The comment that Léonie was exciting in the Polite World reduced Madame de Saint-Vire to a state of nervous dread. Her mind was in a tumult; she watered her pillow nightly with useless, bitter tears and was smitten alike with fear, and devastating remorse. She tried to hide these sensations from her husband, of whom she was afraid, but she could hardly bring herself to speak to her pseudo-son. Before her eyes, day and night, was Léonie’s image, and her poor cowed spirit longed for this daughter, and her arms ached to hold her. Saint-Vire spoke roughly when he saw her red eyes, and wan looks.

“Have done with these lamentations, Marie! You’ve not seen the girl since she was a day old, so you can have no affection for her.”

“She is mine!” Madame said with trembling lips. “My own daughter! You do not understand, Henri. You cannot understand.”

“How should I understand your foolish megrims? You’ll undo me with your sighing and your weeping! Have you thought what discovery would mean?”

She wrung her hands, and her weak eyes filled again with tears.

“Oh, Henri, I know, I know! It’s ruin! I⁠—I would not betray you, but I cannot forget my sin. If you would but let me confess to Father Dupré!”

Saint-Vire clicked his tongue impatiently.

“You must be mad!” he said. “I forbid it! You understand?”

Out came Madame’s handkerchief.

“You are so hard!” she wept. “Do you know that they are saying she is⁠—she is⁠—your baseborn child? My little, little daughter.”

“Of course I know it! It’s a loophole for escape, but I do not yet see how I can turn it to account. I tell you, Marie, this is not the time for repentance, but for action! Do you want to see our ruin? Do you know how complete it would be?”

She shrank from him.

“Yes, Henri, yes! I⁠—I know, and I am afraid! I scarce dare show my face abroad. Every night I dream that it is all discovered. I shall go mad, I think.”

“Calm yourself, madame. It may be that Avon plays this waiting game to fret my nerves so that I confess. If he had proof he would surely have struck before.” Saint-Vire bit his fingernail, scowling.

“That man! That horrible, cruel man!” Madame shuddered. “He has the means to crush you, and I know that he will do it!”

“If he has no proof he cannot. It’s possible that Bonnard confessed, or that his wife did. They must both be dead, for I’ll swear Bonnard would not have dared let the girl out of his keeping! Bon Dieu, why did I not inquire whither they went when they left Champagne?”

“You thought⁠—you thought it would be better not to know,” Madame faltered. “But where did that man find my little one? How could he know⁠—?”

“He is the devil himself. I believe there is naught he does not know. But if I can only get the girl out of his hands he can do nothing. I am convinced he has no proof.”

Madame began to pace the room, twisting her hands together.

“I cannot bear to think of her in his power!” she exclaimed. “Who knows what he will do to her? She’s so young, and so beautiful⁠—”

“She’s fond enough of Avon,” Saint-Vire said, and laughed shortly. “And she’s well able to care for herself, little vixen!”

Madame stood still, hope dawning in her face.

“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 à ca,” 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 baseborn 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 mine 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 baseborn 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.”

Léonie curled her lip.

“Voyons, am I a fool? Paris would not care that Monseigneur had made a bastard his mistress.”

“No, child, but would not Paris care that Avon had had the audacity to take his baseborn mistress into Society? You have queened it right royally, and I hear that you even have Condé in your toils. That will not make Paris more lenient. You have been too great a success, my dear. You are a masquerader, and Avon has cheated Society with you. Do you think Society will forgive that? I think we shall not see M. le Duc in France again, and it is possible that scandal might spread to London. His reputation would not aid him to kill the scandal, I assure you.”

“I wonder if it would be better that I kill you now?” Léonie said slowly. “You shall not harm Monseigneur, pig-person. That I swear!”

“I have no great wish to harm him,” Saint-Vire said indifferently. “But I cannot see my child in his care. Some paternal feeling you will allow me. Put yourself in my hands, and Avon has nothing to fear from me. All my wish is to see you safely disposed in life. There need be no scandal if you disappear from Society, but if you remain under Avon’s roof scandal must come. And since I am like to be involved in it, I prefer to head the cry.”

“And if I go you will say nothing?”

“Not a word. Why should I? Let me make provision for you. I can find a home for you. I will send you money. And perhaps you will⁠—”

“I do not put myself in the hands of a pig-person,” Léonie said crushingly. “I will disappear, bien entendu, but I will go to one who loves me, not to you, who are without doubt a villain.” She swallowed hard, and her hand clutched on the pistol. “I give you my word that I will disappear.”

He held out his hand.

“Poor child, this is a sad day for you. There is nothing I can say, but that I am sorry. It is for the best, as you will see. Where do you go?”

She held her head high.

“I do not tell you or anyone that,” she said. “I make just one prayer to the good God that I may never see you again.” Words choked in her throat; she made a gesture of loathing, and went to the door. There she turned. “I forget. You will swear to me that you will say nothing that may harm Monseigneur. Swear it on the Bible!”

“I swear,” he said. “But there is no need. Once you are gone there will be no occasion for me to speak. I want no scandal.”

“Bon!” she said. “I do not trust your oath, but I think you are a great coward, and you would not like to make a scandal. I hope you will be punished one day.” She flung the door-key down on the floor, and went quickly out.

Saint-Vire passed his handkerchief across his brow.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispered. “She showed me how to play my ace! Now, Satanas, we shall see who wins!”