These Old Shades

Georgette Heyer

These Old Shades

“. . . This Age I grant (and grant with pride),

Is varied, rich, eventful:

But if you touch its weaker side,

Deplorably resentful:

Belaud it, and it takes your praise

With air of calm conviction:

Condemn it, and at once you raise

A storm of contradiction.

Whereas with these old shades of mine,

Their ways and dress delight me;

And should I trip by word or line,

They cannot well indict me. . . .”

—AUSTIN DOBSON: Epilogue to Eighteenth-Century Vignettes

CHAPTER I

His Grace of Avon Buys a Soul

A gentleman was strolling down a side street in Paris, on his way back from the house of one Madame de Verchoureux. He walked mincingly, for the red heels of his shoes were very high. A long purple cloak, rose-lined, hung from his shoulders and was allowed to fall carelessly back from his dress, revealing a full-skirted coat of purple satin, heavily laced with gold; a waistcoat of flowered silk; faultless small clothes; and a lavish sprinkling of jewels on his cravat and breast. A three-cornered hat, point-edged, was set upon his powdered wig, and in his hand he carried a long beribboned cane. It was a little enough protection against footpads, and although a light dress sword hung at the gentleman’s side its hilt was lost in the folds of his cloak, not quickly to be found. At this late hour, and in this deserted street, it was the height of foolhardiness to walk unattended and flaunting jewels, but the gentleman seemed unaware of his recklessness. He proceeded languidly on his way, glancing neither to left nor to right, apparently heedless of possible danger.

But as he walked down the street, idly twirling his cane, a body hurled itself upon him, shot like a cannon-ball from a dark alley that yawned to the right of the magnificent gentleman. The figure clutched at that elegant cloak, cried out in a startled voice, and tried to regain his balance.

His Grace of Avon swirled about, gripping his assailant’s wrists and bearing them downwards with a merciless strength belied by his foppish appearance. His victim gave a whimper of pain and sank quivering to his knees.

“M’sieur! Ah, let me go! I did not mean—I did not know—I would not—Ah, m’sieur, let me go!”

His Grace bent over the boy, standing a little to one side so that the light of an adjacent street lamp fell on that white agonized countenance. Great violet-blue eyes gazed wildly up at him, terror in their depths.

“Surely you are a little young for this game?” drawled the Duke. “Or did you think to take me unawares?”

The boy flushed, and his eyes grew dark with indignation.

“I did not seek to rob you! Indeed, indeed I did not! I—I was running away! I—oh, m’sieur, let me go!”

“In good time, my child. From what were you running, may I ask? From another victim?”

“No! Oh, please let me go! You—you do not understand! He will have started in pursuit! Ah, please, please, milor’!”

The Duke’s curious, heavy-lidded eyes never wavered from the boy’s face. They had widened suddenly, and become intent.

“And who, child, is ‘he’?”

“My—my brother. Oh, please——”

Round the corner of the alley came a man, full-tilt. At sight of Avon he checked. The boy shuddered, and now clung to Avon’s arm.

“Ah!” exploded the new-comer. “Now, by God, if the whelp has sought to rob you, milor’ he shall pay for it! You scoundrel! Ungrateful brat! You shall be sorry, I promise you! Milor’, a thousand apologies! The lad is my young brother. I was beating him for his laziness when he slipped from me——”

The Duke raised a scented handkerchief to his thin nostrils.

“Keep your distance, fellow,” he said haughtily. “Doubtless beating is good for the young.”

The boy shrank closer to him. He made no attempt to escape, but his hands twitched convulsively. Once again the Duke’s strange eyes ran over him, resting for a moment on the copper-red curls that were cut short and ruffled into wild disorder.

“As I remarked, beating is good for the young. Your brother, you said?” He glanced now at the swarthy, coarse-featured young man.

“Yes, noble sir, my brother. I have cared for him since our parents died, and he repays me with ingratitude. He is a curse, noble sir, a curse!”

The Duke seemed to reflect.

