Then the Vicomte de Valmé came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.

“Your so charming son,” purred Avon.

Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.

The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Léonie.

“Your servant, Duc.” He turned to Saint-Vire. “Will you present me, sir?”

“My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!” Saint-Vire said brusquely.

Léonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.

“You are ennuyé, Vicomte, as usual?” Avon fobbed his snuff-box. “You pine for the country, and—a farm, was it not?”

The Vicomte smiled.

“Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.”

“But surely a most—ah—praiseworthy ambition?” drawled Avon. “We will hope that you may one day realize it.” He inclined his head, offered his arm to Léonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.

Léonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.

“Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!”

“What, my infant, is ‘it’?”

“That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was like. But just now it came to me! He is like Jean. It is ridiculous, is it not?”

“Most ridiculous, ma fille. I desire you will not repeat that to anyone.”

“No, Monseigneur, of course not. I am very discreet now, you know.”

Avon saw Condé in the distance, with the violets pinned to his coat, and smiled a little.

“I did not know it, infant, nor have I observed signs of discretion in you, but let that pass. Where, I wonder, is Fanny?”

“She is talking to M. de Penthičvre, Monseigneur. I think he likes her—oh much! Here she is! She looks very pleased, so I expect M. de Penthičvre has told her that she is just as beautiful as she was when she was nineteen.”

Avon put up his glass.

“My infant, you are becoming positively shrewd. Do you know my sister so well?”

“I am very fond of her, Monseigneur,” Léonie hastened to add.

“I do not doubt it, ma fille.” He looked towards Fanny, who had paused to speak to Raoul de Fontanges. “It is most surprising, nevertheless.”

“But she is so kind to me, Monseigneur. Of course, she is sometimes very s——” Léonie stopped, and peeped up at the Duke uncertainly.

“I entirely agree with you, infant. Very silly,” said his Grace imperturbably. “Well, Fanny, can we now depart?”

“That was exactly what I had a mind to ask you!” said my lady. “What a crush! Oh, my dear Justin, de Penthičvre has been saying such things to me! I vow I am all one blush! What are you smiling at? My love, what had Madame de Saint-Vire to say to you?”

“She is mad,” said Léonie, with conviction. “She looked as though she were going to cry, and I did not like it at all. Oh, here is Rupert! Rupert, where have you been?”

Rupert grinned.

“Faith, asleep, in the little salon over there. What, are we going at last? God be praised!”

“Asleep! Oh, Rupert!” Léonie cried. “It has been fort amusant! Monseigneur, who is that pretty lady over there?”

“La, child, that is La Pompadour!” whispered Fanny. “Will you present her, Justin?”

“No, Fanny, I will not,” said his Grace gently.

“Here’s a haughtiness,” remarked Rupert. “For the Lord’s sake let us be gone before all these young pups crowd round Léonie again.”

“But, Justin, will it serve?” asked my lady. “She will take offence, belike.”

“I am not a French satellite,” said his Grace. “And therefore I shall not present my ward to the King’s mistress. I believe Léonie can dispense with the lady’s smiles or frowns.”

“But, Monseigneur, it would please me to——”

“Infant, you will not argue with me, I think.”

“Oh, won’t she!” said Rupert, sotto voce.

“No, Monseigneur. But I did want to——”

“Silence, my child.” Avon led her to the door. “Content yourself with having been presented to their Majesties. They are not, perhaps, so powerful as La Pompadour, but they are infinitely better born.”

“For heaven’s sake, Justin!” gasped my lady. “You’ll be heard!”

“Think of us!” Rupert besought him. “You’ll have the lot of us clapped up, if you’re not careful, or hounded out of the country.”

Avon turned his head.

“If I thought that there was the smallest chance of getting you clapped up, child, I would shout my remarks to the whole of this very overcrowded room,” he said.

“I think you are not at all in a nice humour, Monseigneur,” said Léonie reproachfully. “Why may I not be presented to La Pompadour?”

“Because, infant,” replied his Grace, “she is not—er—enough respectable.”

