“Did Lady Fanny and the others know that you were going to kill the pig-person, Monseigneur?”

“Infant, pray do not go through the world saying that I killed him.”

“No, Monseigneur. But did they know?”

“They knew that I meant to strike that night. They were all very bloodthirsty.”

“Vraiment? Even M. Marling?”

“Even he,” nodded Avon. “You see, ma fille, they all love you.”

She blushed.

“Oh . . . ! What did you wear, Monseigneur?”

“Thus the female mind,” murmured his Grace. “I wore gold, infant, and emeralds.”

“I know. It is a very fine dress, that one. Go on, please, Monseigneur.”

“Rupert and Hugh stood by the doors,” said his Grace, “and Merivale engaged Saint-Vire in pleasant converse. Lady Fanny had your mother in hand. I told them your story, child. That is all.”

“Voyons!” she exclaimed. “It is nothing! When you had told them, what happened?”

“Your mother collapsed. You see, my child, I let them think that you had drowned yourself. She cried out then, and Saint-Vire, since she had thus betrayed him, shot himself.”

“It must have been very exciting,” she remarked. “I wish I had been there. I am sorry for Madame de Saint-Vire, a little, but I am glad that the pig-person is dead. What will the Vicomte do? I think it is very sad for him.”

“I believe he will not be sorry,” replied Avon. “No doubt your uncle will make provision for him.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Voyons, I have a family, it seems! How many uncles have I, Monseigneur?”

“I am not quite sure, infant. On your father’s side you have one uncle, and an aunt, who is married. On your mother’s side you have several uncles, I think, and probably many aunts and cousins.”

She shook her head.

“I find it very hard to understand it all, Monseigneur. And you knew? How did you know? Why did you not tell me?”

His Grace looked down at his snuff-box.

“My child, when I bought you from the estimable Jean it was because I saw your likeness to the Saint-Vire.” He paused. “I thought to use you as a weapon to—er—punish him for something—he had once done to me.”

“Is—is that why—why you made me your ward, and gave me so many, many things?” she asked in a small voice.

He rose, and went to the window, and stood looking out.

“Not entirely,” he said, and forgot to drawl.

She looked at him wistfully.

“Was it a little because you liked me, Monseigneur?”

“Afterwards. When I came to know you, child.”

She twisted her handkerchief.

“Am I—will you—still let me be your ward?”

He was silent for a moment.

“My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.”

“Yes?” she said.

His Grace’s profile was stern.

“They will be very good to you, ma fille,” he said evenly. “Having them—you cannot still be my ward.”

“N-need I have them?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.

His Grace did not smile.

“I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.”

“Do they?” She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. “They do not know me, Monseigneur.”

“They are your family, child.”

“I do not want them.”

At that he turned, and came to her, and took her hands.

“My dear,” he said, “it will be best for you to go to them, believe me. One day I think you will meet a younger man than I who will make you happy.”

Two great tears welled up! Léonie’s eyes looked piteously into the Duke’s.

“Monseigneur—please—do not talk to me of marriage!” she whispered.

“Child——” his clasp on her hands tightened. “I want you to forget me. I am no proper man for you. You will be wiser not to think of me.”

“Monseigneur, I never thought that you would marry me,” she said simply. “But if—you wanted me—I thought perhaps you would—take me—until I wearied you.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then his Grace spoke, so harshly that Léonie was startled.

“You are not to talk in that fashion, Léonie. You understand me?”

“I—I am sorry!” she faltered. “I—I did not mean to make you angry, Monseigneur.”

“I am not angry,” he answered. “Even were it possible, Léonie, I would not take you as my mistress. That is not how I think of you.”

“You do not love me?” she said, like a child.

“Too—well to marry you,” he said, and released her hands. “It is not possible.”

She stayed quite still, looking down at the marks of his fingers about her wrists with a little wise smile.

“You will take me to this mother and uncle whom I do not know?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Monseigneur, I would rather stay here,” she said. “Since you do not want me, I will not go back. C’est fini, tout cela.” A sob rose in her throat. “You bought me, Monseigneur, and I am yours till I die. I told you—once—that it was so. You do not remember?”