“How old is he, fellow?”

“He is nineteen, milor’.”

The Duke surveyed the boy.

“Nineteen. Is he not a little small for his age?”

“Why, milor’, if—if he is it is no fault of mine! I—I have fed him well. I pray you, do not heed what he says! He is a viper, a wild-cat, a veritable curse!”

“I will relieve you of the curse,” said his Grace calmly.

The man stared, uncomprehending.

“Milor’——?”

“I suppose he is for sale?”

A cold hand stole into the Duke’s, and clutched it.

“Sale, milor’? You——”

“I believe I will buy him to be my page. What is his worth? A louis? Or are curses worthless? An interesting problem.”

The man’s eyes gleamed suddenly with avaricious cunning.

“He is a good boy, noble sir. He can work. Indeed, he is worth much to me. And I have an affection for him. I——”

“I will give you a guinea for your curse.”

“Ah, but no, milor’! He is worth more! Much, much more!”

“Then keep him,” said Avon, and moved on.

The boy ran to him, clinging to his arm.

“Milor’, take me! Oh please take me! I will work well for you! I swear it! Oh, I beg of you, take me!”

His Grace paused.

“I wonder if I am a fool?” he said in English. He drew the diamond pin from his cravat, and held it so that it winked and sparkled in the light of the lamp. “Well, fellow? Will this suffice?”

The man gazed at the jewel as though he could hardly believe his eyes. He rubbed them, and drew nearer, staring.

“For this,” Avon said, “I purchase your brother, body and soul. Well?”

“Give it me!” whispered the man, and stretched out his hand. “The boy is yours, milor’.”

Avon tossed the pin to him.

“I believe I requested you to keep your distance,” he said. “You offend my nostrils. Child, follow me.” On he went, down the street, with the boy at a respectful distance behind him.

They came at last to the Rue St.-Honoré, and to Avon’s house. He passed in with never a glance behind him to see whether his new possession followed or not, and walked across the courtyard to the great nail-studded door. Bowing lackeys admitted him, looking in surprise at the shabby figure who came in his wake.

The Duke let fall his cloak, and handed his hat to one of the footmen.

“Mr. Davenant?” he said.

“In the library, your Grace.”

Avon sauntered across the hall to the library door. It was opened for him, and he went in, nodding to the boy to follow.

Hugh Davenant sat by the fire, reading a book of poems. He glanced up as his host came in, and smiled.

“Well, Justin?” Then he saw the shrinking child by the door. “Faith, what have we here?”

“You may well ask,” said the Duke. He came to the fire, and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the blaze. “A whim. That dirty and starved scrap of humanity is mine.” He spoke in English, but it was evident that the boy understood, for he flushed, and hung his curly head.

“Yours?” Davenant looked from him to the boy. “What mean you, Alastair? Surely—you cannot mean—your son?”

“Oh, no!” His Grace smiled in some amusement. “Not this time, my dear Hugh. I bought this little rat for the sum of one diamond.”

“But—but why, in heaven’s name?”

“I have no idea,” said his Grace placidly. “Come here, rat.”

The boy came to him timidly, and allowed Justin to turn his face to the light.

“Quite a pretty child,” the Duke remarked. “I shall make him my page. So entertaining to possess a page, body and soul.”

Davenant rose, and took one of the boy’s hands in his.

“I suppose you will explain, some time or another,” he said. “For the present, why not feed the poor child?”

“You are always so efficient,” sighed the Duke. He turned to the table, on which a cold supper was laid, awaiting him. “Wonderful. You might almost have known that I should bring home a guest. You may eat, little rat.”

The boy looked up at him shyly.

“Please, milor’, I can wait. I—I would not eat your supper. I would rather wait, if—if you please.”

“I do not please, my child. Go and eat.” He sat down as he spoke, twirling his quizzing glass. After a moment’s hesitation the boy went to the table and waited for Hugh to carve him a leg of chicken. Having supplied his wants, Hugh came back to the fire.

