Condé made his way to her side, and Lady Fanny withdrew discreetly.

“Oh, Fairy Princess, you flame in our hearts to-night!”

Léonie put her hand to her curls.

“But it is not at all kind of you to speak of my red hair!” she protested.

“Red?” Condé cried. “It is the colour of copper, Princess, and your eyes are like the violets you wear at your breast. As a white rose you enchanted me, and now as a golden rose you strengthen your spell.”

“M’sieur,” said Léonie severely, “that is how M. de Tanqueville talks. I do not like it at all.”

“Mademoiselle, I am at your feet! Tell me what I may do to regain your favour!”

Léonie looked at him speculatively. He laughed.

“Oh la, la! It is to be some great venture of chivalry, enfin?”

Her eyes danced.

“It is just that I am so very thirsty, m’sieur,” she said plaintively.

A gentleman standing a few paces from them looked at her in astonishment, and turned to a friend.

“Mon Dieu, did you hear that, Louis? Who is this beauty who has the audacity to send Condé to fetch her refreshment?”

“Why, do you not know?” exclaimed his friend. “It is Mademoiselle de Bonnard, the English Duc’s ward! She is an original, and Condé is captivated by her so unusual behaviour.”

Condé had given Léonie his arm. Together they passed into an adjoining salon, where he procured a glass of ratafie for her. A quarter of an hour later Lady Fanny found them there, both in high fettle, Condé trying to illustrate for Léonie’s benefit a fencing trick, with his quizzing-glass as foil.

“Lud, child, what will you be at?” demanded my lady. She curtsied low to Condé. “M’sieur, you will not let her weary you, I beg.”

“Oh, but I am not wearying him, madame, truly!” said Léonie. “He was thirsty too! Oh, here is Rupert!”

Rupert came in with the Chevalier d’Anvau. When the Chevalier saw Léonie his brow creased.

“Who? who? who? M’sieur, on vous demande.”

Condé waved him aside.

“Mademoiselle, the promised guerdon?”

Léonie gave him the violets at her breast, and smiled prettily as she did so. Condé kissed her hand, and then the flowers and went back into the gallery with the fragrant bunch worn on his coat.

“Well!” said Rupert. “’Pon my soul!”

“Come along, Rupert!” said Léonie. “Take me to find Madame de Pompadour now.”

“No, damme, that I won’t!” said my lord gracefully. “I’ve but this moment escaped, with d’Anvau here. It’s a plaguey dull affair, so it is!”

“Child, I want you,” said Fanny, and took her back to the gallery and left her with her very dear friend Madame de Vauvallon, while she herself went in search of Avon.

She found him at length near the Śil de Bśuf, with de Richelieu and the Duc de Noailles. He came to her at once.

“Well, Fanny, where is my infant?”

“With Clothilde de Vauvallon,” she answered. “Justin, she has given Condé her violets, and he is wearing them! Whither shall this lead?”

“Nowhere, my dear,” said his Grace placidly.

“But, Justin, ’tis not well to ensnare Royalty thus! Too great favour shown spells ruin as surely as too little.”

“I beg you will not distress yourself, my dear. Condé is not in love with the infant, nor she with him.”

“In love! ’Pon rep, I hope not indeed! But all this coquetting and——”

“Fanny, you are sometimes very blind. Condé is amused, no more.”

“Oh, ’tis very well!” shrugged my lady. “What now?”

His Grace’s quizzing-glass swept the gallery.

“Now, my dear, I desire you will take Léonie and present her to Madame de Saint-Vire.”

“Why?” asked my lady, watching him.

“Oh, I think she might be interested!” said his Grace, and smiled.

When Lady Fanny led Léonie to Madame de Saint-Vire, Madame’s hand clenched on her fan, and under all her paint she whitened.

“Madame!” Lady Fanny saw the clenched hand, and heard the quick intake of breath. “It is so long since we met! I trust I see you well?”

“I am very well, madame. You are with—with your brother in—Paris?” Madame spoke with an effort.

“Yes, I am this child’s chaperon!” said Fanny. “Is it not ridiculous? I may present my brother’s ward? Mademoiselle de Bonnard, Madame de Saint-Vire!” She stood back.

Madame’s hand went out involuntarily.

“Child—” she said, and her voice trembled. “Sit with me a while, I beg!” She turned to Fanny. “Madame, I will have a care to her. I should—I should like to talk to her.”

“But certainly!” said Fanny, and walked away at once.

Léonie was left looking into her mother’s face. Madame took her hand, and patted it, and stroked it.

“Come, my little one!” she faltered. “There is a couch by the wall. You will stay with me a few—just a few—minutes?”

