The village of Bassincourt, which lay some six or seven miles to the west of Saumur, in Anjou, was a neat and compact place whose white houses were for the most part gathered about its hub, a square market-place paved by cobblestones as large as a man’s fist. On the north the square was flanked by various houses of the more well-to-do inhabitants; on the west by smaller cottages, and by a lane that led into the square at right-angles to this side, and which stretched out into the open country, winding this way and that to touch each of the three farms that lay to the west of Bassincourt. On the south side was the small grey church, within whose square tower a cracked bell was wont to ring out its summons to the villagers. The church stood back from the market-place with its burial ground all about it and beyond, on one side, the Curé’s modest house, squatting in its own garden, and seeming to smile across the square in gentle rulership.

The east side of the square was close-packed by shops, a blacksmith’s yard, and a white inn, over whose open door hung a gay green shield, with a painting of the Rising Sun thereon. The sign swung to and fro with every wind that blew, creaking a little if the gale were fierce, but more often sighing only on its rusted chains.

On this particular day of November the square was a-hum with voices, and echoing occasionally to a child’s shrill laugh, or to the stamp of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Old Farmer Mauvoisin had driven into Bassincourt with three pigs for sale in his cart, and had drawn up at the inn to exchange the time of day with the landlord, and to quaff a tankard of thin French ale while his pigs grunted and snuffled behind him. Close by, gathered about a stall where La Mčre Gognard was selling vegetables, was a group of women, alternately haggling and conversing. Several girls in stuff gowns kilted high above their ankles, their feet in clumsy wooden sabots, stood chattering beside the ancient porch which led into the graveyard; in the centre of the square, near to the fountain, some sheep were herded, while a party of possible buyers picked their way amongst them, prodding and inspecting at will. From the blacksmith’s yard came the ring of hammer on anvil, mingled with spasmodic snatches of song.

Into this busy, contented scene rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He came trotting into the market-place from the eastern road that led to Saumur, dressed all in sombre black, with lacing of gold. As soon as his horse’s hoofs struck the uneven cobblestones he reined in, and sitting gracefully at ease in the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly on his hip, cast a languid glance round.

He attracted no little attention. The villagers stared at him from his point-edged hat to his spurred boots, and back again. One tittering girl, remarking those cold eyes, and the thin, curling lips, whispered that it was the devil himself come amongst them. Although her companion scoffed at her for a foolish maid, she crossed herself surreptitiously, and drew back into the shelter of the porch.

The Duke’s glance swept all round the square, and came to rest at last on a small boy, who watched him with goggling eyes, and his thumb in his mouth. One hand in its embroidered gauntlet beckoned imperiously, and the small boy took a hesitating step forward in answer to the Duke’s summons.

His Grace looked down at him, faintly smiling. He pointed to the house beside the church.

“Am I right in thinking that that is the abode of your Curé?”

The boy nodded.

“Yes, milor’.”

“Do you think that I shall find him within?”

“Yes, milor’. He came back from the house of Madame Tournaud an hour since, if you please, milor’.”

Avon swung himself lightly down from the saddle, and twitched the bridle over his horse’s head.

“Very well, child. Be so good as to hold this animal for me until I return. You will thus earn a louis.”

The boy took the bridle willingly.

“A whole louis, milor’? For holding your horse?” he said breathlessly.

“Is it a horse?” The Duke eyed the animal through his quizzing-glass. “Perhaps you are right. I thought it was a camel. Take it away and water it.” He turned on his heel, and sauntered up to the Curé’s house. The wondering villagers saw M. de Beaupré’s housekeeper admit him, and started to propound their views on this strange visitation, one to the other.

His Grace of Avon was led through a tiny spotless hall to the Curé’s sanctum, a sunny room at the back of the house. The rosy-cheeked housekeeper ushered him into her master’s presence with unruffled placidity.

“Here, mon pčre, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,” she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.

The Curé was seated at a table by the window, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up to see who was his visitor, and, perceiving a stranger, laid down his quill and rose. He was slight, with thin, beautiful hands, calm blue eyes, and aristocratic features. He wore a long soutane, and his head was uncovered. For an instant Avon thought that the milky white hair was a wig, so ordered were the soft waves, and then he saw that it was natural, brushed smoothly back from a broad low brow.

“M. de Beaupré, I believe?” His Grace bowed deeply.

“Yes, m’sieur, but you have the advantage of me.”

“I am one Justin Alastair,” said the Duke, and laid his hat and gloves on the table.

“Yes? You will pardon me, monsieur, if I do not at once recognize you. I have been out of the world for many years, and for the moment I cannot call to mind whether you are of the Alastairs of Auvergne, or of the English family.” De Beaupré cast him an appraising look, and put forward a chair.

Justin sat down.

“The English family, monsieur. You perhaps knew my father?”

“Slightly, very slightly,” answered De Beaupré. “You are the Duc of Avon, I think? What may I have the honour of doing for you?”

“I am the Duke of Avon, m’sieur, as you say. Am I right in thinking that I address a relative of the Marquis de Beaupré?”

“His uncle, m’sieur.”

“Ah!” Justin bowed. “You are the Vicomte de Marrillon, then.”

The Curé seated himself at the table again.