“Are you mad, Justin?” he asked, faintly smiling.

“I believe not.”

“Then why have you done this? What do you, of all men, want with a child of his age?”

“I thought it might be an amusement. As you doubtless know, I am suffering from ennui. Louise wearies me. This—” he waved one white hand towards the famished boy—“is a heaven-sent diversion.”

Davenant frowned.

“You surely do not intend to adopt the child?”

“He—er—adopted me.”

“You are going to make him as your son?” persisted Hugh incredulously.

The Duke’s eyebrows rose, rather superciliously.

“My dear Hugh! A child from the gutter? He shall be my page.”

“And what interest will that afford you?”

Justin smiled, and his glance travelled to the boy.

“I wonder?” he said softly.

“You have some special reason?”

“As you so sapiently remark, my dear Hugh, I have some special reason.”

Davenant shrugged his shoulders, and allowed the subject to drop. He sat watching the child at the table, who presently finished his repast, and came to the Duke’s side.

“If you please, sir, I have finished.”

Avon put up his eyeglass.

“Have you?” he said.

The boy knelt suddenly and, to Davenant’s surprise, kissed the Duke’s hand.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Avon disengaged himself, but the boy knelt still, looking up into the handsome face with humble eyes. The Duke took a pinch of snuff.

“My esteemed child, there sits the man you had best thank.” He waved his hand towards Davenant. “I should never have thought of feeding you.”

“I—I thanked you for saving me from Jean, milor’,” the boy answered.

“You are reserved for a worse fate,” said the Duke sardonically. “You now belong to me—body and soul.”

“Yes, sir. If you please,” murmured the boy, and sent him a swift glance of admiration from beneath his long lashes.

The thin lips curled a little.

“The prospect is no doubt pleasing?”

“Yes, sir. I—I would like to serve you.”

“But then, you do not know me very well,” said Justin, with a slight chuckle. “I am an inhuman taskmaster, eh, Hugh?”

“You are not the man to care for a child of his age,” said Hugh quietly.

“True, very true. Shall I give him to you?”

A trembling hand touched his great cuff.

“Please, sir——”

Justin looked across at his friend.

“I do not think I shall, Hugh. It is so entertaining, and so—er—novel, to be a gilded saint in the eyes of—er—unfledged innocence. I shall keep the boy for just so long as he continues to amuse me. What is your name, my child?”

“Léon, sir.”

“How delightfully brief!” Always a faint undercurrent of sarcasm ran beneath the surface of the Duke’s smooth voice. “Léon. No more, no less. The question is—Hugh will of course have the answer ready—what next to do with Léon?”

“Put him to bed,” said Davenant.

“Naturally—And do you think—a bath?”

“By all means.”

“Ah yes!” sighed the Duke, and struck a handbell at his side.

A lackey came in answer to the summons, bowing deeply.

“Your Grace desires?”

“Send me Walker,” said Justin.

The lackey effaced himself, and presently a neat individual came in, grey-haired and prim.

“Walker! I had something to say to you. Yes, I remember. Walker, do you observe this child?”

Walker glanced at the kneeling boy.

“Ay, your Grace.”

“He does. Marvellous,” murmured the Duke. “His name, Walker, is Léon. Strive to bear it in mind.”

“Certainly, your Grace.”

“He requires several things, but first a bath.”

“Ay, your Grace.”

“Secondly, a bed.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Thirdly, a nightgown.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Fourthly, and lastly, a suit of clothes. Black.”

“Black, your Grace.”

“Severe and funereal black, as shall befit my page. You will procure them. No doubt you will prove yourself equal to this occasion. Take the child away, and show him the bath, the bed, and the nightgown. And then leave him alone.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

“And you, Léon, rise. Go with the estimable Walker. I shall see you to-morrow.”

Léon came to his feet, and bowed.

“Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you.”

“Pray, do not thank me again,” yawned the Duke. “It fatigues me.” He watched Léon go out, and turned to survey Davenant.

Hugh looked full into his eyes.

