“Do they?” said his lordship sceptically. “Well, I never met anyone that did. Why should they? What’s to do at Dijon? Tell me that!”

“It is a town, Rupert, is it not? Then, of course, people go there. I do not find that part incomprehensible. But that Vidal should run away with Juliana—voyons, that is so incomprehensible that I do not believe it.” She turned to Madame de Charbonne. “Do not write to Fanny! Me, I will arrange everything.”

Madame sighed. “Very well, my dear. I do not want to write to Fanny, I am sure. It has been a very perplexing day, very énervant, I assure you. I ask myself, where, too, is the other girl? But that is not my affair, only that I think it very strange to depart without a word to me.”

“What other girl?” asked Rupert, puzzled.

“The girl that was the friend of Juliana. Juliana asked her to visit us. She was in Paris with her aunt, and Juliana invited her to stay in my house.”

Léonie brushed this aside. “I am not interested in Juliana’s friend. She is not at all a propos.”

“No, my dear, but I think it odd that she should go away like that.”

“Belike she’s gone with Vidal too,” Lord Rupert said sarcastically.

Llonie refused to be diverted by this artless suggestion. She had been thinking hard, and now said: “If the Nobody—what is his name, Rupert?—Comyn. I will remember. If M. Comyn is in Paris, I think Juliana has eloped with him. Naturally, she would not tell you that, Elisabeth. If Vidal is with them, it is, sans doute, to make it to appear quite respectable. They had fled, perhaps to Dijon, and Vidal went to—to—en chaperon, in effect.”

Lord Rupert listened to this in considerable astonishment. “Do you tell me VidaPs gone to play propriety?” he asked blankly. “Vidal? No, rabbit it, that’s too much! You’re the boy’s mother, and of course you’re bound to make the best of him, but to say he’s gone to a silly place like Dijon to be a duenna to Juliana—Lord, you must be besotted, my dear!” An irrepressible dimple peeped in Léonie’s cheek. “It is not perhaps very probable,” she admitted. “But he has not eloped with Juliana. I know he has not! It is all so strange that it makes my head ache, and I see that there is only one thing to do.”

Lord Rupert breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re a sensible woman, Léonie, ’pon my soul you are. If the luck favours us we’ll reach home before Avon gets back from Newmarket.” Léonie tied the strings of her cloak under her chin, and shot a mischievous look at his lordship. “Mon pauvre, we are not going home.”

Lord Rupert said disgustedly: “I might have known it. If ever there was a female with silly, wild notions in her head—”

“I am very sensible. You said so,” Léonie pointed out, twinkling. “We will start very early in the morning, Rupert, and go to Dijon.” She paused, and added buoyantly: “Du vrai, I find it fort amusant, you know. For it seems to me that my poor Dominique has now two ladies he must marry a l’instant, which is a thing not permitted. It does not amuse you, Rupert?”

“Amuse me?” gasped his lordship. “Amuse me to go junketing through France after that young devil and his pack of females? No, it don’t! Bedlam’s the place for Vidal, and damme, when I think of trying to explain all this to Avon I’ve a strong notion I’ll end there myself.” With which his lordship seized his hat and cane, and bidding his open-mouthed cousin a curt farewell, flung open the door for Léonie to pass out.

Chapter XVI

by the time Miss Challoner and Mr. Comyn reached Dijon, neither regarded the coming nuptials with anything but feelings of profound depression, although each was determined to be married as soon as was possible. Mr. Comyn was prompted by his sense of propriety, and Miss ChaEoner by her dread of the Marquis’s arrival.

They reached Dijon late in the day, and put up at the best inn. Miss Challoner desired Mr. Comyn to wait upon the English divine at once, but he was firm in refusing to go until the morning. He contended that it would be thought a very odd thing were he to demand to see the divine at the dinner-hour, and he informed Miss Challoner that if she supposed him to be afraid of my Lord Vidal, she quite mistook the matter. It was Miss Challoner’s wish to leave Dijon for Italy immediately the wedding was over. Mr. Comyn was quite agreeable, but if there were the least chance of the Marquis’s arrival, it would be more consonant with his dignity (he said) to await him in Dijon. He had no desire to escape a meeting with his lordship, and he pointed out to Miss Challoner that since Vidal was known to be deadly with his pistols, a hurried flight to Italy would savour very much of fright.

Miss Challoner, always reasonable, could appreciate the feelings which prompted Mr. Comyn to linger in Dijon, but dreaded the issue. She condemned the whole practice of duelling, and Mr. Comyn agreed that it was a stupid custom, and one that should be abolished.

