A soft voice spoke. “Ah, my dear Fanny,” it said, “lamenting my son’s wickedness as usual, I perceive.”
“Monseigneur, Dominique has shot a highwayman!” Léonie said, before Fanny had time to speak.
His Grace of Avon came slowly to the fire, and stretched one thin white hand to the blaze. He carried an ebony stick, but it was noticeable that he leaned on it but slightly. He was still very upright, and only his lined face showed his age. He wore a suit of black velvet with silver lacing, and his wig, which was curled in the latest French fashion, was thickly powdered. His eyes held all their old mockery, and mockery sounded in his voice as he answered: “Very proper.”
“And left the body to rot on the road!” snapped Lady Fanny.
His grace’s delicate brows rose. “I appreciate your indignation, my dear. An untidy ending.”
“But not at all, Monseigneur!” Léonie said practically. “I do not see that a corpse is of any use at all.”
“La, child, will you never lose those callous notions of yours?” demanded Fanny. “It might be Vidal himself speaking! All he would say was that he could not bring a corpse to the drum. Yes, Avon; that is positively the only excuse he gave for his inhuman conduct.”
“I did not know that Vidal had so much proper feeling,” remarked his grace. He moved towards a chair and sat down. “Doubtless you had some other reason for visiting us today — other than to mourn Vidal’s exploits.”
“Of course, I might have known you would uphold him, just to be disagreeable,” said Lady Fanny crossly.
“I never uphold Vidal — even to be disagreeable,” replied his grace.