“What does this mean, Alastair?”

The Duke crossed his legs, and swung one foot.

“I wonder?” he said pleasantly. “I thought that you would be able to tell me. You are always so omniscient, my dear.”

“Some scheme you have in mind, I know,” Hugh said positively. “I have known you long enough to be sure of that. What do you want with that child?”

“You are sometimes most importunate,” complained Justin. “Never more so than when you become virtuously severe. Pray spare me a homily.”

“I have no intention of lecturing you. All I would say is that it is impossible for you to take that child as your page.”

“Dear me!” said Justin, and gazed pensively into the fire.

“For one thing, he is of gentle birth. One can tell that from his speech, and his delicate hands and face. For another—his innocence shines out of his eyes.”

“How very distressing!”

“It would be very distressing if that innocence left him—because of you,” Hugh said, a hint of grimness in his rather dreamy voice.

“Always so polite,” murmured the Duke.

“If you wish to be kind to him——”

“My dear Hugh! I thought you said you knew me?”

Davenant smiled at that.

“Well, Justin, as a favour to me, will you give me Léon, and seek a page elsewhere?”

“I am always sorry to disappoint you, Hugh. I desire to act up to your expectations on all possible occasions. So I shall keep Léon. Innocence shall walk behind Evil—you see, I forestall you—clad in sober black.”

“Why do you want him? At least tell me that?”

“He has Titian hair,” said Justin blandly. “Titian hair has ever been one of—my—ruling—passions.” The hazel eyes glinted for a moment, and were swiftly veiled. “I am sure you will sympathize with me.”

Hugh rose and walked to the table. He poured himself out a glass of burgundy, and sipped it for a time in silence.

“Where have you been this evening?” he asked at length.

“I really forget. I believe I went first to De Touronne’s house. Yes, I remember now. I won. Strange.”

“Why strange?” inquired Hugh.

Justin nicked a grain of snuff from his great cuff.

“Because, Hugh, in the days, not so long since, when it was—ah—common knowledge that the noble family of Alastair was on the verge of ruin—yes, Hugh, even when I was mad enough to contemplate marriage with the present—er—Lady Merivale—I could only lose.”

“I’ve seen you win thousands in a night, Justin.”

“And lose them the following night. Then, if you remember, I went away with you to—now, where did we go? Rome! Of course!”

“I remember.”

The thin lips sneered a little.

“Yes. I was the—ah—rejected and heart-broken suitor. I should have blown my brains out to be quite correct. But I was past the age of drama. Instead I proceeded—in due course—to Vienna. And I won. The reward, my dear Hugh, of vice.”

Hugh tilted his glass, watching the candle-light play on the dark wine.

“I heard,” he said slowly, “that the man from whom you won that fortune—a young man, Justin——”

“—with a blameless character.”

“Yes. That young man—so I heard—did blow his brains out.”

“You were misinformed, my dear. He was shot in a duel. The reward of virtue. The moral is sufficiently pointed, I think?”

“And you came to Paris with a fortune.”

“Quite a considerable one. I bought this house.”

“Yes. I wonder how you reconcile it with your soul?”

“I haven’t one, Hugh. I thought you knew that.”

“When Jennifer Beauchamp married Anthony Merivale you had something approaching a soul.”

“Had I?” Justin regarded him with some amusement.

Hugh met his look.

“And I wonder too what Jennifer Beauchamp is to you now?”

Justin held up one beautiful white hand.

“Jennifer Merivale, Hugh. She is the memory of a failure, and of a spell of madness.”

“And yet you have never been quite the same since.”

Justin rose, and now the sneer was marked.

“I told you half an hour ago, my dear, that it was my endeavour to act up to your expectations. Three years ago—in fact, when I heard from my sister Fanny of Jennifer’s marriage—you said with your customary simplicity that although she would not accept my suit, she had made me. Voilŕ tout.”

“No.” Hugh looked thoughtfully across at him. “I was wrong, but——”

“My dear Hugh, pray do not destroy my faith in you!”

