These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer

understand. Oh, she will be chaperoned, of course!”
    “Why, my son? If you desire to do good to la petite send her to me.”
    “My dear father, I have never desired to do good to anyone. I have a reason for keeping this child. And, strange to say, I have developed quite a keen affection for her. A fatherly emotion, believe me.”
    The housekeeper entered at this moment, bearing a tray with wine and glasses upon it. She arranged the refreshment at her master’s elbow, and withdrew.
    De Beaupré poured his visitor out a glass of canary.
    “Proceed, my son. I do not yet see how I can aid you, or why you have journeyed all this way to see me.”
    The Duke raised the glass to his lips.
    “A most tedious journey,” he agreed. “But your main roads are good. Unlike ours in England. I came, my father, to ask you to tell me all that you know of Léonie.”
    “I know very little, m’sieur. She came to this place as a babe, and left it when she was scarce twelve years old.”
    Justin leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.
    “From where did she come, mon père ?”
    “It was always kept secret. I believe they came from Champagne. They never told me.”
    “Not even—under the seal of the confessional?”
    “No. That were of no use to you, my son. From chance words that the Mère Bonnard from time to time let fall I gathered that Champagne was their native country.”
    “M’sieur,” Justin’s eyes widened a little, “I want you to speak plainly. Did you think when you saw Léonie grow from babyhood into girlhood that she was a daughter of the Bonnards?”
    The Curé looked out of the window. For a moment he did not answer.
    “I wondered, monsieur . . .”
    “No more? Was there nothing to show that she was not a Bonnard?”
    “Nothing but her face.”
    “And her hair, and her hands. Did she remind you of no one, my father?”
    “It is difficult to tell at that age. The features are still unformed. When the Mère Bonnard was dying she tried to say something. That it concerned Léonie I know, but she died before she could tell me.”
    His Grace frowned quickly.
    “How inconvenient!”
    The Curé’s lips tightened.
    “What of la petite , sir? What became of her when she left this place?”
    “She was, as I told you, compelled to change her sex. Bonnard married some shrewish slut, and bought a tavern in Paris. Faugh!” His Grace took snuff.
    “It was perhaps as well then that Léonie was a boy,” said De Beaupré quietly.
    “Without doubt. I found her one evening when she was flying from punishment. I bought her, and she mistook me for a hero.”
    “I trust, mon fils, that she will never have cause to change her opinion.”
    Again the Duke smiled.
    “It is a hard rôle to maintain, my father. Let us pass over that. When first I set eyes on her it flashed across my brain that she was related to—someone I know.” He shot the Curé” a swift glance, but De Beaupré’s face was impassive. “Someone I know. Yes. On that fleeting conviction I acted. The conviction has grown, mon père, but I have no proof. That is why I come to you.”
    “You come in vain, monsieur. There is nothing to tell whether Léonie be a Bonnard or not. I too suspected, and because of that I took pains with la petite , and taught her to the best of mine ability. I tried to keep her here when the Bonnards died, but Jean would not have it so. You say he ill-treated her? Had I thought that I would have done more to retain the child. I did not think it. True, I had never an affection for Jean, but he was kind enough to la petite in those days. He promised to write to me from Paris, but he never did so , and I lost trace of him. Now it seems that Chance has led you to Léonie, and you suspect what I suspected.”
    Justin set down his wine-glass.
    “Your suspicion, mon père ?” It was spoken compellingly.
    De Beaupré rose, and went to the window.
    “When I saw the child grow up in a delicate mould; when I saw those blue eyes, and