These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

His Grace opened the little gate that led into the Curé’s garden, and walked up the neat path to the front door. As before the rosy-cheeked housekeeper admitted him. She recognised him, and dropped a curtsy.

‘Bonjour, m’sieur! M. le Curé is in his room.’

‘Thank you,’ said his Grace. He followed her along the passage to de Beaupré’s study, and stood for a moment on the threshold, point-edged hat in hand.

The Curé rose politely.

‘M’sieur?’ Then, as Avon smiled, he hurried forward. ‘Eh, mon fils! ’

Avon took his hand.

‘My ward, father?’

The Curé beamed.

‘The poor little one! Yes, my son, I have her safe.’

Avon seemed to sigh.

‘You have relieved my mind of a load that was – almost too great for it to bear,’ he said.

The Curé smiled. ‘My son, in a little while I think I should have broken my promise to her and sent a message to you. She suffers – ah, but how she suffers. And that villain – that Saint-Vire?’

‘Dead, mon père, by his own hand.’

De Beaupré made the sign of the Cross.

‘By his own hand you say, my son?’

‘And by contrivance,’ bowed his Grace. ‘I come now to fetch – Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.’

‘It is really so?’ De Beaupré spoke anxiously. ‘You are sure, Duc?’

‘I am sure. All Paris knows. I saw to that.’

De Beaupré caught his hands and pressed them.

‘M’sieur, you bring the child happiness, then. God will forgive you much for your kindness to her. She has told me.’ He smiled benevolently. ‘I see that I have no cause to regret my alliance with – with Satanas. You have given her life, and more than that.’

‘My father, I advise you not to credit all that my infant says of me,’ said Avon dryly. ‘She has seen fit to place me upon a pedestal. I do not sit well there.’

De Beaupré opened the door.

‘No, my son, she knows what “Monseigneur’s” life has been,’ he said. ‘Now come to her.’ He led the way to the sunny parlour at the back of the house, and opening the door, spoke almost gleefully. ‘Petite, I bring you a visitor.’ Then he stood back so that Avon might pass in, and went out quietly, and quietly shut the door.

‘Of a surety God is very good,’ he said wisely, and went back to his study.

In the parlour Léonie was seated by the window, with a book open upon her lap. And since she had been crying she did not at once turn her head. She heard a light, firm tread, and then a beloved voice.

‘Ma fille, what does all this mean?’

She flew up out of her chair then, and cried out in joy and astonishment.

‘Monseigneur!’ She was at his feet, laughing and weeping, his hand to her lips. ‘You have come! You have come to me!’

He bent over her, his fingers on her curls.

‘Did I not say, ma fille, that I should not lose you very easily. You should have trusted me, child. There was no need for your flight.’