“I was wrong, but not so much wrong. I should have said that Jennifer prepared the way for another woman to make you.”

Justin closed his eyes.

“When you become profound, Hugh, you cause me to regret the day that saw me admit you into the select ranks of my friends.”

“You have so many, have you not?” said Hugh, flushing.

“Parfaitement.” Justin walked to the door. “Where there is money there are also—friends.”

Davenant set down his glass.

“Is that meant for an insult?” he said quietly.

Justin paused, his hand on the door-knob.

“Strange to say, it was not. But by all means call me out.”

Hugh laughed suddenly.

“Oh, go to bed, Justin! You are quite impossible!”

“So you have often told me. Good night, my dear.” He went out, but before he had shut the door bethought himself of something, and looked back, smiling. “A propos, Hugh, I have got a soul. It has just had a bath, and is now asleep.”

“God help it!” Hugh said gravely.

“I am not sure of my cue. Do I say amen, or retire cursing?” His eyes mocked, but the smile in them was not unpleasant. He did not wait for an answer, but shut the door, and went slowly up to bed.

CHAPTER II

Introducing the Comte de Saint-Vire

Shortly after noon on the following day Avon sent for his page. Léon came promptly, and knelt to kiss the Duke’s hand. Walker had obeyed his master’s commands implicitly, and in place of the shabby, grimy child of the evening before was a scrupulously neat boy, whose red curls had been swept severely back from his brow, and whose slim person was clad in plain black raiment, with a starched muslin cravat about his neck.

Avon surveyed him for a moment.

“Yes. You may rise, Léon. I am going to ask you some questions. I desire you will answer them truthfully. You understand?”

Léon put his hands behind him.

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“You may first tell me how you come to know my language.”

Léon shot him a surprised glance.

“Monseigneur?”

“Pray do not be guileless. I dislike fools.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. I was only surprised that you knew. It was at the inn, you see.”

“I do not think I am obtuse,” said Avon coldly, “but I see naught.”

“Pardon, Monseigneur. Jean keeps an inn, and very often English travellers come. Not—not noble English, of course.”

“I see. Now you may relate your history. Begin with your name.”

“I am Léon Bonnard, Monseigneur. My mother was the Mčre Bonnard, and my father——”

“—was the Pčre Bonnard. It is not inconceivable. Where were you born, and when did your worthy parents die?”

“I—I do not know where I was born, Monseigneur. It was not in Anjou, I think.”

“That is of course interesting,” remarked the Duke. “Spare me a list of the places where you were not born, I beg of you.”

Léon coloured.

“You do not understand, Monseigneur. My parents went to live in Anjou when I was a baby. We had a farm in Bassincourt, auprčs de Saumur. And—and we lived there until my parents died.”

“Did they die simultaneously?” inquired Justin.

Léon’s straight little nose wrinkled in perplexity.

“Monseigneur?”

“At one and the same time.”

“It was the plague,” explained Léon. “I was sent to Monsieur le Curé. I was twelve then, and Jean was twenty.”

“How came you to be so much younger than this Jean?” asked Justin, and opened his eyes rather wide, so that Léon looked full into them.

A mischievous chuckle escaped Léon; he returned the piercing stare frankly.

“Monseigneur, my parents are dead, so I cannot ask them.”

“My friend——” Justin spoke softly. “Do you know what I do to impertinent pages?”

Léon shook his head apprehensively.

“I have them whipped. I advise you to have a care.”

Léon paled, and the laugh died out of his eyes.

“Pardon, Monseigneur. I—I did not mean to be impertinent,” he said contritely. “My mother had once a daughter who died. Then—then I came.”

“Thank you. Where did you learn to speak as a gentleman?”

“With M. le Curé, Monseigneur. He taught me to read and to write and to know Latin a little, and—and many other things.”

Justin raised his eyebrows.

“And your father was a farmer? Why did you receive this extensive education?”