“I remember every word you have spoken to me.”

“Monseigneur, I—I do not want to be a burden to you. You are tired of—of having a ward, and—and I would rather leave you than stay to weary you. But I cannot go back to Paris. I cannot! I shall be quite—happy—here with M. de Beaupré, but I cannot bear to go back alone—to the world I have lived in with you.”

He looked across at her. She saw his hand clenched hard on his snuff-box.

“Child, you do not know me. You have created a mythical being in my likeness whom you have set up as a god. It is not I. Many times, infant, I have told you that I am no hero, but I think you have not believed me. I tell you now that I am no fit mate for you. There are twenty years between us, and those years have not been well-spent by me. My reputation is damaged beyond repair, child. I come of vicious stock, and I have brought no honour to the name I bear. Do you know what men call me? I earned that nickname, child; I have even been proud of it. To no women have I been faithful; behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal. I have wealth, but I squandered one fortune in my youth, and won my present fortune at play. You have seen perhaps the best of me; you have not seen the worst. Infant, you are worthy of a better husband. I would give you a boy who might come to you with a clean heart, not one who was bred up in vice from his cradle.”

One large tear glistened on the end of her lashes.

“Ah, Monseigneur, you need not have told me this! I know—I have always known, and still I love you, I do not want a boy. I want only—Monseigneur.”

“Léonie, you will do well to consider. You are not the first woman in my life.”

She smiled through her tears.

“Monseigneur, I would so much rather be the last woman than the first,” she said.

“Infant, it’s madness!”

She came to him, and put her hand on his arm.

“Monseigneur, I do not think that I can live without you. I must have you to take care of me, and to love me, and to scold me when I am maladroite.”

Involuntarily his hand went to hers.

“Rupert would be a more fitting bridegroom,” he said bitterly.

Her eyes flashed.

“Ah, bah!” she said scornfully. “Rupert is a silly boy, like the Prince de Condé! If you do not marry me, Monseigneur, I will not marry anyone!”

“That would be a pity,” he said. “Mignonne, are you—sure?”

She nodded; a tremulous smile curved her lips.

“Oh, Monseigneur, I never thought that you would be so very blind!” she said.

His Grace looked deep into her eyes, and then went down on one knee, and raised her hand to his lips.

“Little one,” he said, very low, “since you will stoop to wed me, I pledge you my word that you shall not in the future have cause to regret it.”

An insistent hand tugged at his shoulder. He rose, and opened wide his arms. Léonie flung herself into them, and they closed about her, and her lips met his.

M. de Beaupré entered softly, and, seeing, prepared to depart in haste. But they had heard the opening of the door, and they fell apart.

He beamed upon them.

“Eh bien, mes enfants?”

His Grace took Léonie’s hand in his, and led her forward.

“Mon pčre,” he said, “I want you to wed us.”

“Of a surety, mon fils,” said De Beaupré calmly, and stroked Léonie’s cheek. “I am waiting to do so.”

CHAPTER XXXII

His Grace of Avon Astonishes Everyone for the Last Time

“My dear Comte,” said Fanny, in a voice of long-suffering, “I have not seen Justin since that terrible night.”

Armand threw out his hands.

“But it is over a week ago!” he cried. “Where is he? Where is the child?”

Lady Fanny cast up her eyes. Davenant it was who answered.

“If we knew, Armand, we should be more at ease, I assure you. The last we saw of Avon was at Madame du Deffand’s.”

“Where did he go?” demanded Armand. “Did he not return here at all?”

Marling shook his head.

“He vanished,” he said. “We knew that he meant to set out for Anjou after the soirée, in search of Léonie, but he did not tell us exactly where he was bound. His valet is with him, and he has taken the light chaise. That is all we know.”

Armand sat down weakly.

“But—but did he set out in his ball-dress?” he said. “He must surely have returned here first to change it for something more convenable!”

“He didn’t,” Fanny replied positively. “That gold dress is not in his room. We looked.”

“Fi, donc!” cried Armand. “Is he travelling through France in it?”