“Devil a bit!” said his lordship cheerfully. “Ask my uncle. He will tell you I was born to be hanged.”
“Rupert?” said Léonie scornfully. “ Voyons, he would not tell me any such thing, because he would not dare.” She retained her clasp on his hand. “Now you will talk to me a little, mon enfant — tout bas. Who is this bourgeoise?”
The laugh went out of Vidal’s eyes at that, and his black brows drew close together. “Let be, madame. She is nothing. How did my father hear of her?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. But this I know, Dominique, you will never be able to hide anything from Monseigneur. And I think he is not quite pleased. It would be better, perhaps, if you did not amuse yourself there.”
“Content you, maman. I can manage my affairs.”
“Well, I hope so,” Léonie said doubtfully. “You are quite sure, I suppose, that this will not lead to a mésalliance?”
He looked at her rather sombrely. “You don’t flatter my judgment, madame. Do you think I am so likely to forget what I owe to my name?”
“Yes,” said her grace candidly, “I think, my dear, that when you have the devil in you — which I perfectly understand — you are likely to forget everything.”
He disengaged himself, and stood up. “My devil don’t prompt me to marriage, maman,” he said.