“She was, as I told you, compelled to change her sex. Bonnard married some shrewish slut, and bought a tavern in Paris. Faugh!” His Grace took snuff.

“It was perhaps as well then that Léonie was a boy,” said De Beaupré quietly.

“Without doubt. I found her one evening when she was flying from punishment. I bought her, and she mistook me for a hero.”

“I trust, mon fils, that she will never have cause to change her opinion.”

Again the Duke smiled.

“It is a hard rôle to maintain, my father. Let us pass over that. When first I set eyes on her it flashed across my brain that she was related to—someone I know.” He shot the Curé a swift glance, but De Beaupré’s face was impassive. “Someone I know. Yes. On that fleeting conviction I acted. The conviction has grown, mon pčre, but I have no proof. That is why I come to you.”

“You come in vain, monsieur. There is nothing to tell whether Léonie be a Bonnard or not. I too suspected, and because of that I took pains with la petite, and taught her to the best of mine ability. I tried to keep her here when the Bonnards died, but Jean would not have it so. You say he ill-treated her? Had I thought that I would have done more to retain the child. I did not think it. True, I had never an affection for Jean, but he was kind enough to la petite in those days. He promised to write to me from Paris, but he never did so, and I lost trace of him. Now it seems that Chance has led you to Léonie, and you suspect what I suspected.”

Justin set down his wine-glass.

“Your suspicion, mon pčre?” It was spoken compellingly.

De Beaupré rose, and went to the window.

“When I saw the child grow up in a delicate mould; when I saw those blue eyes, and those black brows, coupled with hair of flame, I was puzzled. I am an old man, and that was fifteen or more years ago. Yet even then I had been out of the world for many years, and I had seen no one of that world since the days of my youth. Very little news reaches us here, monsieur; you will find me strangely ignorant. As I say, I watched Léonie grow up, and every day I saw her become more and more like to a family I had known before I was a priest. It is not easy to mistake a descendant of the Saint-Vires, m’sieur.” He turned, looking at Avon.

The Duke lay back in his chair. Beneath his heavy lids his eyes glittered coldly.

“And thinking that—suspecting that, my father—you yet let Léonie slip through your fingers? You knew also that the Bonnards came from Champagne. It is to be supposed that you remembered where the Saint-Vire estate lay.”

The Curé looked down at him in surprised hauteur.

“I fail to understand you, m’sieur. It is true that I thought Léonie a daughter of Saint-Vire, but what could that knowledge avail her? If Madame Bonnard wished her to know she could have told her. But Bonnard himself recognized the child as his. It was better that Léonie should not know.”

The hazel eyes opened wide.

“Mon pčre, I think we are at cross-purposes. In plain words, what do you think Léonie?”

“The inference is sufficiently obvious, I think,” said the Curé, flushing.

Avon shut his snuff-box with a click.

“We will have it in plain words, nevertheless, my father. You deemed Léonie a base-born child of the Comte de Saint-Vire. It is possible that you have never appreciated the situation between the Comte and his brother Armand.”

“I have no knowledge of either, m’sieur.”

“It is manifest, mon pčre. Listen to me a while. When I found Léonie that night in Paris a dozen thoughts came into my head. The likeness to Saint-Vire is prodigious, I assure you. At first I thought as you. Then there flashed before mine eyes a picture of Saint-Vire’s son as last I had seen him. A raw clod, my father. A clumsy thickset yokel. I remembered that between Saint-Vire and his brother had ever been a most deadly hatred. You perceive the trend of the matter? Saint-Vire’s wife is a sickly creature; it was common knowledge that he married her simply to spite Armand. Now behold the irony of fate. Three years pass. Madame fails to present her lord with anything but a still-born child. Then—miraculously a son is born, in Champagne. A son who is now nineteen years old. I counsel you, my father, to put yourself in Saint-Vire’s place for one moment, not forgetting that the flame of the Saint-Vire hair is apt to enter the Saint-Vire head. He is determined that there shall be no mistake this time. He carries Madame into the country, where she is brought to bed, and delivered of—let us say—a girl. Conceive the chagrin of Saint-Vire! But, my father, we will suppose that he had prepared for this possibility. On his estate was a family of the name of Bonnard. We will say that Bonnard was in his employ. Madame Bonnard gives birth to a son some few days before the birth of—Léonie. In a fit of Saint-Vire madness the Comte exchanged the children. Evidently he bribed Bonnard very heavily, for we know that the Bonnard family came here and bought a farm, bringing with them Léonie de Saint-Vire, and leaving their son to become—Vicomte de Valmé. Eh bien?”

“Impossible!” said De Beaupré sharply. “A fairy tale!”

“Nay, but listen,” purred his Grace. “I find Léonie in the streets of Paris. Bien. I take her to my hôtel, I clothe her as my page. She accompanies me everywhere, and thus I flaunt her under the nose of Saint-Vire. That same nose quivers with apprehension, mon pčre. That is nothing, you say? Wait! I take Léon—I call her Léon—to Versailles, where Madame de Saint-Vire is in attendance. One may always trust a woman to betray a secret, monsieur. Madame was agitated beyond all words. She could not drag her eyes from Léon’s face. A day later I receive an offer from one of Saint-Vire’s satellites to buy Léon. You see? Saint-Vire dare not show his hand in the matter. He sends a friend to work for him. Why? If Léon is a base-born child of his what is simpler—if he wants to rescue her from my clutches—than to approach me, telling me all? He does not do that. Léonie is his legitimate daughter, and he is afraid. For aught he knows I may have proof of that fact. I should tell you, mon pčre, that he and I are not the closest of friends. He fears me, and he dare not move one way or the other lest I should suddenly disclose some proof of which he knows nothing. It may also be that he is not sure that I know, or even suspect, the truth. I do not quite think that. I have something of a reputation, my father, for—uncanny omniscience. Whence, in part, my sobriquet.” He smiled. “It is my business to know everything, father. I am thus a personality in polite circles. An amusing pose. To return: You perceive that M. le Comte de Saint-Vire finds himself in something of a quandary?”