“I do not know, Monseigneur. I was the baby, you see, and the favourite. My mother would not have me work on the farm. That is why Jean hates me, I think.”

“Possibly. Give me your hand.”

Léon extended one slender hand for inspection. Justin took it in his, and surveyed it through his eyeglass. It was small, and finely made, with tapering fingers roughened by toil.

“Yes,” said the Duke. “Quite a pretty member.”

Léon smiled engagingly.

“Quant ŕ ça, you have very beautiful hands, Monseigneur, I think.”

The Duke’s lips quivered.

“You overwhelm me, my child. As you were saying, your parents died. What then?”

“Oh, then Jean sold the farm! He said he was made for greater things. But I do not know.” Léon tilted his head to one side, considering the point. The irrepressible dimple appeared, and was swiftly banished. Léon eyed his master solemnly, and a little nervously withal.

“We will leave Jean’s capabilities out of the discussion,” said Justin smoothly. “Continue your story.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Jean sold the farm, and took me away from M. le Curé.” Léon’s face clouded over. “Monsieur wanted to keep me, but Jean would not have it so. He thought I should be useful. So of course monsieur could do naught. Jean brought me to Paris. That was when he made me——” Léon stopped.

“Go on!” said Justin sharply. “That was when he made you——?”

“Work for him,” said Léon lamely. He encountered a searching glance, and his big eyes fell before it.

“Very well,” said Justin at last. “We will leave it at that. Et puis?”

“Then Jean bought the inn in the Rue Sainte-Marie, and—and after a time he met Charlotte, and—and married her. Then it was worse, because Charlotte hated me.” The blue eyes flashed. “I tried to kill her once,” said Léon naďvely. “With the big carving-knife.”

“Her hatred is not incomprehensible,” said Justin dryly.

“N-no,” replied Léon doubtfully. “I was only fifteen then. I remember I did not have anything to eat all day—besides the beating. And—and that is all, Monseigneur, till you came, and took me away.”

Justin picked up a quill and passed it through his fingers.

“May I ask why you tried to kill this Charlotte—er—with the carving-knife?”

Léon flushed, and looked away.

“There—there was a reason, Monseigneur.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“I—oh, I think she was very unkind and cruel and she—she made me angry. That was all.”

“I am both cruel and unkind, but I do not advise you to try and kill me. Or any of my servants. You see, I know what the colour of your hair denotes.”

The long dark lashes lifted again, and the dimple showed.

“Colčre de diable,” Léon said.

“Precisely. You will do well to hide it with me, my child.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. I do not seek to kill those whom I love.”

Justin’s lip curled rather sardonically.

“I am relieved. Now listen to me. You will henceforth be my page; you will be clothed and fed, and well provided for, but in return I will have obedience from you. You understand?”

“But yes, Monseigneur.”

“You will learn that my word is law with my servants. And this is my first command: if anyone should question you as to who you are, or from where you come, you will answer only that you are Avon’s page. You will forget your past until I give you leave to remember it. You see?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And you will obey Walker as you would myself.”

The firm chin was tilted at that; Léon looked speculatively at the Duke.

“If you do not”—the soft voice grew softer still—“you will find that I too know how to punish.”

“If it is your will that I obey this Walker,” said Léon with dignity, “I will do it, y-your-r-r Gr-r-race!”

Justin looked him over.

“Certainly you will do so. And I prefer that you call me Monseigneur.”

The blue eyes twinkled wickedly.

“This Walker, he has told me that when I speak to you, Monseigneur, I must say ‘your-r-r’ ah, bah! I cannot, enfin!”

For one moment Justin stared haughtily at his page. Instantly the twinkle disappeared. Léon stared back gravely.

“Be very careful,” Justin warned him.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” Léon said meekly.

“You may go now. This evening you will accompany me out.” The Duke dipped his quill in the inkhorn, and started to write.

“Where, Monseigneur?” inquired the page with great interest.

“Is that your affair? I dismissed you. Go.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Pardon!” Léon departed, carefully closing the door behind him. Outside he met Davenant, coming slowly down the stairs. Hugh smiled.

