The Disappearance of Léonie

Lord Rupert yawned mightily, and heaved himself up in his chair.

“What do we do to-night?” he asked. “’Pon my soul, I’ve never been to so many balls in my life! It’s no wonder I’m worn out.”

“Oh, my dear Rupert, I am nigh dead with fatigue!” Fanny cried. “At least we have this one evening quiet! To-morrow there is Madame du Deffand’s soiree.” She nodded to Léonie. “You will enjoy that, my love, I assure you. A few poems to be read, discussion, all the wit of Paris present—oh, ’twill be a most amusing evening, I vow! There is no one who will not be there.”

“What, so we have respite to-day, have we?” said Rupert. “Now, what shall I do?”

“I thought you said you were worn out?” Marling remarked.

“So I am, but I can’t sit at home all the evening. What do you do?”

“Hugh and I are bound for de Châtelet’s, to visit Merivale. Will you accompany us?”

Rupert considered for a while.

“No, I believe I’ll go to this new gaming-house I hear tell of.”

Avon put up his glass.

“Oh? What, and where, is the novelty?”

“In the Rue Chambéry. It’s like to kill Vassaud’s if what they say is true. I’m surprised you’d not heard of it.”

“Yes, it is not in keeping with the part,” Avon said. “I believe I will go with you there this evening, child. It will not do for Paris to think I did not know of it.”

“What, will you all be out?” Fanny asked. “And I had promised to dine with my dear Julie! Léonie, I am sure that she will be pleased if you come with me.”

“Oh madame, I am so tired!” Léonie protested. “I would like to go to bed early to-night.”

Rupert stretched his long legs out before him.

“Tired at last!” he said. “Faith, I thought you’d never be wearied out!”

“My dearest life, I will tell the servants to take a tray to your room,” Fanny said. “You must not be tired tomorrow, for I am determined you shall come to Madame du Deffand’s soirée! Why, Condé is sure to be there!”

Léonie smiled rather wanly, and encountered Avon’s scrutiny.

“My infant, what has happened to trouble you?” he asked.

She opened wide her eyes.

“But nothing, Monseigneur! It is just that I have a touch of the migraine.”

“To be sure, I am not surprised.” My lady shook her head wisely. “We have been abroad late every night this week. It is I who am at fault to have permitted it.”

“Oh, but madame, it has been fort amusant!” Léonie said. “I have enjoyed myself so much!”

“Egad, and so have I!” Rupert remarked. “It has been a mad two months, and I scarce know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. Are you off already, Hugh?”

“We are dining with de Châtelet at four,” Hugh explained. “I’ll say good night, Léonie. You’ll be abed when we return.”

She gave him her hand; her eyes were downcast. Both he and Marling kissed the slender fingers. Hugh made some joke to Rupert, and they went out.

“Do you dine at home, Justin?” asked my lady. “I must go change my gown, and order the light chaise to take me to Julie.”

“I will bear my infant company at dinner,” said Avon. “And then she shall go to bed. Rupert?”

“No, I’m off at once,” said Rupert. “I’ve a little matter to talk over with d’Anvau. Come, Fan!”

They went out together. Avon crossed over to the couch where Léonie sat, and tweaked one of her curls.

“Child, you are strangely silent.”

“I was thinking,” she said gravely.

“Of what, ma mie?”

“Oh, I shall not tell you that, Monseigneur!” she said, and smiled. “Let us—let us play at piquet until it is time for dinner!”

So they played at piquet, and presently Lady Fanny came in to say good night, and was gone again in a minute, having adjured Léonie to be sure and retire to bed immediately after dinner. She kissed Léonie, and was surprised to receive a quick hug from her. Rupert went away with Fanny, and Léonie was left alone with the Duke.

“They are gone,” she said in a curious voice.

“Yes, child. What of it?” His Grace dealt the cards with an expert hand.

“Nothing, Monseigneur. I am stupid to-night.”

They played on until dinner was served, and then went into the big dining-room, and sat down together at the table. Avon soon sent the lackeys away, whereat Léonie gave a sigh of relief.

“That is nice,” she remarked. “I like to be alone again. I wonder whether Rupert will lose much money to-night?”

“We will hope not, infant. You will know by his expression to-morrow.”

She did not reply, but began to eat a sweetmeat, and did not look at his Grace.

