In spite of himself Avon smiled.

“A happy thought, ma fille.”

“Why, child, I believe I must not,” Marling said. “You shall take her ladyship, and let me go home.”

“Ah, bah!” said Léonie. “It is because you do not like Monseigneur, is it not?”

“My infant is nothing if not outspoken,” remarked Avon. “That is the matter in a nutshell, child.”

“You do not think he is enough respectable. But indeed he is very respectable now, je vous assure!”

A choking sound came from Rupert; my lady’s shoulders shook, and Marling collapsed into helpless laughter. Léonie looked at the convulsed trio in disgust, and turned to the Duke.

“What is the matter with them, Monseigneur? Why do they laugh?”

“I have no idea, infant,” replied Avon gravely.

“They are silly, I think. Very silly.”

But the laughter cleared the air. Marling looked at the Duke, and said unsteadily:

“I confess—it’s your lack of—of respectability that sticks—somewhat in my gullet!”

“I am sure it must,” said his Grace. “But you shall have Davenant to support you. He will be delighted to join you in mourning over my departed morals.”

“The prospect is most alluring,” Marling said. He glanced uncertainly at his wife. “But I do not think I fit well in this mad venture.”

“My dear Edward, do I fit well in it?” asked his Grace, pained. “I count upon you to aid me in lending a note of sobriety to the party.”

Marling regarded his Grace’s coat of dull crimson velvet quizzically.

“I might lend sobriety, but you, Avon? You supply the magnificence, I think.”

“You flatter me,” Avon bowed. “I am to understand that you will join us?”

“Yes, Edward, yes! Oh please!”

“Voyons, it will be fort amusant, m’sieur. You must come.”

Rupert ventured to uplift his voice.

“Ay, join us, Marling. The more the merrier.”

“In face of such kind entreaties what can I say?” Marling took his wife’s hand. “I thank you, Avon. I will come.”

“Gaston, then, had best return to London for your baggage,” said his Grace.

Léonie chuckled.

“He will die, Monseigneur. I know it.”

“As you observe,” remarked his Grace to Marling, “death and disaster are a source of never-failing amusement to my infant.”

Marling laid a hand on Léonie’s head.

“She is a rogue, Avon, is she not? But a pretty rogue.”

Léonie opened wide her eyes.

“Vraiment? Am I pretty, Monseigneur? Do you think so?”

“Passable, my infant, passable.”

Her face fell.

“I was afraid you would not think so, Monseigneur.”

Avon pinched her chin.

“Child, do I not call you ‘ma belle’?”

Léonie caught his hand to her lips.

“Merci, Monseigneur! You make me very happy, enfin!”

Marling looked suddenly at his wife. She smiled, and cast down her eyes. Marling turned to Rupert.

“I think I’ll take your excellent—though ill-timed—advice, my boy.”

Rupert grinned.

“What, the ham? Ay, ’twas good advice, stap me it was! But I’ll not deny ’twas said to enrage you, Edward.”

“It succeeded in doing so, scamp. Avon, I’ll not ask you to send Gaston back to England. I can return there myself, and join you in Paris next week.”

“My dear Edward, it is good for Gaston to bestir himself. He grows fat and lazy. He shall meet us in Paris.”

“You are very good,” Marling bowed.

“That is not my reputation,” said his Grace, and rang the bell.

On the following morning the whole party set out for Paris. Lady Fanny was flustered, Marling amused, Rupert flippant, Léonie excited, and the Duke leisurely and placid as ever. The entire population of Le Dennier turned out to see the passing of this cavalcade, and marvelled at the chaise piled high with baggage, at the great berline with his Grace’s arms blazoned on the door, and at the two smaller coaches that followed it.

The Marlings occupied one of these, while Avon, Léonie and Rupert travelled in the berline. Rupert was propped up with cushions to alleviate the discomfort of the jolting, and whiled away the time by playing cards with Léonie. His Grace lay back in his corner and watched them in some amusement.

CHAPTER XXIV

Hugh Davenant is Agreeably Surprised

They rested at Rouen over the week-end, and came to Paris on Tuesday. Walker awaited them in the hall of the Hôtel Avon, and not by the flicker of an eyelid did he betray that he recognized Léonie. All was in order for his Grace’s coming, and Lady Fanny immediately took charge of the establishment. Having seen to the unpacking of her trunks, and scattered her orders broadcast, she repaired to his Grace in the library, what time Léonie went to see Madame Dubois the housekeeper.

