“She loves you, Justin.”

He was silent.

“Oh Justin, do you not care? I felt so certain that you loved her!”

“I love her—too well to marry her, my dear,” said his Grace.

“Why?” Lady Fanny put away her handkerchief.

“There are so many reasons,” sighed his Grace. “I am too old for her.”

“Oh, fiddle!” said my lady. “I thought that maybe ’twas her birth you cavilled at.”

“Her birth, Fanny, is as good as yours. She is Saint-Vire’s legitimate daughter.”

Lady Fanny gaped at him.

“In her place he has put the clod you know as de Valmé. His name is Bonnard. I have waited too long, but I strike now.” He picked up a hand-bell, and rang it. To the lackey who came he said: “You will go at once to the Hôtel de Châtelet, and request M. Marling and M. Davenant to return at once. Ask Milor’ Merivale to accompany them. You may go.” He turned again to his sister. “What did the child write to you?”

“Only farewell!” Lady Fanny bit her lip. “And I wondered why she kissed me so sweetly to-night! Oh dear, oh dear!”

“She kissed my hand,” Avon said. “We have all been fools this day. Do not distress yourself, Fanny. I shall bring her back if I have to search the world for her. And when she comes she will come as Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.”

“But I don’t understand how—oh, here is Rupert! Yes, Rupert, I have been crying, and I do not care. Tell him, Justin.”

Avon showed his young brother Léonie’s letter. Rupert read it, exclaiming at intervals. When he came to the end he snatched his wig from his head, threw it upon the floor, and stamped on it, saying various things beneath his breath that made Lady Fanny clap her hands over her ears.

“If you don’t have his blood for this, Justin, I shall!” he said at last, picked up his wig, and put it on his head again. “May he rot in hell for a black scoundrel! Is she his bastard?”

“She is not,” said Avon. “She is his legitimate daughter. I have sent for Hugh and Marling. It is time that you all knew my infant’s story.”

“Left her love for me, bless her!” choked Rupert. “Where is she? Are we to set off at once? Only give the word, Justin, and I’m ready!”

“I do not doubt it, child, but we do not start to-day. I believe I know whither she has gone; she will be safe enough. Before I bring her back she shall be righted in the eyes of the world.”

Rupert glanced down at the letter in his hand.

“I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you,” he read. “Burn it, your life’s one long scandal! And she—Devil take it, I could cry like a woman, so I could!” He gave the letter back to the Duke. “She’s made a cursed idol of you, Justin, and you’re not fit to kiss her little feet!” he said.

Avon looked at him.

“That I know,” he said. “My part ends when I bring her back to Paris. It is better so.”

“So you do love her.” Rupert nodded to his sister.

“I have loved her for a long time. And you, my son?”

“No, no, I’m no suitor of hers, I thank you! She’s a darling, but I’d have none of her to wife. It’s you she wants, and it’s you she’ll have, mark my words!”

“I am ‘Monseigneur’,” Avon replied with a crooked smile. “There is glamour attached to me, but I am too old for her.”

Then the others came in in a state of liveliest curiosity.

“What’s to do, Justin?” asked Hugh. “Has there been a death in the house?”

“No, my dear. Not a death.”

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Justin—she—she would not have killed herself, and—and said that in her letter so that you should not guess her intention? I never thought of that! Oh, Edward, Edward, I am so unhappy!”

“She?” Marling put an arm about Fanny. “Do you mean—Léonie?”

“She has not killed herself, Fanny. You forget that she has her maid with her,” Avon said reassuringly.

Davenant shook him by the arm.

“Speak out, man, for God’s sake! What has happened to the child?”

“She has left me,” Avon said, and put Léonie’s note in his hand.

With one accord Merivale and Marling went to look over Hugh’s shoulder.

“God’s truth!” exploded Merivale, and clapped a hand to his sword hilt as he read. “Oh, what a villain! Now, Justin, you shall have at him, and I’m with you to the death!”

