There was a moment’s silence. Then his grace spoke, so harshly that Léonie was startled.
“You are not to talk in that fashion, Léonie. You understand me?”
“I—I am sorry!” she faltered. “I—I did not mean to make you angry, Monseigneur.”
“I am not angry,” he answered. “Even were it possible, Léonie, I would not take you as my mistress. That is not how I think of you.”
“You do not love me?” she said, like a child.
“Too—well to marry you,” he said, and released her hands. “It is not possible.”
She stayed quite still, looking down at the marks of his fingers about her wrists with a little wise smile.
“You will take me to this mother and uncle whom I do not know?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Monseigneur, I would rather stay here,” she said. “Since you do not want me I will not go back. C’est fini, tout cela.” A sob rose in her throat. “You bought me, Monseigneur, and I am yours till I die. I told you—once—that it was so. You do not remember?”
“I remember every word you have spoken to me.”
“Monseigneur, I—I do not want to be a burden to you. You are tired of—of having a ward, and—and I would rather leave you than stay to weary you. But I cannot go back to Paris. I cannot! I shall be quite—happy—here with M. de Beaupré, but I cannot bear to go back alone—to the world I have lived in with you.”
He looked across at her. She saw his hand clenched hard on his snuffbox.
“Child, you do not know me. You have created a mythical being in my likeness whom you have set up as a god. It is not I. Many times, infant, I have told you that I am no hero, but I think you have not believed me. I tell you now that I am no fit mate for you. There are twenty years between us, and those years have not been well spent by me. My reputation is damaged beyond repair, child. I come of vicious stock, and I have brought no honour to the name I bear. Do you know what men call me? I earned that nickname, child; I have even been proud of it. To no women have I been faithful; behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal. I have wealth, but I squandered one fortune in my youth, and won my present fortune at play. You have seen perhaps the best of me; you have not seen the worst. Infant, you are worthy of a better husband. I would give you a boy who might come to you with a clean heart, not one who was bred up in vice from his cradle.”
One large tear glistened on the end of her lashes.
“Ah, Monseigneur, you need not have told me this! I know—I have always known, and still I love you. I do not want a boy. I want only—Monseigneur.”
“Léonie, you will do well to consider. You are not the first woman in my life.”
She smiled through her tears.
“Monseigneur, I would so much rather be the last woman than the first,” she said.
“Infant, it’s madness!”
She came to him, and put her hand on his arm.
“Monseigneur, I do not think that I can live without you, I must have you to take care of me, and to love me, and to scold me when I am maladroite.”
Involuntarily his hand went to hers.
“Rupert would be a more fitting bridegroom,” he said bitterly.
Her eyes flashed.
“Ah, bah!” she said scornfully. “Rupert is a silly boy, like the Prince de Condé! If you do not marry me, Monseigneur, I will not marry anyone!”
“That would be a pity,” he said. “Mignonne, are you—sure?”
She nodded; a tremulous smile curved her lips.
“Oh, Monseigneur, I never thought that you would be so very blind!” she said.
His Grace looked deep into her eyes, and then went down on one knee, and raised her hand to his lips.
“Little one,” he said, very low, “since you will stoop to wed me, I pledge you my word that you shall not in the future have cause to regret it.”
An insistent hand tugged at his shoulder. He rose, and opened wide his arms. Léonie flung herself into them, and they closed about her, and her lips met his.
M. de Beaupré entered softly, and seeing, prepared to depart in haste. But they had heard the opening of the door, and they fell apart.
He beamed upon them.
“Eh bien, mes enfants?”
His Grace took Léonie’s hand in his, and led her forward.
“Mon père,” he said, “I want you to wed us.”
“Of a surety, mon fils,” said De Beaupré calmly, and stroked Léonie’s cheek. “I am waiting to do so.”
XXXII
His Grace of Avon Astonishes Everyone for the Last Time
“My dear Comte,” said Fanny, in a voice of long-suffering, “I have not seen Justin since that terrible night.”
Armand threw out his hands.
“But it is over a week ago!” he cried. “Where is he? Where is the child?”
Lady Fanny cast up her eyes. Davenant it was who answered.
“If we knew, Armand, we should be more at ease, I assure you. The last we saw of Avon was at Madame du Deffand’s.”
“Where did he go?” demanded Armand. “Did he not return here at all?”
Marling shook his head.
“He vanished,” he said. “We knew that he meant to set out for Anjou after the soirée, in search of Léonie, but he did not tell us exactly where he was bound. His valet is with him, and he has taken the light chaise. That is all we know.”
Armand sat down weakly.
“But—but did he set out in his ball-dress?” he said. “He must surely have returned here first to change it for something more convenable!”
“He didn’t,” Fanny replied positively. “That gold dress is not in his room. We looked.”
“Fi, donc!” cried Armand. “Is he travelling through France in it?”
“I should hardly think so.” Davenant was amused.