“Yes, madame,” said Léonie politely, and wondered why this faded lady should be so agitated. She was not at all pleased at being left with Saint-Vire’s wife, but she went with her to the couch, and sat down beside her.

Madame seemed to be at a loss. She held Léonie’s hand still, and her eyes devoured the girl.

“Tell me, chérie,” she said at last. “Are you—are you happy?”

Léonie was surprised.

“But yes, madame. Of course I am happy!”

“That man—” Madame pressed her handkerchief to her lips—“That man—is good to you?”

“You speak of Monseigneur, my guardian, madame?” Léonie spoke stiffly.

“Yes, petite, yes. Of him.” Madame’s hand trembled.

“Naturellement he is good to me,” Léonie answered.

“Ah, you are offended, but indeed, indeed—— Child, you are so young! I—I might be—your mother!” She laughed rather wildly. “So you will not mind what I say to you, will you? He—your guardian—is not a good man, and you—you——”

“Madame—” Léonie drew her hand away—“I do not want to be rude to you, you understand, but I will not let you speak thus of Monseigneur.”

“You are so fond of him?”

“Yes, madame, I love him de tout mon cśur.”

“Ah, mon Dieu!” Madame whispered. “And he—does he love you?”

“Oh no!” said Léonie. “At least, I do not know, madame. He is just very kind to me.”

Madame’s eyes searched her face.

“It is well,” she said, on a sigh. “Tell me, child, how long have you lived with him?”

“Oh—oh depuis longtemps!” Léonie said vaguely.

“Child, don’t tease me! I—I would not tell your secrets! Where did the Duc find you?”

“Pardon, madame. I have forgotten.”

“He told you to forget!” Madame said quickly. “That is so, is it not?”

Someone came to the couch; Madame shrank a little and was silent.

“Well met, mademoiselle,” said Saint-Vire. “I trust I see you in good health?”

Léonie’s chin was tilted.

“M’sieur?” she said blankly. “Ah, je me souviens! It is M. de Saint-Vire!” She turned to Madame. “I met m’sieur at—peste, I forget! Ah yes!—at Le Dennier, near Le Havre, madame.”

Saint-Vire’s brow darkened.

“You have a good memory, mademoiselle.”

Léonie looked him between the eyes.

“Yes, m’sieur. I do not forget people—ever!”

Not ten paces from them Armand de Saint-Vire was standing, as though rooted to the ground.

“Nom d’un nom d’un nom d’un nom!” he gasped.

“That,” said a soft voice behind him, “is an expression which I have never admired. It lacks—er—force.”

Armand swung round to face the Duke.

“My friend, you shall tell me now who is this Mademoiselle de Bonnard!”

“I doubt it,” said his Grace, and took a pinch of snuff.

“But look at her!” said Armand urgently. “It is Henri! Henri to the life now that I see them side by side!”

“Do you think so?” asked his Grace. “I find her more beautiful than the so dear Comte, and more refined in type.”

Armand shook his arm.

“Who is she?”

“My dear Armand. I have not the slightest intention of telling you, so pray do not grip my arm thus violently.” He removed Armand’s hand from his sleeve, and smoothed the satin. “So. You will do well, my friend, to be blind and dumb concerning my ward.”

“Aha?” Armand looked at him inquisitively. “I wish I knew what game you are playing. She’s his daughter, Justin! I would swear to it!”

“It will be much better if you do no such thing, my dear,” said his Grace. “Leave me to play this game to a close. You shall not then be disappointed.”

“But I do not understand! I cannot imagine what you think to do with——”

“Then pray do not try, Armand. I have said that you shall not be disappointed.”

“I am to be dumb? But all Paris will be talking of it soon!”

“So I think,” agreed this Grace.

“Henri won’t like it,” pondered Armand. “But I do not see that it can harm him. So why do you——”

“My dear, the game is more intricate than you think. You are better out of it, believe me.”

“Well!” Armand bit his finger. “I can trust you to deal with Henri, I suppose. You love him as much as I do, hein?”

“Less than that,” said his Grace, and went slowly to the couch where Léonie sat. He bowed to Madame de Saint-Vire. “Your servant, madame. Once again we meet in this exceedingly draughty salon. My very dear Comte!” He bowed to Saint-Vire. “You renew your acquaintance with my ward?”

“As you see, Duc.”

Léonie had risen, and stood now beside his Grace. He took her hand, and looked mockingly at the Comtesse.

“I had the felicity of meeting my very dear friend in the most unexpected spot only a month ago,” he told her. “We were both, as I remember rightly, in search of—er—lost property. Quite a curious coincidence, was it not? It seems there are some sad rogues in this delightful country.” He pulled out his snuff-box, and saw the Comte redden.