“But——” Marling looked up with puckered brows.

“Poor, poor child, is it true?”

Hugh came to the end, and said huskily:

“Little Léon! ’Fore Gad, it’s pathetic!”

Rupert, at this juncture, relieved his feelings by throwing his snuff-box at the opposite wall.

“Oh, we’ll send him to hell between us, never fear!” he stormed. “Cur! Dastardly cur! Here, give me some burgundy, Fan! I’m in such a heat—Swords are too good for the rogue, damme they are!”

“Much too good,” agreed his Grace.

“Swords!” Merivale exclaimed. “It’s too quick. You or I, Justin, could kill him in less than three minutes.”

“Too quick, and too clumsy. There is more poetry in the vengeance I take.”

Hugh looked up.

“But explain?” he begged. “Where is the child? What are you talking about? You have found a way to pay your debt in full, I suppose, but how have you found it?”

“Curiously enough,” said his Grace, “I had forgotten that old quarrel. You remind me most opportunely. The scales weigh heavily against M. de Saint-Vire. Give me your attention for one minute, and you shall know Léonie’s story.” Briefly, and with none of his accustomed suavity, he told them the truth. They listened in thunder-struck silence, and for some time after he had finished could find no words to speak. It was Marling who broke the silence.

“If that is true the man is the biggest scoundrel unhung!” he said. “Are you sure, Avon?”

“Perfectly, my friend.”

Rupert shook his fist, and muttered darkly.

“Good God, do we live in the Dark Ages?” cried Hugh. “It’s almost incredible!”

“But the proof!” Fanny cut in. “What can you do, Justin?”

“I can stake everything on the last round, Fanny. I am going to do that. And I think—yes, I really think that I shall win.” He smiled unpleasantly. “For the present my infant is safe, and I believe I may put my hand on her when I wish.”

“What do you intend to do?” shouted Rupert.

“Oh yes, Justin, please tell us!” besought my lady. “It is so dreadful to know nothing. To have to sit idle!”

“I know, Fanny, but once more I must ask you all to be patient. I play my games best alone. One thing I may promise you: You shall be in at the death.”

“But when will it be?” Rupert poured out another glass of burgundy “You’re too devilish tricky for me, Justin. I want a hand in the affair.”

“No.” Hugh shook his head. “Let Avon play his game to a close. There are too many of us to join with him, and there’s a proverb that says ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’. I’m not usually bloodthirsty, but I do not want Saint-Vire’s broth to be spoiled.”

“I want to see him crushed,” said Merivale. “And that soon!”

“You shall, my dear Anthony. But for the present we will behave as ever. If any ask for Léonie she is indisposed. Fanny, did you say that Madame du Deffand gives a soirée to-morrow?”

“Yes, but I’ve not the heart to go,” sighed my lady. “It will be so brilliant too, and I did want Léonie to be there!”

“Nevertheless, my dear, you will go, with us all. Calm yourself, Rupert. Your part was played, and played well, at Le Havre. Now it is my turn. Fanny, you are tired out. Go to bed now; you cannot do anything yet.”

“I must go back to de Châtelet,” said Merivale. He gripped Avon’s hand. “Act up to your name now, Satanas, if ever you did! We are all with you.”

“Even I,” said Marling with a smile. “You may be as devilish as you please, for Saint-Vire is the worst kind of villain I have had the ill-luck to meet.”

Rupert, hearing, choked in the act of drinking his third glass of burgundy.

“Damme, I boil with rage when I think of him!” he swore. “Léonie called him pig-person, but ’fore God he’s worse than that! He’s——!”

Fanny fled incontinently from the room.

CHAPTER XXX

His Grace of Avon Trumps the Comte’s Ace

The Marlings came early to Madame du Deffand’s house, and were followed shortly by Merivale and Hugh Davenant. Madame du Deffand wanted to know what had become of Léonie, and was informed that she was indisposed, and had remained at home. Rupert presently arrived in company with d’Anvau and Lavoulčre, and was twitted by several people, Madame du Deffand included, on his appearance at such a function.