“Well, Léon? Where have you been all the morning?”

“Dressing myself, in these new clothes, m’sieu’. I think I look nice, n’est-ce pas?”

“Very nice. Where are you going now?”

“I do not know, m’sieu’. Perhaps there is something I may do for Monseigneur?”

“If he gave you no orders there is nothing. Can you read?”

“But yes! I was taught. Ah, I have forgotten, m’sieu’!”

“Have you?” Hugh was amused. “If you come with me, child, I’ll find you a book.”

Twenty minutes later Hugh entered the library to find the Duke still writing, as Léon had left him.

“Justin, who and what is Léon? He is a delightful child; certainly no peasant!”

“He is a very impertinent child,” said Justin, with the ghost of a smile. “He is the first page I have had who ever dared to laugh at me.”

“Did he laugh at you? A very wholesome experience for you, Alastair. How old is the child?”

“I have reason to believe that he is nineteen,” said Justin placidly.

“Nineteen! Faith, it’s not possible! He is a babe!”

“Not entirely. Do you come with me to Vassaud’s tonight?”

“I suppose so. I’ve no money to lose, but what matter?”

“You need not play,” said Justin.

“If one does not play, why visit a gaming-house?”

“To talk to the monde. I go to Vassaud’s to see Paris.” He resumed his writing, and presently Hugh strolled away.

At dinner that evening Léon stood behind the Duke’s chair, and waited upon him. Justin seemed hardly to notice him, but Hugh could not take his eyes from that piquant little face. Indeed, he stared so hard that at last Léon stared back, with great dignity, and some reproach. Observing his friend’s fixed regard, Justin turned, and put up his glass to look at Léon.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Monseigneur, only looking at M. Davenant.”

“Then do not.”

“But he looks at me, Monseigneur!”

“That is another matter.”

“I do not see that that is fair,” remarked Léon, sotto voce.

Some time after dinner the two men set out for Vassaud’s. When Hugh realized that Léon was to accompany them he frowned, and took Avon aside.

“Justin, have done with this affectation! You can have no need of a page at Vassaud’s, and it’s no place for such a child!”

“My very dear Hugh, I do wish you would allow me to know my own mind,” answered Justin sweetly. “The page goes with me. Another whim.”

“But why? The child should be in bed!”

Justin flicked a speck of snuff from his coat.

“You force me to remind you, Hugh, that the page is mine.”

Davenant compressed his lips, and swung out of the door. Nonchalantly his Grace followed.

Vassaud’s was crowded, early in the evening though it was. The two men left their cloaks with the lackey in the vestibule, and proceeded, with Léon in their wake, across the hall to the broad stairway which led to the gaming-rooms on the first floor. Hugh saw a friend, standing at the foot of the stairs, and paused to exchange a greeting, but Avon swept on, bowing slightly to right and left as some chance acquaintance hailed him. He did not stop to speak to anyone, although several called to him as he passed, but went on his regal way with just a faint smile in his lips.

Léon followed him close, his blue eyes wide with interest. He attracted some attention, and many were the curious glances cast from him to the Duke. He flushed delicately when he encountered such a glance, but his Grace appeared to be quite unaware of the surprise he had created.

“What ails Alastair now?” inquired the Chevalier d’Anvau, who was standing with one De Salmy in a recess on the staircase.

“Who knows?” De Salmy shrugged elegantly. “He must ever be unusual. Good evening, Alastair.”

The Duke nodded to him.

“I rejoice to see you, De Salmy. A hand of piquet later?”

De Salmy bowed.

“I shall be delighted.” He watched Avon pass on, and shrugged again. “He bears himself as though he were the king of France. I mislike those strange eyes. Ah, Davenant, well met!”

Davenant smiled pleasantly.

“You here? A crowd, is it not?”

“All Paris,” agreed the Chevalier. “Why has Alastair brought his page?”

“I have no idea, Justin is never communicative. I see Destourville is back.”

