Léonie nodded.

“Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.”

“Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Condé, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age—ŕ peu prčs. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthičvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard—Comte de Chavigny, child—a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.”

“And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?”

“I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,” said his Grace gently. “We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit—a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.”

“No, Monseigneur,” said Léonie abashed. “Please tell me some more.”

“You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulčre comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Marchérand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Château-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguéry’s salons are world-famed. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.”

“And M. de Saint-Vire.”

“My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child—you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, but why?”

“That also I will tell you one day,” said his Grace calmly.

CHAPTER XIV

The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair

When Avon left the country Léonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Léonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.

When she rode out Léonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.

Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale, and his beautiful wife, Jennifer. My lord had grown indolent of late years, and my lady, for two short seasons London’s toast, had no love for town life. Nearly all the year they lived in Hampshire, but sometimes they spent the winter in Bath, and occasionally, my lord being smitten with a longing for the friends of his youth, they journeyed to town. More often my lord went alone on these expeditions, but he was never away for long.

It was not many weeks before Léonie rode out in the direction of the Place. The woods that lay about the old white house lured her, and she rode into them, looking around with great interest.

The trees were sprouting new leaves, and here and there early spring flowers peeped up between the blades of grass. Léonie picked her way through the undergrowth, delighting in the wood’s beauty, until she came to where a stream bubbled and sang over the rounded stones on its bed. Beside this stream, on a fallen tree-trunk, a dark lady was seated, with a baby playing on the rug at her feet. A small boy, in a very muddied coat, was fishing hopefully in the stream.

Léonie reined in short, guiltily aware of trespass. The youthful fisherman saw her first, and called to the lady on the tree-trunk.

“Look, mamma!”

The lady looked in the direction of his pointing finger, and raised her brows in quick surprise.

“I am very sorry,” Léonie stammered. “The wood was so pretty—I will go.”

The lady rose, and went forward across the strip of grass that separated them.

“It’s very well, madam. Why should you go?” Then she saw that the little face beneath the hat’s big brim was that of a child, and she smiled. “Will you not dismount, my dear, and bear me company a while?”

The wistful, uncertain look went out of Léonie’s eyes. She dimpled, nodding.

“S’il vous plaît, madame.”

“You’re French? Are you staying here?” inquired the lady.

Léonie kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid to the ground.

“But yes, I am staying at Avon. I am the—bah, I have forgotten the word!—the—ward of Monseigneur le Duc.”

A shadow crossed the lady’s face. She made a movement as though to stand between Léonie and the children. Léonie’s chin went up.

“I am not anything else, madame, je vous assure. I am in the charge of Madame Field, the cousin of Monseigneur. It is better that I go, yes?”

“I crave your pardon, my dear. I beg that you will stay. I am Lady Merivale.”

“I thought you were,” confided Léonie. “Lady Fanny told me of you.”

“Fanny?” Jennifer’s brow cleared. “You know her?”

“I have been with her two weeks, when I came from Paris. Monseigneur thought it would not be convenable for me to be with him until he had found a lady suitable to be my gouvernante, you see.”

Jennifer, in the past, had had experience of his Grace’s ideas of propriety, and thus she did not see at all, but she was too polite to say so. She and Léonie sat down on the tree-trunk while the small boy stared round-eyed.

“No one likes Monseigneur, I find,” Léonie remarked. “Just a few perhaps. Lady Fanny, and M. Davenant, and me, of course.”

“Oh, you like him, then?” Jennifer looked at her wonderingly.

“He is so good to me, you understand,” explained Léonie. “That is your little son?”

“Yes, that is John. Come and make your bow, John.”

John obeyed, and ventured a remark:

“Your hair is quite short, madam.”

Léonie pulled off her hat.

“But how pretty!” exclaimed Jennifer. “Why did you cut it?”

Léonie hesitated.

“Madame, please will you not ask me? I am not allowed to tell people. Lady Fanny said I must not.”

“I hope ’twas not an illness?” said Jennifer, with an anxious eye to her children.

“Oh no!” Léonie assured her. Again she hesitated. “Monseigneur did not say I was not to tell. It was only Lady Fanny, and she is not always very wise, do you think? And I do not suppose that she would want me not to tell you, for you were at the convent with her, n’est-ce pas? I have only just begun to be a girl, you see, madame.”

Jennifer was startled.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?”

“Since I was twelve I have always been a boy. Then Monseigneur found me, and I was his page. And—and then he discovered that I was not a boy at all, and he made me his daughter. I did not like it at first, and these petticoats still bother me, but in some ways it is very pleasant. I have so many things all my own, and I am a lady now.”

Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. She patted Léonie’s hand.

“You quaint child! For how long do you think to stay at Avon?”

“I do not quite know, madame. It is as Monseigneur wills. And I have to learn so many things. Lady Fanny is to present me, I think. It is nice of her, is it not?”

“Prodigious amiable,” Jennifer agreed. “Tell me your name, my dear.”

“I am Léonie de Bonnard, madame.”

“And your parents made the—the Duke your guardian?”

“N-no. They have been dead for many years, you see. Monseigneur did it all himself.” Léonie glanced down at the babe. “Is this also your son, madame?”

“Yes, child, this is Geoffrey Molyneux Merivale. Is he not beautiful?”

“Very,” said Léonie politely. “I do not know babies very well.” She rose, and picked up her plumed hat. “I must go back, madame. Madame Field will have become agitated.” She smiled mischievously. “She is very like a hen, you know.”

Jennifer laughed.

“But you’ll come again? Come to the house one day, and I will present my husband.”

“Yes, if you please, madame. I should like to come. Au revoir, Jean; au revoir, bébé!”

The baby gurgled, and waved an aimless hand. Léonie hoisted herself into the saddle.

“One does not know what to say to a baby,” she remarked. “He is very nice, of course,” she added. She bowed, hat in hand, and, turning, made her way back along the path down which she had come, to the road.

Jennifer picked up the baby, and, calling to John to follow, went through the wood and across the gardens to the house. She relinquished the children to their nurse, and went in search of her husband.

She found him in the library, turning over his accounts, a big, loose-limbed man, with humorous grey eyes, and a firm-lipped mouth. He held out his hand.

“Faith, Jenny, you grow more lovely each time I look upon you,” he said.

She laughed, and went to sit on the arm of his chair.

“Fanny thinks us unfashionable, Anthony.”

“Oh, Fanny——! She’s fond enough of Marling at heart.”

“Very fond of him, Anthony, but she is modish withal, and likes other men to whisper pretty things in her ear. I fear that I shall never have the taste for town ways.”