On the morning following, he went to wait upon Mr. Leonard Hammond, who was staying with his young charge at a chateau about three miles distant from the town. Miss Challoner, left to her own devices, found herself nervously listening for the sound of wheels, and continually getting up to look out of the window. This would not do, she decided; and since she hardly expected Mr. Comyn to return before noon she tied on her hat, and went out for a walk. It may have been the state of mind she was in, but she could find little to interest her, and having looked at three milliners’ shops, and four mantua-makers, she went back to the inn to await Mr. Comyn’s return.

He came in shortly before noon. He was unaccompanied, and looked grave. Miss Challoner said anxiously: “Did you not find this Mr. Hammond, sir?”

Mr. Comyn carefully laid his hat and riding-whip on a chair. “I was fortunate enough to find the gentleman at the chateau,” he replied, “but I fear I have little dependence on him performing the rite of marriage for us.”

“Good God!” cried Miss Challoner. “Do you mean that he refuses?”

“Mr. Hammond felt, ma’am, certain qualms which, when I consider the extreme delicacy of the circumstances, I cannot deem altogether unreasonable. My request he could not but think a strange one, and in short, ma’am, I found him very loth to take a part in so equivocal an affair.”

Miss Challoner was conscious of a stab of impatience. “But you explained to him—you persuaded him, surely?”

“I endeavoured to do so, ma’am, but with indifferent success. Happily—or so I trust it may be found—I had my card about me, which in part reassured him as to my standing and credentials. I venture to think that had I been able to be private with him a little longer I might have prevailed with him. But, as we apprehended, he is a guest in the chateau, and his host—a gentleman of a choleric disposition—broke in on us with some demand which I, insufficiently conversant with the French tongue, was unable to understand. Mr. Hammond, not being desirous (as one might readily comprehend) of presenting to the Comte such a dubious visitor as I must have seemed, was at pains to be rid of me. I had nothing to do but to take my leave. I did so, with what grace I could assume under conditions which I found vastly disconcerting, and begged Mr. Hammond to be so good as to wait upon us here this afternoon.”

Miss Challoner had listened to this speech with great patience. At the end of it she said, trying not to sound waspish: “But will he, sir?”

“I am inclined to believe so, ma’am.” A smile disturbed the primness of Mr. Comyn’s face. “When he showed reluctance, I promised to return to the chateau to seek another interview with him. A needy divine, ma’am, who has the good fortune to be in charge of a young gentleman making the Grand Tour, has of necessity to be careful of the company he keeps. I, Miss Challoner, appeared to be of so disreputable a character that Mr. Hammond, at the mere hint of a second visit, acceded to my request. I venture to think that when he has made your acquaintance he will see the matter in a more favourable light.”

She had to laugh. “Of the pah—of us, sir, it is you who are the most respectable, I fear. If this provoking Mr. Hammond knows my—my lamentable story he will scarcely look on me with approval.”

“He does not, ma’am. Though not apt in the fabrication of lies, I was able to deceive the reverend gentlemen. With your leave, I will now bespeak luncheon.”

“I suppose there is nothing else to be done,” agreed Miss Challoner, accepting the situation.

Luncheon was served in the private parlour, but Miss Challoner’s appetite had forsaken her. She was so sure that the Marquis would pursue her that even an hour’s delay fretted her unbearably. Mr. Comyn said gently that he wished he could convince her of the impossibility of his lordship’s preventing the marriage. But Miss Challoner, having by now acquired a very fair knowledge of the Marquis’s temper, could not be convinced. Feeling, however, that her prospective bridegroom had already a good deal to put up with, she tried not to appear anxious. Had she but known it her consideration was wasted, for Mr. Comyn had a profound belief in the frailty of female nerves, and would have felt himself to be more master of the situation had he been obliged to allay her alarms. Her calm appeared to him to be the expression of an unimaginative nature, and instead of admiring her control, he wondered whether she was stupid, or merely phlegmatic.

Towards three o’clock Miss Challoner’s inward fears were justified. A clatter of hooves and carriage wheels announced the arrival of a chaise. Miss Challoner grew rather pale, and put out her hand towards Mr. Comyn. “It’s my lord,” she said unsteadily. “Please do not allow him to force you into a duel! I cannot bear to bring so much trouble on you!” She got up, twining her fingers together. “If only we were safe married!” she said despairingly.