The Curé came slowly to his chair, and sat down.

“But, m’sieur—what you suggest is infamous!”

“Of course it is. Now I had hoped, mon pčre, that you would know of some document to prove the truth of my conviction.”

De Beaupré shook his head.

“There was none. I went through all the papers with Jean, after the plague.”

“Saint-Vire is more clever than I had imagined, then. Nothing, you say? It seems that this game must be carefully played.”

De Beaupré was hardly listening.

“Then—at her death, when Madame Bonnard tried so hard to speak to me, it must have been that!”

“What did she say, mon pčre?”

“So little! ‘Mon pčre—écoutez donc—Léonie n’est pas—je ne peux plus——!’ No more. She died with those words on her lips.”

“A pity. But Saint-Vire shall think that she made confession—in writing. I wonder if he knows that the Bonnards are dead? M. de Beaupré, if he should come here, on this same errand, allow him to think that I bore away with me—a document. I do not think he will come. It is probable that he purposely lost trace of the Bonnards.” Justin rose, and bowed. “My apologies for wasting your time in this fashion, my father.”

The Curé laid a hand on his arm.

“What are you going to do, my son?”

“If she is indeed what I think her I am going to restore Léonie to her family. How grateful they will be! If not——” He paused. “Well, I have not considered that possibility. Rest assured that I shall provide for her. For the present she must learn to be a girl again. After that we shall see.”

The Curé looked full into his eyes for a moment.

“My son, I trust you.”

“You overwhelm me, father. As it chances, I am to be trusted this time. One day I will bring Léonie to see you.”

The Curé walked with him to the door, and together they passed out into the little hall.

“Does she know, m’sieur?”

Justin smiled.

“My dear father, I am far too old to place my secrets in a woman’s keeping. She knows nothing.”

“The poor little one! Of what like is she now?”

Avon’s eyes gleamed.

“She is something of an imp, mon pčre, with all the Saint-Vire spirit, and much impudence of which she is unaware. She has seen much, as I judge, and at times I espy a cynicism in her that is most entertaining. For the rest she is wise and innocent by turn. A hundred years old one minute, a babe the next. As are all women!”

They had come to the garden gate now, and Avon beckoned to the boy who held his horse.

Some of the anxious lines were smoothed from De Beaupré’s face.

“My son, you have described the little one with feeling. You speak as one who understands her.”

“I have reason to know her sex, my father.”

“That may be. But have you ever felt towards a woman as you feel towards this—imp?”

“She is more a boy to me than a girl. I admit I am fond of her. You see, it is so refreshing to have a child of her age—and sex—in one’s power, who thinks no ill of one, nor tries to escape. I am a hero to her.”

“I hope that you will ever be that. Be very good to her, I pray you.”

Avon bowed to him, kissing his hand with a gesture of half-ironical respect.

“When I feel that I can no longer maintain the heroic pose I will send Léonie—by the way, I am adopting her—back to you.”

“C’est entendu,” nodded De Beaupré. “For the present I am with you. You will take care of the little one, and perhaps restore her to her own. Adieu, mon fils.”

Avon mounted, tossed the small boy a louis, and bowed again, low over his horse’s withers.

“I thank you, father. It seems that we understand one another very well—Satan and priest.”

“Perhaps you have been misnamed, my son,” said De Beaupré, smiling a little.

“Oh, I think not! My friends know me rather well, you see. Adieu, mon pčre!” He put on his hat, and rode forward across the square, towards Saumur.

The small boy, clutching his louis, raced to his mother’s side.

“Maman, maman! It was the Devil! He said so himself!”

CHAPTER VIII

Hugh Davenant is Amazed

A week after Avon’s departure for Saumur, Hugh Davenant sat in the library, endeavouring to amuse the very disconsolate Léon with a game of chess.

“I would like to play cards, if you please, m’sieur,” said Léon politely, on being asked his pleasure.

“Cards?” repeated Hugh.

“Or dice, m’sieur. Only I have no money.”

“We will play chess,” said Hugh firmly, and set out the ivory men.

“Very well, m’sieur.” Léon privately thought Hugh a little mad, but if he wished to play chess with his friend’s page he must of course be humoured.

“Do you think Monseigneur will return soon, m’sieur?” he asked presently. “I remove your bishop.” He did so, to Hugh’s surprise. “It was a little trap,” he explained. “Now it is check.”

“So I see. I grow careless. Yes, I expect Monseigneur will return quite soon. Farewell to your rook, my child.”

“I thought you would do that. Now I move a pawn forward, so!”

“Much ado about nothing, petit. Where did you learn to play this game? Check.”

Léon interposed one of his knights. He was not taking a very keen interest in the game.

“I forget, m’sieur.”

Hugh looked across at him shrewdly.

“You’ve a surprisingly short memory, have you not, my friend?”

Léon peeped at him through his lashes.

“Yes, m’sieur. It—it is very sad. And away goes your queen. You do not attend.”

“Do I not? Your knight is forfeit, Léon. You play a monstrous reckless game.”