‘No, Prince,’ Avon answered.
‘What then?’ Condé had risen.
‘Prince, for those who are desperate, for the unwanted, for the broken-hearted, there is always a way out.’
Madame du Deffand shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hand.
‘You mean?’
Avon pointed to the window.
‘Outside, Prince, not so very far away, runs the river. It has hidden many secrets, many tragedies. This child is just one more tragedy that has ended in its tide.’
A choked scream rang out, piercing and shrill. Madame de Saint-Vire came to her feet as though forced, and stumbled forward like one distraught.
‘Ah, no, no, no!’ she gasped. ‘Not that! Not that! Oh, my little, little one! God, have you no mercy? She is not dead !’ Her voice rose, and was strangled in her throat. She flung up her arm, and collapsed at Avon’s feet, and lay there, sobbing wildly.
Lady Fanny sprang up.
‘Oh, poor thing! No, no, madame, she is alive. I swear! Help me, someone! Madame, madame, calm yourself !’
There was a sudden uproar; Davenant wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘My God!’ he said huskily. ‘What a night’s work! Clever, clever devil!’
In the confusion a woman’s voice sounded, bewildered.
‘I don’t understand! Why? – What? – Is that the end of the story?’
Avon did not turn his head.
‘No, mademoiselle. I am still awaiting the end.’
A sudden scuffle in the alcove drew all attention from Madame de Saint-Vire to the Comte. He had sprung up as Madame’s control left her, knowing that her outburst had betrayed him completely, and now he was struggling madly with Merivale, one hand at his hip. Even as several men rushed forward he wrenched free, livid and panting, and they saw that he held a small pistol.
Condé leaped suddenly in front of the Duke, and faced that pistol.
It was over in a few seconds. They heard Saint-Vire’s voice rise on a note almost of insanity:
‘Devil! Devil!’
Then there was a deafening report, a woman screamed, and Rupert strode forward, and flung his handkerchief over Saint-Vire’s shattered head. He and Merivale bent over the Comte’s body, and his Grace came slowly up to them, and stood for a moment looking down at that which had been Saint-Vire. At the far end of the room a woman was in hysterics. His Grace met Davenant’s eyes.
‘I said that it should be poetic, did I not, Hugh?’ he remarked, and went back to the fireplace. ‘Mademoiselle’ – he bowed to the frightened girl who had asked him for the story’s end – ‘M. de Saint-Vire has provided the end to my tale.’ He took the soiled paper from the mantelshelf where he had left it, and threw it into the fire, and laughed.
Thirty-one
His Grace of Avon Wins All
Into the village of Bassincourt once again rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He was dressed in breeches of buff cloth, and a coat of dull purple velvet, laced with gold. His high spurred boots were dusty; he carried his gloves in one hand, with his long riding crop. Into the market-place he came, from the Saumur road, and reined in as he met the uneven cobblestones. The villagers, and the farmers’ wives who had come into Bassincourt for the market, gaped at him, as they had gaped before, and whispered, one to the other.
The horse picked its way towards the Curé’s house, and there stopped. His Grace looked round, and, seeing a small boy standing near to him, beckoned, and swung himself lightly down from the saddle.
The boy came running.
‘Be so good as to take my horse to the inn, and see it safely housed and watered,’ said his Grace, and tossed the boy a louis. ‘You may tell the landlord that I shall come to pay the reckoning later.’
‘Yes, milor’! Thank you, milor’!’ stammered the boy, and clutched his louis.