“I renounced that title years ago, m’sieur, deeming it empty. My family will tell you that I am mad. They do not mention my name.” He smiled. “Naturally, I have disgraced them. I chose to work amongst my people here when I might have worn a cardinal’s hat. But I suppose you did not come all the way to Anjou to hear that. What is it I may do for you?”

Justin offered his host some snuff.

“I hope, m’sieur, that you may be able to enlighten me,” he said.

De Beaupré took a pinch of snuff, holding it delicately to one nostril.

“It is hardly probable, m’sieur. As I said, I have long since withdrawn from the world, and what I knew of it I have well-nigh forgotten.”

“This, mon pčre, has naught to do with the world,” replied his Grace. “I want you to cast your mind back seven years.”

“Well?” De Beaupré picked up his quill and passed it through his fingers. “Having done that, mon fils, what then?”

“Having done that, m’sieur, you may perhaps recall a family living here by the name of Bonnard.”

The Curé nodded. His eyes never wavered from Avon’s face.

“More particularly the child—Léonie.”

“One wonders what the Duc of Avon knows of Léonie. I am not likely to forget.” The blue eyes were quite inscrutable.

His Grace swung one booted leg gently to and fro.

“Before I go farther, mon pčre, I would have you know that I speak in confidence.”

The Curé brushed his quill lightly across the table.

“And before I consent to respect the confidence, my son, I will learn what it is you want of a peasant girl, and what that peasant girl is to you,” he answered.

“At the moment she is my page,” said Avon blandly.

The Curé raised his brows.

“So? Do you usually employ a girl as your page, M. le Duc?”

“It is not one of my most common practices, mon pčre. This girl does not know that I have discovered her sex.”

The quill brushed the table again, rhythmically.

“No, my son? And what comes to her?”

Avon looked haughtily across at him.

“M. de Beaupré, you will pardon me, I am sure, for pointing out to you that my morals are not your concern.”

The Curé met his look unflinchingly.

“They are your own, my son, but you have seen fit to make them all the world’s. I might retort: Léonie’s welfare is not your concern.”

“She would not agree with you, mon pčre. Let us understand one another. Body and soul she is mine. I bought her from the ruffian who called himself her brother.”

“He had reason,” said De Beaupré calmly.

“Do you think so? Rest assured, m’sieur, that Léonie is safer with me than with Jean Bonnard. I have come to ask your help for her.”

“I have never before heard that—Satanas—chose a priest for his ally, m’sieur.”

Avon’s teeth showed white for a moment in a smile.

“Withdrawn as you are from the world, mon pčre, you yet have heard that?”

“Yes, m’sieur. Your reputation is well known.”

“I am flattered. In this case my reputation lies. Léonie is safe with me.”

“Why?” asked De Beaupré serenely.

“Because, my father, there is a mystery attached to her.”

“It seems an insufficient reason.”

“Nevertheless it must suffice. My word, when I give it, is surety enough.”

The Curé folded his hands before him, and looked quietly into Avon’s eyes. Then he nodded.

“It is very well, mon fils. Tell me what became of la petite. That Jean was worthless, but he would not leave Léonie with me. Where did he take her?”

“To Paris, where he bought a tavern. He dressed Léonie as a boy, and a boy she has been for seven years. She is my page now, until I end that comedy.”

“And when you end it, what then?”

Justin tapped one polished finger-nail against the lid of his snuff-box.

“I take her to England—to my sister. I have some vague notion of—ah—adopting her. As my ward, you understand. Oh, she will be chaperoned, of course!”

“Why, my son? If you desire to do good to la petite send her to me.”

“My dear father, I have never desired to do good to anyone. I have a reason for keeping this child. And, strange to say, I have developed quite a keen affection for her. A fatherly emotion, believe me.”

The housekeeper entered at this moment, bearing a tray with wine and glasses upon it. She arranged the refreshment at her master’s elbow, and withdrew.

De Beaupré poured his visitor out a glass of canary.

“Proceed, my son. I do not yet see how I can aid you, or why you have journeyed all this way to see me.”

The Duke raised the glass to his lips.

“A most tedious journey,” he agreed. “But your main roads are good. Unlike ours in England. I came, my father, to ask you to tell me all that you know of Léonie.”

“I know very little, m’sieur. She came to this place as a babe, and left it when she was scarce twelve years old.”

Justin leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.

“From where did she come, mon pčre?”

“It was always kept secret. I believe they came from Champagne. They never told me.”

“Not even—under the seal of the confessional?”

“No. That were of no use to you, my son. From chance words that the Mčre Bonnard from time to time let fall I gathered that Champagne was their native country.”

“M’sieur,” Justin’s eyes widened a little, “I want you to speak plainly. Did you think when you saw Léonie grow from babyhood into girlhood that she was a daughter of the Bonnards?”

The Curé looked out of the window. For a moment he did not answer.

“I wondered, monsieur . . .”

“No more? Was there nothing to show that she was not a Bonnard?”

“Nothing but her face.”

“And her hair, and her hands. Did she remind you of no one, my father?”

“It is difficult to tell at that age. The features are still unformed. When the Mčre Bonnard was dying she tried to say something. That it concerned Léonie I know, but she died before she could tell me.”

His Grace frowned quickly.

“How inconvenient!”

The Curé’s lips tightened.

“What of la petite, sir? What became of her when she left this place?”