“Well, Justin, what now?” said my lady, sitting down opposite him at his desk. “Are we to make some noise?”

“Decidedly, Fanny. As much noise as possible. I await your suggestions.”

“A ball,” she said briskly. “’Twill do for a beginning.” She bit her finger-tip reflectively. “I must equip the child first, and myself. I declare I have scarce a rag to my back! A white brocade for Léonie, I think, or a certain shade of green. With that flaming head——”

“My dear, I desire she shall be poudrée.”

“As you will, Justin. Yes, it might be pretty. We shall see. I dare swear you have your reasons for wishing it. I shall send the invitations for—a fortnight hence. It’s a little enough time, to be sure, but I don’t despair of acceptances. Your name and mine, my dear——” Her eyes sparkled. “I vow I’ll have all Paris here! And then?”

“Then, my dear Fanny, Versailles,” he said.

Lady Fanny nodded.

“It’s very well. You’ll make some stir with her, Justin.”

“It is my intention,” he said. “Send out your cards, my dear.”

“Expense?” She cocked her head to one side.

“You will not consider it. I think we will have the young Condé and De Penthičvre. The Duc de Richelieu also.”

“I leave them to you. There must be Madame du Deffand, of course, and the Duchesse de la Roque.” Lady Fanny half-closed her eyes. “My dearest Justin, there is no one who is anyone who will not come to the ball, I pledge you my word! But la, what a work I have before me! They’ll come out of curiosity, depend upon it!” She rustled to the door. “The child’s toilettes, Justin?”

“I never quarrel with your taste, Fanny.”

“How droll ’twill be! ’Tis as though I had a daughter, though thank heaven I have not! She’s to be richly clad?”

“As befits my ward, Fanny, but ŕ la jeune fille.”

“Oh, never fear! You’ll not complain. Dear me, I have not been so excited since my girlhood, when you took me to Versailles, Justin. The whole house must be thrown open. I vow some of the rooms are positively thick with dust. ’Twill need an army to set all in order. The Ball but starts my activities, I assure you.” She laughed delightedly. “We will have soirées, and card-parties, a rout, maybe, and—oh, we shall make some stir!” She hurried away, full of business-like determination.

His Grace sat down to write a letter to Hugh Davenant.

From then onward the Hôtel Avon was plunged into bustling activity. Milliners and mantua-makers came and went, dancing masters and coiffeurs; and the servants invaded every shut room, and threw it open, and swept and garnished it. His Grace was hardly ever at home. He was at pains to show himself abroad, circulating the news of his return. Rupert he set to promote an ever-ready curiosity, so my lord as soon as he was well enough, sallied forth to the gaming houses, and to the abodes of his cronies, and characteristically spread the tale of his brother’s latest whim. Léonie’s beauty lost nothing in his description of it; he hinted at dark mystery, and assured all and sundry that Avon counted on the presence of the Prince de Condé at his ball, and that also of M. de Richelieu. Paris began to hum, and Fanny sat in her boudoir with notes of acceptance scattered about her.

“Oh, we shall do famously!” she cried. “Said I not all Paris should come?”

But Léonie slipped away, escaping from dancing-masters and dressmakers alike, and stole into the library where the Duke was usually to be found. She stood in the doorway regarding him wistfully. He looked up, laid down his quill, and stretched out a hand to her.

“Well, ma fille?”

She ran to him, and sank on to her knees beside his chair.

“Monseigneur, it frightens me.”

He stroked her bright curls caressingly.

“What frightens you, child?”

She made a comprehensive gesture.

“This—all of it! There are so many grand people coming, and everyone is so busy. I myself have no time to talk to you, Monseigneur.”

“You do not like it, child?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Ah, quant ŕ ça——! It excites me, Monseigneur, and—and yes, I like it very well. But it is as it was at Versailles. You remember I lost you. It was so big and brilliant.”

“Child——” He looked down into her eyes. “I am always here.” He smiled a little. “I think, infant, it is I shall be in danger of losing you when you are launched into the world. You will no longer wish to sit with me then.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Always, always! Voyons, Monseigneur, I am going round and round in all this gaiety that comes to me, and for a little while I like it. But always I want to run away to you. Then I am safe, and—and things do not bewilder me. You see?”