do not go through the world, saying that I killed him.”
“No, Monseigneur. But did they know?”
“They knew that I meant to strike that night. They were all very bloodthirsty.”
“Vraiment? Even M. Marling?”
“Even he,” nodded Avon. “You see, ma fille, they all love you.”
She blushed.
“Oh … ! What did you wear, Monseigneur?”
“Thus the female mind,” murmured his Grace. “I wore gold, infant, and emeralds.”
“I know. It is a very fine dress, that one. Go on, please, Monseigneur.”
“Rupert and Hugh stood by the doors,” said his Grace, “and Merivale engaged Saint-Vire in pleasant converse. Lady Fanny had your mother in hand. I told them your story, child. That is all.”
“Voyons!” she exclaimed. “It is nothing! When you had told them what happened?”
“Your mother collapsed. You see, my child, I let them think that you had drowned yourself. She cried out then, and Saint-Vire, since she had thus betrayed him, shot himself.”
“It must have been very exciting,” she remarked. “I wish I had been there. I am sorry for Madame de Saint-Vire, a little, but I am glad that the pig-person is dead. What will the Vicomte do? I think it is very sad for him.”
“I believe he will not be sorry,” replied Avon. “No doubt your uncle will make provision for him.”
Her eyes sparkled.
“Voyons, I have a family, it seems! How many uncles have I, Monseigneur?”
“I am not quite sure, infant. On your father’s side you have one uncle, and an aunt, who is married. On your mother’s side you have several uncles, I think, and probably many aunts and cousins.”
She shook her head.
“I find it very hard to understand it all, Monseigneur. And you knew? How did you know? Why did you not tell me?”
His Grace looked down at his snuffbox.
“My child, when I bought you from the estimable Jean it was because I saw your likeness to the Saint-Vire.” He paused. “I thought to use you as a weapon to—er—punish him for something—he had once done to me.”
“Is—is that why—why you made me your ward, and gave me so many, many things?” she asked in a small voice.
He rose, and went to the window, and stood looking out.
“Not entirely,” he said, and forgot to drawl.
She looked at him wistfully.
“Was it a little because you liked me, Monseigneur?”
“Afterwards. When I came to know you, child.”
She twisted her handkerchief.
“Am I—will you—still let me be your ward?”
He was silent for a moment.
“My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.”
“Yes?” she said.
His Grace’s profile was stern.
“They will be very good to you, ma fille,” he said evenly. “Having them—you cannot still be my ward.”
“N-need I have them?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.
His Grace did not smile.
“I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.”
“Do they?” She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. “They do not know me, Monseigneur.”
“They are your family, child.”
“I do not want them.”
At that he turned, and came to her, and took her hands.
“My dear,” he said, “it will be best for you to go to them, believe me. One day I think you will meet a younger man than I who will make you happy.”
Two great tears welled up. Léonie’s eyes looked piteously into the Duke’s.
“Monseigneur—please—do not talk to me of marriage!” she whispered.
“Child—” His clasp on her hands tightened. “I want you to forget me. I am no proper man for you. You will be wiser not to think of me.”
“Monseigneur, I never thought that you would marry me,” she said simply. “But if—you wanted me—I thought perhaps
