His Grace of Avon was led through a tiny spotless hall to the Curé’s sanctum, a sunny room at the back of the house. The rosy-cheeked housekeeper ushered him into her master’s presence with unruffled placidity.
“Here, mon pčre, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,” she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.
The Curé was seated at a table by the window, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up to see who was his visitor, and, perceiving a stranger, laid down his quill and rose. He was slight, with thin, beautiful hands, calm blue eyes, and aristocratic features. He wore a long soutane, and his head was uncovered. For an instant Avon thought that the milky white hair was a wig, so ordered were the soft waves, and then he saw that it was natural, brushed smoothly back from a broad low brow.
“M. de Beaupré, I believe?” His Grace bowed deeply.
“Yes, m’sieur, but you have the advantage of me.”
“I am one Justin Alastair,” said the Duke, and laid his hat and gloves on the table.
“Yes? You will pardon me, monsieur, if I do not at once recognize you. I have been out of the world for many years, and for the moment I cannot call to mind whether you are of the Alastairs of Auvergne, or of the English family.” De Beaupré cast him an appraising look, and put forward a chair.
Justin sat down.
“The English family, monsieur. You perhaps knew my father?”
“Slightly, very slightly,” answered De Beaupré. “You are the Duc of Avon, I think? What may I have the honour of doing for you?”
“I am the Duke of Avon, m’sieur, as you say. Am I right in thinking that I address a relative of the Marquis de Beaupré?”
“His uncle, m’sieur.”
“Ah!” Justin bowed. “You are the Vicomte de Marrillon, then.”
The Curé seated himself at the table again.
“I renounced that title years ago, m’sieur, deeming it empty. My family will tell you that I am mad. They do not mention my name.” He smiled. “Naturally, I have disgraced them. I chose to work amongst my people here when I might have worn a cardinal’s hat. But I suppose you did not come all the way to Anjou to hear that. What is it I may do for you?”
Justin offered his host some snuff.
“I hope, m’sieur, that you may be able to enlighten me,” he said.
De Beaupré took a pinch of snuff, holding it delicately to one nostril.
“It is hardly probable, m’sieur. As I said, I have long since withdrawn from the world, and what I knew of it I have well-nigh forgotten.”
“This, mon pčre, has naught to do with the world,” replied his Grace. “I want you to cast your mind back seven years.”
“Well?” De Beaupré picked up his quill and passed it through his fingers. “Having done that, mon fils, what then?”
“Having done that, m’sieur, you may perhaps recall a family living here by the name of Bonnard.”
The Curé nodded. His eyes never wavered from Avon’s face.
“More particularly the child—Léonie.”
“One wonders what the Duc of Avon knows of Léonie. I am not likely to forget.” The blue eyes were quite inscrutable.
His Grace swung one booted leg gently to and fro.
“Before I go farther, mon pčre, I would have you know that I speak in confidence.”
The Curé brushed his quill lightly across the table.
“And before I consent to respect the confidence, my son, I will learn what it is you want of a peasant girl, and what that peasant girl is to you,” he answered.
“At the moment she is my page,” said Avon blandly.
The Curé raised his brows.
“So? Do you usually employ a girl as your page, M. le Duc?”
“It is not one of my most common practices, mon pčre. This girl does not know that I have discovered her sex.”
The quill brushed the table again, rhythmically.
“No, my son? And what comes to her?”
Avon looked haughtily across at him.
“M. de Beaupré, you will pardon me, I am sure, for pointing out to you that my morals are not your concern.”
The Curé met his look unflinchingly.
“They are your own, my son, but you have seen fit to make them all the world’s. I might retort: Léonie’s welfare is not your concern.”
“She would not agree with you, mon pčre. Let us understand one another. Body and soul she is mine. I bought her from the ruffian who called himself her brother.”
“He had reason,” said De Beaupré calmly.
“Do you think so? Rest assured, m’sieur, that Léonie is safer with me than with Jean Bonnard. I have come to ask your help for her.”
“I have never before heard that—Satanas—chose a priest for his ally, m’sieur.”
Avon’s teeth showed white for a moment in a smile.
“Withdrawn as you are from the world, mon pčre, you yet have heard that?”
“Yes, m’sieur. Your reputation is well known.”
“I am flattered. In this case my reputation lies. Léonie is safe with me.”
“Why?” asked De Beaupré serenely.
“Because, my father, there is a mystery attached to her.”
“It seems an insufficient reason.”
“Nevertheless it must suffice. My word, when I give it, is surety enough.”
The Curé folded his hands before him, and looked quietly into Avon’s eyes. Then he nodded.
“It is very well, mon fils. Tell me what became of la petite. That Jean was worthless, but he would not leave Léonie with me. Where did he take her?”
“To Paris, where he bought a tavern. He dressed Léonie as a boy, and a boy she has been for seven years. She is my page now, until I end that comedy.”
“And when you end it, what then?”
Justin tapped one polished finger-nail against the lid of his snuff-box.
“I take her to England—to my sister. I have some vague notion of—ah—adopting her. As my ward, you understand. Oh, she will be chaperoned, of course!”
“Why, my son? If you desire to do good to la petite send her to me.”
“My dear father, I have never desired to do good to anyone. I have a reason for keeping this child. And, strange to say, I have developed quite a keen affection for her. A fatherly emotion, believe me.”
The housekeeper entered at this moment, bearing a tray with wine and glasses upon it. She arranged the refreshment at her master’s elbow, and withdrew.
De Beaupré poured his visitor out a glass of canary.
“Proceed, my son. I do not yet see how I can aid you, or why you have journeyed all this way to see me.”
The Duke raised the glass to his lips.
“A most tedious journey,” he agreed. “But your main roads are good. Unlike ours in England. I came, my father, to ask you to tell me all that you know of Léonie.”
“I know very little, m’sieur. She came to this place as a babe, and left it when she was scarce twelve years old.”
Justin leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.
“From where did she come, mon pčre?”
“It was always kept secret. I believe they came from Champagne. They never told me.”
“Not even—under the seal of the confessional?”
“No. That were of no use to you, my son. From chance words that the Mčre Bonnard from time to time let fall I gathered that Champagne was their native country.”
“M’sieur,” Justin’s eyes widened a little, “I want you to speak plainly. Did you think when you saw Léonie grow from babyhood into girlhood that she was a daughter of the Bonnards?”