CHAPTER XXVII

The Hand of Madame de Verchoureux

And Paris began to talk, in whispers at first, then gradually louder, and more openly. Paris remembered an old, old scandal, and said that the English Duc had adopted a base-born daughter of Saint-Vire in revenge for past injuries. Paris thought that it must irk Saint-Vire considerably to see his offspring in the hands of his greatest enemy. Then Paris wondered what the English Duc meant to do with Mademoiselle de Bonnard, and found no solution to the riddle. Paris shook its head, and thought that the ways of Avon were inscrutable and probably fiendish.

Meanwhile Lady Fanny swept through the town with Léonie, and saw to it that her social activities this season should not easily be forgotten. Léonie enjoyed herself very much, and Paris enjoyed her even more. In the mornings she rode out with Avon, and two factions sprang up thereafter amongst her admirers. One faction held that the divine Léonie was seen at her best in the saddle; the other faction was firm that in the ballroom she was incomparable. One excitable young gentleman challenged another on this score, but Hugh Davenant was present, and he took both young hotheads severely to task for bandying Léonie’s name about over their cups, and the affair came to naught.

Others tried to make love to Léonie, whereat she was angry, and turned a cold shoulder on their enthusiasms. She could be dignified when she chose, and her admirers were speedily abashed. Learning of their discomfiture one evening when she was helping Léonie to dress, Lady Fanny forgot herself, and exclaimed:

“Oh, splendidly done, my love! What a duchess you will make, to be sure!”

“A duchess, madame?” Léonie said. “How could I be that?”

Lady Fanny looked at her, and then at a new bracelet that lay on the table.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know, puss!”

Léonie was trembling now.

“Madame——!”

“Oh, my dear, he’s head over ears in love with you, as all the world must know! I have watched it grow, and—my dearest life, there is no one I would sooner have for my sister than you, I do assure you!”

“Madame, you—you must be mistaken!”

“Mistaken? I? Trust me to read the signs, my love! I have known Justin many years, and never have I seen him as he is now. Silly child, why does he give you all these jewels?”

“I—I am his ward, madame.”

“Pooh!” My lady snapped her fingers. “A fig for that! Tell me why he made you his ward?”

“I—I do not know, madame. I—did not think.”

My lady kissed her again.

“You will be a duchess before the year is out, never fear!”

Léonie pushed her away.

“It’s not true! You shall not say these things!”

“Why, here’s a heat! Is there ever a man you have liked as you like ‘Monseigneur’?”

“Madame——” Léonie pressed her hands together. “I am very ignorant, but I know—I have heard what people say when such as Monseigneur wed—wed ladies of no birth. I am only a tavern-keeper’s sister. Monseigneur could not marry me. I—I had not thought of it.”

“’Tis I who am a fool to have put the idea into your head!” said Fanny remorsefully.

“Madame, I beg you will not say it to anyone.”

“Not I, child, but everyone knows that you have Avon in your toils.”

“I have not! I hate you when you talk like that!”

“Oh, my dear, we are but two women! What matter? Justin will count no cost, believe me. You may be born as low as you please, but will he care once he looks into your eyes?”

Léonie shook her head stubbornly.

“I know I am not a fool, madame. It would be a disgrace for him to marry me. One must be born.”

“Fiddle, child! If Paris accepts you without question shall not Avon too?”

“Madame, Monseigneur has no love for those who are low-born. Many, many times I have heard him say so.”

“Never think of it, child.” Lady Fanny wished that she had not allowed her tongue to run away with her. “Come, let me tie your ribands!” She bustled about Léonie, and presently whispered in her ear: “My sweet, do you not love him?”

“Oh, madame, madame, I have always loved him, but I did not think—until you made me see——”

“There, child, there! Do not cry, I implore you! You will make your eyes red.”

“I do not care about my eyes!” said Léonie, but she dried her tears, and permitted Lady Fanny to powder her face again.

When they went downstairs together Avon stood in the hall, and the sight of him brought the colour to Léonie’s cheeks. He looked at her closely.

“What ails you, infant?”

“Nothing, Monseigneur.”

He pinched her chin caressingly.

“It is the thought of your princely admirer that makes you blush, ma fille?”