“You eat too many sweetmeats, ma fille,” he said. “It’s no wonder you are growing pale.”

“You see, Monseigneur, I had never eaten any until you bought me from Jean,” she explained.

“I know, child.”

“So now I eat too many,” she added. “Monseigneur, I am very glad that we are alone together to-night, like this.”

“You flatter me,” he bowed.

“No. Since we came back to Paris we have hardly ever been alone, and I have wanted—oh, many times!—to thank you for being so very kind to me.”

He frowned down at the walnut he was cracking.

“I pleased myself, infant. I believe I told you once before that I am no hero.”

“Did it please you to make me your ward?” she asked.

“Evidently, ma fille, else I had not done so.”

“I have been very happy, Monseigneur.”

“If that is so it is very well,” he said.

She rose, and put down her napkin.

“I am growing more and more tired,” she said. “I hope Rupert wins to-night. And you.”

“I always win, child.” He opened the door for her, and went with her to the foot of the stairs. “I wish you a good night’s rest, ma belle.”

She dropped suddenly on one knee, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment.

“Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit!” she said huskily. Then she rose again, and ran up the stairs to her chamber.

Her maid was there, agog with excitement. Léonie shut the door carefully, brushing past the girl, and flung herself on to the bed, and cried as though her heart would break. The abigail hovered over her, soothing and caressing.

“Oh, mademoiselle, why will you run away like this? Must we go to-night indeed?”

Downstairs the great front door shut; Léonie clasped her hands over her eyes.

“Gone! Gone! Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” She lay battling with her sobs, and presently rose, quiet and resolute, and turned to her maid. “The travelling-coach, Marie?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I hired one this morning, and ’tis to await us at the corner of the road in an hour’s time. But it has cost you the best part of six hundred francs, mademoiselle, and the man did not like to start so late. We shall not reach farther than Chartres to-night, he says.”

“It’s no matter. I have enough money left to pay for everything. Bring me paper now, and ink. Are you sure—are you sure that you wish to come with me?”

“But yes, mademoiselle!” the girl averred. “M. le Duc would be wroth with me an I let you go alone.”

Léonie looked at her drearily.

“I tell you we shall never, never see him again.”

Marie shook her head sceptically, but merely said that she had quite made up her mind to go with mademoiselle. Then she fetched ink and paper, and Léonie sat down to write her farewell.

Upon her return Lady Fanny peeped into Léonie’s room to see whether she slept. She held her candle high so that the light fell on the bed, and saw that it was empty. Something white lay upon the coverlet; she darted forward, and with a trembling hand held two sealed notes to the candlelight. One was addressed to herself; the other to Avon.

Lady Fanny felt suddenly faint, and sank down into a chair, staring numbly at the folded papers. Then she set her candle down upon the table, and tore open the note that was for her.

“My dear Madame,” (she read),—

“I write this to say Fare Well, and Because I want to Thank you for your Kindness to me. I have told Monseigneur why I must go. You have been so very Good to me, and I Love you, and indeed, indeed I am sorry thatt I can only write to you. I shall never forget you.

“Léonie.”

Lady Fanny flew up out of her chair.

“Oh, good God!” she cried. “Léonie! Justin! Rupert! Oh, is no one here? Heavens, what shall I do?” Down the stairs she ran, and, seeing a lackey by the door, hurried up to him. “Where’s mademoiselle? When did she go out? Answer me, dolt!”

“Madame? Mademoiselle is abed.”

“Fool! Imbecile! Where’s her maid?”

“Why, madame, she went out just before six, with—Rachel, I think it was.”

“Rachel is in my chamber!” snapped her ladyship. “Oh, what in God’s name shall I do? Is his Grace returned?”

“No, madame, not yet.”

“Send him to me in the library as soon as he comes in!” Lady Fanny commanded, and went there herself, and read Léonie’s note again.

Twenty minutes later his Grace entered.

“Fanny? What’s to do?”

“Oh, Justin, Justin!” she said on a sob. “Why did we leave her? She’s gone! Gone, I tell you!”

His Grace strode forward.

“Léonie?” he said sharply.

“Who else?” demanded my lady. “Poor, poor child! She left this for me, and one for you. Take it!”

His Grace broke the seal of his note, and spread out the thin sheet. Lady Fanny watched him while he read, and saw his mouth set hard.

“Well?” she said. “What does she write to you? For heaven’s sake tell me!”