“Henri, if Avon has no proof how can he know that Léonie is my child? Does he not perhaps think that she is—what they are saying? Is that not possible?”
“It is possible,” Saint-Vire admitted. “And yet, from things he has said to me, I feel sure that he has guessed.”
“And Armand!” she cried. “Will he not guess? Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what can we do? Was it worth it, Henri? Oh, was it worth it, just to spite Armand?”
“I don’t regret it!” snapped Saint-Vire. “What I have done I have done, and since I cannot now undo it I’ll not waste my time wondering if it was worth it! You’ll be good enough to show your face abroad, madame. I do not desire to give Avon more cause for suspicion.”
“But what will he do?” Madame asked. “Why does he wait like this? What is in his mind?”
“Sangdieu, madame, if I knew do you suppose that I should stand thus idle?”
“Does—does she know, think you?”
“No, I’d stake mine honour she does not know.”
Madame laughed wildly.
“Your honour! your honour! Grand Dieu, you can speak of that?”
He took an angry step towards her; her fingers were about the door-handle.
“It was dead when you made me give up my child!” she cried. “You will see your name dragged in the mud! And mine! and mine! Oh, can you do nothing?”
“Be silent, madame!” he hissed. “Do you want the lackeys to hear you?”
She started, and cast a quick, furtive glance round.
“Discovery—will kill me, I think,” she said, quite quietly, and went out.
Saint-Vire flung himself into a chair, and stayed there, frowning. To him came presently a lackey.
“Well?” Saint-Vire shot the word out.
“Monsieur, there is a lady who desires speech with you.”
“A lady?” Saint-Vire was surprised. “Who?”
“Monsieur, I do not know. She awaits you in the smaller salon, and she says that she will see you.”
“Of what like is she?”
“Monsieur, she is veiled.”
“An intrigue, enfin!” Saint-Vire rose. “In the smaller salon?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
Saint-Vire went out, and crossed the hall to the little withdrawing-room. A lady was standing by the window, enveloped in a cloak, and with a veil hanging down over her face. She turned as Saint-Vire came in, and put back the veil with a small, resolute hand. Saint-Vire looked into his daughter’s dark eyes.
“Oho!” he said softly, and looked for the key to the door.
“I have it,” Léonie said calmly. “And I will tell you, m’sieur, that my maid waits for me in the street. If I do not come to her in half an hour she will go at once to Monseigneur and tell him that I am here.”
“Very clever,” Saint-Vire said smoothly. “What is it that you want of me? Are you not afraid to put yourself in my power?”
“Bah!” said Léonie, and let him see her little gold-mouthed pistol.
Saint-Vire came further into the room.
“A pretty toy,” he sneered, “but I know what women are with such playthings.”
“Quant ŕ ça,” said Léonie frankly, “I should like very much to kill you, because you gave me an evil drink, but I won’t kill you unless you touch me.”
“Oh, I thank you, mademoiselle! To what am I indebted for this visit?”
Léonie fixed her eyes on his face.
“Monsieur, you shall tell me now if it is true that you are my father.”
Saint-Vire said nothing, but stood very still, waiting.
“Speak, you!” Léonie said fiercely. “Are you my father?”
“My child——” Saint-Vire spoke softly. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because they are saying that I am your base-born daughter. Tell me, is it true?” She stamped her foot at him.
“My poor child!” Saint-Vire approached, but was confronted by the nozzle of the pistol. “You need not fear, petite. It has never been my intention to harm you.”
“Pig-person!” Léonie said. “I am not afraid of anything, but if you come near me I shall be sick. Is it true what they say?”
“Yes, my child,” he said, and achieved a sigh.
“How I hate you!” she said with fervour.
“Will you not be seated?” he asked. “It grieves me to hear you say that you hate me, but indeed I understand what you must feel. I am very sorry for you, petite.”
“I will not be seated,” Léonie said flatly, “and it makes me feel worse when you call me petite, and say you are sorry for me. More than ever I want to kill you.”
Saint-Vire was rather shocked.
“I am your father, child!”
“I do not care at all,” she replied. “You are an evil person, and if it is true that I am your daughter you are more evil than even I thought.”
“You do not understand the ways of the world we live in,” he sighed. “A youthful indiscretion—you must not think too hardly of me, child. I will do all in my power to provide for you, and indeed I am greatly exercised over your welfare. I believed you to be in the charge of some worthy people once in mine employ. You may judge of my feelings when I found you in the Duc of Avon’s clutches.” Before the look on Léonie’s face he recoiled a little.
“If you speak one word against Monseigneur I will shoot you dead,” said Léonie softly.
“I do not speak against him, child. Why should I? He is no worse than any of us, but it grieves me to see you in his toils. I cannot but take an interest in you, and I fear for you when it becomes common knowledge that you are my daughter.”
She said nothing. After a moment he continued.
“In our world, child, we dislike open scandal. That is why I tried to rescue you from Avon a while back. I wish that I had told you then why I carried you off, but I thought to spare you that unpleasant knowledge.”
“How you are kind!” marvelled Léonie. “Of a truth it is a great thing to be the daughter of M. de Saint-Vire!”
He flushed.
“You thought me brutal, I know, but I acted for the best. You outwitted me, and I saw that it would have been wiser to have told you of your birth. The secret cannot be kept, for you resemble me too greatly. We are like to be plunged in a scandal now that will hurt us all.”
“It seems that most people know who I am,” Léonie answered, “but I am very well received, je vous assure.”
“At the moment you are, but when I openly acknowledge you—what then?”
“Tiens!” Léonie stared at him. “Why should you do that!”
“I have no cause to love your—guardian,” Saint-Vire said, and kept a wary eye on the pistol. “And I do not think that he would be pleased if the world knew he had adopted a base-born child of mine. His pride would be humbled, I think.”
“What if he knows already?” Léonie asked. “If others know, so must he.”
“Do you think he does?” Saint-Vire said.
She was silent.
“He might suspect,” he went on. “Perhaps he does; I do not know. Yet I think if he had done so he would hardly have brought you to Paris. He would not like Society to laugh at him as Society will laugh when it learns who you are. I can harm him greatly in this matter.”
“How can you harm him, you—you pig-person?”
Saint-Vire smiled.
“Were you not his page, ma fille? It is not convenable for young girls to masquerade as boys in the house of an Alastair. Think of the scandal when I tell that tale! Be very sure that I shall take care to set Paris about M. le Duc’s ears. His morals are well known, and I do not think that Paris will believe in his innocence, or yours.”