“Nevertheless, my dear, you will go, with us all. Calm yourself, Rupert. Your part was played, and played well, at Le Havre. Now it is my turn. Fanny, you are tired out. Go to bed now; you cannot do anything yet.”

“I must go back to de Châtelet,” said Merivale. He gripped Avon’s hand. “Act up to your name now, Satanas, if ever you did! We are all with you.”

“Even I,” said Marling with a smile. “You may be as devilish as you please, for Saint-Vire is the worst kind of villain I have had the ill-luck to meet.”

Rupert, hearing, choked in the act of drinking his third glass of burgundy.

“Damme, I boil with rage when I think of him!” he swore. “Léonie called him pig-person, but ’fore God he’s worse than that! He’s——!”

Fanny fled incontinently from the room.

CHAPTER XXX

His Grace of Avon Trumps the Comte’s Ace

The Marlings came early to Madame du Deffand’s house, and were followed shortly by Merivale and Hugh Davenant. Madame du Deffand wanted to know what had become of Léonie, and was informed that she was indisposed, and had remained at home. Rupert presently arrived in company with d’Anvau and Lavoulčre, and was twitted by several people, Madame du Deffand included, on his appearance at such a function.

“Doubtless you are come to read us a madrigal or a rondeau,” Madame teased him. “Faites voir, milor’, faites voir!”

“I? No, b’Gad!” Rupert said. “I’ve never written a verse in my life! I’m come to listen, madame.”

She laughed at him.

“You will be bored, my poor friend! Bear with us!” She moved away to greet a fresh arrival.

Under the wail of the violins which played at one end of the room, Merivale spoke to Davenant.

“Where’s Avon?”

Hugh shrugged.

“I’ve scarce set eyes on him all day. He starts for Anjou immediately after this party.”

“Then he means to strike to-night.” Merivale looked round. “I saw Armand de Saint-Vire a moment ago. Is the Comte here?”

“Not yet, I think, but I am told that both he and his wife are coming. Justin will have a large audience.”

The rooms were filling speedily. Merivale presently heard a footman announce Condé. Behind the Prince came the Saint-Vires, and the Marchérands, and the Duc and Duchesse de la Roque. A young exquisite approached Fanny and demanded Mademoiselle de Bonnard. On being told that she was not present his face fell considerably, and he confided mournfully to my lady that he had written a madrigal to Léonie’s eyes which he had intended to read to-night. My lady commiserated him, and turned to find Condé at her elbow.

“Madame!” He bowed. “But where is la petite?”

Lady Fanny repeated Léonie’s excuses, and was requested to bear a graceful message to her charge. Then Condé moved away to join in a game of bouts-rhymés, and the wail of the violins died down to a murmur.

It was just as Madame du Deffand had called upon M. de la Douaye to read his latest poems that some slight stir arose by the door, and his Grace of Avon came in. He wore the dress he had once worn at Versailles, cloth-of-gold, shimmering in the candlelight. A great emerald in the lace at his throat gleamed balefully, another flashed on his finger. At his side was a light dress sword; in one hand he carried his scented handkerchief, and a snuff-box studded with tiny emeralds, and from one wrist hung a fan of painted chicken-skin mounted upon gold sticks.

Those who were near the door drew back to let him pass, and for a moment he stood alone, a tall, haughty figure, dwarfing the Frenchmen about him. He was completely at his ease, even a little disdainful. He raised his quizzing-glass, and swept a glance round the room.

“By Gad, he’s a magnificent devil, ’pon my soul he is!” said Rupert to Merivale. “Damme if I’ve ever seen him look more regal!”

“What a dress!” said Fanny, in her husband’s ear. “You cannot deny, Edward, that he is truly handsome.”

“He has a presence,” conceded Marling.

Avon went forward across the room, and bowed over his hostess’ hand.

“Late as usual!” she scolded him. “Oh, and you still have a fan, I see! Poseur! You are just in time to hear M. de la Douaye read to us his poems.”

“The luck always favours me, madame,” he said, and inclined his head to the young poet. “May we beg m’sieur to read us his lines addressed to the Flower in her Hair!”

La Douaye flushed with pleasure, and bowed.

“I am honoured that that so poor trifle should still be remembered,” he said, and went to stand before the fireplace with a roll of papers in his hand.

His Grace crossed slowly to the Duchesse de la Roque’s couch, and sat down beside her. His eyes flickered to Merivale’s face, and from thence to the door. Unostentatiously Merivale linked his arm in Davenant’s and moved with him to a sofa that stood by the door.

“Avon makes me feel nervous,” murmured Davenant. “An impressive entrance, a striking dress, and that in his manner that sends a chill down one’s back. You feel it?”

“I do. He means to hold the stage to-night.” Merivale spoke lower still, for La Douaye’s liquid voice sounded in the first line of his poem. “He sent me to sit here. If you can catch Rupert’s eye signal to him go to the other door.” He crossed his legs, and fixed his attention on La Douaye.

A storm of applause greeted the verses. Davenant craned his neck to see where Saint-Vire was, and caught a glimpse of him by the window. Madame de Saint-Vire was at some distance from him, and several times she looked across at him with wide apprehensive eyes.

“If Saint-Vire’s seen that Léonie’s not here he’ll be feeling that chill down his back too, methinks,” said Merivale. “I wish I knew what Avon means to do. Look at Fanny! Egad, Avon’s the only one of us who’s at his ease!”

La Douaye began to read again; followed praise, and elegant discussion. Avon complimented the poet, and moved away to the adjoining salon, where some were still playing at bouts-rhymés. In the doorway he met Rupert. Merivale saw him pause for an instant, and say something.

Rupert nodded, and lounged over to the two by the main door. He leaned over the back of the couch, and chuckled gleefully.

“Mysterious devil, an’t he?” he said. “I’ve orders to watch the other door. I’m agog with excitement, stap me if I’m not. Tony, I’ll lay you a monkey Justin wins this last round!”

Merivale shook his head.

“I’ll not bet against a certainty, Rupert,” he said. “Before he came I was assailed by doubts, but, faith, the sight of him is enough to end them! The sheer force of his personality should carry the day. Even I feel something nervous. Saint-Vire, with the knowledge of his own guilt, must feel a thousand times more so. Rupert, have you any idea what he means to do?”

“Devil a bit!” answered Rupert cheerfully. He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you something, though. This is the last soirée I’ll attend. Did you hear that fellow mouthing out his rhymes?” He shook his head severely. “Y’know, it ought not to be allowed. An under-sized little worm like that!”

“You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?” smiled Hugh.

“Poet be damned!” said Rupert. “He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!” He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. “God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?” he demanded irreverently.

“Hush, child!” whispered Lavoulčre, who was standing near by. “It is the great M. de Foquemalle!”

M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.

“What, Rupert?” The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. “Whither away, mon vieux?”

“Here, let me pass!” whispered Rupert. “Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off!” He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.

In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.

“Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?” She picked up her paper and read out her lines. “There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?”

Avon kissed her hand.

“My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.”

Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.

“Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love or some such nonsense.”

“De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!” cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. “Shall you brave it, Duc?”

M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marchérand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to where Merivale stood.

“More commands?” inquired my lord. “I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.”