“Plague take it, I won’t have it!” roared his lordship, goaded beyond endurance. “What’s a lie? Who’s this fellow Hammond? Oh, I’ll end in Bedlam, devil a doubt!”
“Shall I tell the English monsieur that M. Comyn is engaged?” asked the landlord doubtfully.
“Bring him in here at once!” commanded Rupert. “Don’t stand there goggling, fatwit! Go and fetch him!”
“Yes, go and fetch htm,” said the Marquis. He was still looking at Mr. Comyn, but he was frowning no longer. “Good God, Comyn, do you know how near to death you have been?” he asked softly.
Mr. Comyn smiled. “I am aware, my lord. The heat of the moment—excusable, you will agree—being happily past, I can make allowances for the very natural fury of a man deeply in love.”
“Mighty good of you,” said his lordship with a rather rueful grin. “I’ll admit I’m a thought too ready with my hands.” He turned as the door was once more opened to admit a gentleman dressed in a black habit and bands, and a Ramillies wig. “Mr. Hammond?” he said. “In a very good hour, sir!”
The cleric looked him over with patent disapproval. “I have not the pleasure, I think, of your acquaintance, sir,” he said frigidly. “I am come here, much against my will, at the request of Mr.—ah—Comyn.”
“But it is I who need your services, sir,” said his lordship briskly. “My name’s Alastair. You are, I believe, making the Grand Tour in charge of Lord Edward Crewe?”
“I am, sir, but I fail to understand what interest this can be to you.”
Light broke upon Lord Rupert with dazzling radiance. Suddenly he smote his knee and called out: “By the holy Peter, I have it! The man’s a parson, and that is why you came to Dijon! Lord, it’s as plain as the nose on your face!”
Mr. Hammond looked at him with acute dislike. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Eh?” said Rupert. “Oh, my name’s Alastair.” Mr. Hammond flushed angrily. “Sir, if this is a pleasantry it is one that in no way amuses me. If you summoned me here, Mr. Comyn, for some boorish jest—”
Léonie got up, and came towards him. “But do not be enraged, m’sieur,” she said kindly. “No one jests, I assure you. Will you not be seated?”
Mr. Hammond thawed a little. “I thank you, ma’am. If I might know whom I have the honour of addressing—?”
“Oh, her name’s Alastair, too,” said Rupert, who was fast lapsing into a rollicking mood.
Mr. Comyn intervened hastily as the divine showed signs of deep offence. “Permit me, my lord! Let me make you known to her grace the Duchess of Avon, sir. Also her grace’s son, my Lord Vidal, and her grace’s brother-in-law, Lord Rupert Alastair.”
Mr. Hammond recoiled perceptibly, and stared in horror at the Marquis. “Do I understand that this is none other than that Marquis of Vidal who—sir, if I had known, no persuasion would have sufficed to draw me into this house!” The Marquis’s brows lifted. “My good sir,” he said, “you are not sent for to condemn my morals, but to marry me to a certain lady at present staying in this inn.”
Léonie cried out, aghast: “But you cannot, Dominique! You said that she is married to M. Comyn!”
“So I thought, madame, but she is not.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Hammond very furiously; “I shall perform no marriage service!”
Lord Rupert looked at him through his quizzing glass. “Who is this fellow?” he inquired haughtily. “I don’t like him, stap me if I do!”
“Dominique,” Léonie said urgently, “I cannot talk to you here, with all these people. You say you will marry this girl, but it seems to me that it is not all necessary, for first she runs away with you, and then with M. Comyn, so that I see very well she is like that mother and sister whom I have met.”
He took her hands. “Maman, when you have seen her you will know that she is not like them. I am going to marry her.” He drew her over to the window, and said gently: “Ma chère, you told me to fall in love, did you not?”
“Not with a girl like this one,” she replied, with a small sob.
“You will like her,” he persisted. “Egad, she’s after your own heart, maman! She shot me in the arm.”
“Voyons, do you think that is what I like?” Léonie said indignantly.
“You’d have done it yourself, my dear.” He paused, staring out of the window. She watched him anxiously, and after a moment he turned his head and looked down at her. “Madame, I love her,” he said curtly. “If I can induce her to take me—”
“What’s this? Induce her! I find you absurd, mon enfant.”
He smiled faintly. “She ran off with Comyn sooner than wed me, nevertheless.”
“Where is she?” Léonie asked abruptly.
“In her bed-chamber. There was an accident. When Comyn and I had our little affair, she threw herself between us, and my sword scratched her.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Léonie exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “It is not enough to abduct her! No, you must wound her also! You are incorrigible!”
“Will you see her, maman?”
“I will see her, yes, but I promise nothing. Dominique, have you thought of Monseigneur? He will never, never permit it! You know he will not.”
“He cannot stop it, madame. If it leads to an estrangement between us I am sorry for it, but my mind is made up.” He pressed her hand. “Come to her now, ma chère.” He led her back into the room. “Comyn, since you know Miss Challoner’s room and I do not, will you have the goodness to escort my mother to her?”
Mr. Comyn, who was talking earnestly to Mr. Hammond, turned at once, and bowed, “I shall be happy to do so, sir.”
Rupert called out: “Hey, where are you off to, Léonie? Tell me, do we spend the night in this place?”
“I don’t know,” Léonie answered. “I am going to make the acquaintance of this Mademoiselle Challoner.”
She went out, followed by Mr. Comyn, and his lordship shook his head gloomily. “It won’t do, Vidal. You can talk your mother over, but if you think your father will stand this you don’t know him. Lord, I wish I were well out of it!” He became aware of his nephew’s coatless and bootless state. “For God’s sake, boy, put your clothes on!” he begged.
Vidal laughed, and sat down to pull on his boots. His uncle observed them through his glass with considerable interest. “Did Haspener make those for you, Vidal?”
“Lord, no!” said the Marquis scornfully. “What, does he make yours still? These are a pair of Martin’s.”
“Martin, eh? I’ve a mind to let him make me a pair. I don’t like your coats, I don’t like your stock-buckle, your hats have too rakish a cock for a man of my years, your waistcoats are damned unimaginative, but one thing I’ll allow: your boots are the best made in the town, ay, and the highest polished. What does your fellow use on ’em? I’ve tried a blacking made with champagne, but it ain’t as good as you’d expect.”
Mr. Hammond broke in on this with unconcealed impatience. “Sir, is this a moment in which to discuss the rival merits of your bootmakers? Lord Vidal! Finding me adamant, Mr. Comyn has favoured me with an explanation of this extraordinary situation.”
“He has, has he?” said the Marquis, looking round for his coat.
“Devilish fluent, he was,” nodded Lord Rupert. “Y’know, Vidal, it’s a bad business, but you can’t marry the girl. There’s the name to be thought on, and what’s more, Justin.”
Mr. Hammond cast him a fulminating glance, but addressed himself to the Marquis. “My lord, his explanation leaves me horrified, I may say aghast, at the impropriety of your lordship’s behaviour. My instinct, sir, is to wash my hands of the whole affair. If I relent, it is out of no desire to oblige one whose mode of life is abhorrent to me, but out of compassion for the unfortunate young female whose fair name you have sullied, and in the interests of morality.”