Bonnard looked at him helplessly.
‘My – my father told me that he had come into money! Indeed, I know no more, Monseigneur! I would not lie. I swear I would not!’
The fine lips curled sardonically.
‘We will pass over that. How comes it that Léon is so unlike you in face and form?’
Bonnard rubbed his forehead. There was no mistaking the perplexity in his eyes.
‘I do not know, Monseigneur. I have often wondered. He was ever a weakly child, petted and cosseted when I was made to work on the farm. My mother car
ed nothing for me beside him. It was all Léon, Léon, Léon! Léon must learn to read and write, but I – the eldest – must tend the pigs! A sickly, pert lad he was ever, Monseigneur! A viper, a –’
Avon tapped the lid of his snuff-box with one very white finger.
‘Do not let us misunderstand one another, my friend. There never was a Léon. A Léonie, perhaps. I want that explained.’
The man shrank.
‘Ah, Monseigneur! Indeed, indeed I did it for the best! It was impossible to have a girl of that age here, and there was work to be done. It was better to dress her as a boy. My wife – Monseigneur will understand – women are jealous, milor’. She would not have a girl here. Indeed, indeed, if the boy – girl – has said aught against us, he lies! I could have turned him out into the streets, for he had no claim on me. Instead, I kept him, clothed him, fed him, and if he says he was ill-treated it is a lie! He is a wicked brat with a vicious temper. You could not blame me for hiding his sex, Monseigneur! It was for his sake, I swear! He liked it well enough. Never did he demand to be a girl!’
‘No doubt he had forgotten,’ said Avon dryly. ‘Seven years a boy… Now –’ He held up a louis. ‘Mayhap this will refresh your memory. What do you know of Léon?’
The man looked at him in a puzzled way.
‘I – do not understand, Monseigneur. What do I know of him?’
Avon leaned forward slightly, and his voice became menacing.
‘It will not serve you to feign ignorance, Bonnard. I am very powerful.’
Bonnard’s knees shook.
‘Indeed, Monseigneur, I do not understand! I cannot tell you what I do not know! Is – is aught amiss with Léon?’
‘You never thought that he was, perhaps, not your parents’ child?’
Bonnard’s jaw dropped.
‘Not – Why, Monseigneur, what do you mean? Not my parents’ child. But –’
Avon sat back.
‘Does the name Saint-Vire convey aught to you?’
‘Saint-Vire… Saint-Vire… no. Stay, the name has a familiar ring! But – Saint-Vire – I do not know.’ He shook his head hopelessly. ‘It may be that I have heard my father speak the name, but I cannot remember.’
‘A pity. And when your parents died was there no document found belonging to them which concerned Léon?’
‘If there was, milor’, I never saw it. There were old accounts and letters – I cannot read, Monseigneur, but I have them all.’ He looked at the louis, and licked his lips. ‘If Monseigneur would care to see for himself ? They are here, in that chest.’
Avon nodded.
‘Yes. All of them.’
Bonnard went to the chest and opened it. After some search he found a sheaf of papers, which he brought to the Duke. Avon went through them quickly. For the most part they were, as Bonnard had said, farm accounts, with one or two letters amongst them. But at the bottom of the pile was a folded slip of paper, addressed to Jean Bonnard, on the estate of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire, in Champagne. It was only a letter from some friend, or relation, and it held nothing of importance, save the address. The Duke held it up.
‘This I will take.’ He tossed the louis to Bonnard. ‘If you have lied to me, or deceived me, you will be sorry. At present I am willing to believe that you know nothing.’