“Doubtless you are come to read us a madrigal or a rondeau,” Madame teased him. “Faites voir, milor’, faites voir!”

“I? No, b’Gad!” Rupert said. “I’ve never written a verse in my life! I’m come to listen, madame.”

She laughed at him.

“You will be bored, my poor friend! Bear with us!” She moved away to greet a fresh arrival.

Under the wail of the violins which played at one end of the room, Merivale spoke to Davenant.

“Where’s Avon?”

Hugh shrugged.

“I’ve scarce set eyes on him all day. He starts for Anjou immediately after this party.”

“Then he means to strike to-night.” Merivale looked round. “I saw Armand de Saint-Vire a moment ago. Is the Comte here?”

“Not yet, I think, but I am told that both he and his wife are coming. Justin will have a large audience.”

The rooms were filling speedily. Merivale presently heard a footman announce Condé. Behind the Prince came the Saint-Vires, and the Marchérands, and the Duc and Duchesse de la Roque. A young exquisite approached Fanny and demanded Mademoiselle de Bonnard. On being told that she was not present his face fell considerably, and he confided mournfully to my lady that he had written a madrigal to Léonie’s eyes which he had intended to read to-night. My lady commiserated him, and turned to find Condé at her elbow.

“Madame!” He bowed. “But where is la petite?”

Lady Fanny repeated Léonie’s excuses, and was requested to bear a graceful message to her charge. Then Condé moved away to join in a game of bouts-rhymés, and the wail of the violins died down to a murmur.

It was just as Madame du Deffand had called upon M. de la Douaye to read his latest poems that some slight stir arose by the door, and his Grace of Avon came in. He wore the dress he had once worn at Versailles, cloth-of-gold, shimmering in the candlelight. A great emerald in the lace at his throat gleamed balefully, another flashed on his finger. At his side was a light dress sword; in one hand he carried his scented handkerchief, and a snuff-box studded with tiny emeralds, and from one wrist hung a fan of painted chicken-skin mounted upon gold sticks.

Those who were near the door drew back to let him pass, and for a moment he stood alone, a tall, haughty figure, dwarfing the Frenchmen about him. He was completely at his ease, even a little disdainful. He raised his quizzing-glass, and swept a glance round the room.

“By Gad, he’s a magnificent devil, ’pon my soul he is!” said Rupert to Merivale. “Damme if I’ve ever seen him look more regal!”

“What a dress!” said Fanny, in her husband’s ear. “You cannot deny, Edward, that he is truly handsome.”

“He has a presence,” conceded Marling.

Avon went forward across the room, and bowed over his hostess’ hand.

“Late as usual!” she scolded him. “Oh, and you still have a fan, I see! Poseur! You are just in time to hear M. de la Douaye read to us his poems.”

“The luck always favours me, madame,” he said, and inclined his head to the young poet. “May we beg m’sieur to read us his lines addressed to the Flower in her Hair!”

La Douaye flushed with pleasure, and bowed.

“I am honoured that that so poor trifle should still be remembered,” he said, and went to stand before the fireplace with a roll of papers in his hand.

His Grace crossed slowly to the Duchesse de la Roque’s couch, and sat down beside her. His eyes flickered to Merivale’s face, and from thence to the door. Unostentatiously Merivale linked his arm in Davenant’s and moved with him to a sofa that stood by the door.

“Avon makes me feel nervous,” murmured Davenant. “An impressive entrance, a striking dress, and that in his manner that sends a chill down one’s back. You feel it?”

“I do. He means to hold the stage to-night.” Merivale spoke lower still, for La Douaye’s liquid voice sounded in the first line of his poem. “He sent me to sit here. If you can catch Rupert’s eye signal to him go to the other door.” He crossed his legs, and fixed his attention on La Douaye.