“Ah yes, he arrived last night. You have no doubt heard the scandal?”

“Oh, my dear Chevalier, I never listen to scandal!” Hugh laughed, and went on up the stairs.

“Je me demande,” remarked the Chevalier, watching Hugh’s progress through his eyeglass, “why it is that the good Davenant is a friend of the bad Alastair?”

The salon on the first floor was brilliantly lighted, and humming with gay, inconsequent conversation. Some were already at play, others were gathered about the buffet, sipping their wine. Hugh saw Avon through the folding doors that led into a smaller salon, the centre of a group, his page standing at a discreet distance behind him.

A muttered exclamation near him made him turn his head. A tall, rather carelessly dressed man was standing beside him, looking across the room at Léon. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth was shut hard. Through the powder his hair glinted red, but his arched brows were black, and very thick.

“Saint-Vire?” Hugh bowed to him. “You are wondering at Alastair’s page? A freak, is it not?”

“Your servant, Davenant. A freak, yes. Who is the boy?”

“I do not know. Alastair found him yesterday. He is called Léon. I trust Madame your wife is well?”

“I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?”

“Here he comes,” answered Hugh. “You had best ask him.”

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

“My dear Comte!” The hazel eyes mocked. “My very dear Comte!”

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.

“M. le Duc!”

Justin drew forth his jewelled snuff-box, and presented it. Tall as he was, Saint-Vire was made to look insignificant beside this man of splendid height, and haughty bearing.

“A little snuff, dear Comte? No?” He shook the foaming ruffles back from his white hand, and very daintily took a pinch of snuff. His thin lips were smiling, but not pleasantly.

“Saint-Vire was admiring your page, Justin,” Davenant said. “He is exciting no little attention.”

“No doubt.” Avon snapped his fingers imperiously, and Léon came forward. “He is almost unique, my dear Comte. Pray look your fill.”

“Your page is of no interest to me, m’sieur,” Saint-Vire answered shortly, and turned aside.

“Behind me.” The command was given coldly, and at once Léon stepped back. “The so worthy Comte! Comfort him, Hugh.” Avon passed on again, and in a little while was seated at a card table, playing lansquenet.

Davenant was called to another table presently, and proceeded to play at faro, with Saint-Vire as his partner. A foppish gentleman sat opposite him, and started to deal.

“Mon cher, your friend is always so amusing. Why the page?” He glanced towards Avon’s table.

Hugh gathered up his cards.

“How should I know, Lavoulčre? Doubtless he has a reason. And—forgive me—I am weary of the subject.”

“He is so—so arresting,” apologized Lavoulčre. “The page. Red hair—oh, but of a radiance!—and blue, blue eyes. Or are they purple-black? The little oval face, and the patrician nose——! Justin is wonderful. You do not think so, Henri?”

“Oh, without doubt!” Saint-Vire answered. “He should have been an actor. Quant ŕ moi, I would humbly suggest that enough notice has been taken of the Duc and his page. Your play, Marchérand.”

At Avon’s table one of the gamblers yawned, pushing back his chair.

“Mille pardons, but I thirst! I go in search of refreshment.”

The game had come to an end, and Justin was toying with his dice-box. He glanced up now, and waved to Château-Mornay to keep his seat.

“My page will fetch wine, Louis. He is not only to be gazed upon. Léon!”

Léon slipped from behind Avon’s chair, from where he had been an intent spectator of the game.

“Monseigneur?”

“Canary and burgundy, at once.”

Léon withdrew, and nervously threaded his way between the tables to the buffet. He returned presently with a tray, which he presented to Justin, on one knee. Justin pointed silently to where Château-Mornay sat, and, blushing for his mistake, Léon went to him, and again presented the tray. When he had served each one in turn he looked inquiringly up at his master.

“Go to M. Davenant, and ask him if he has commands for you,” said Justin languidly. “Will you hazard a throw with me, Cornalle?”

“Ay, what you will.” Cornalle pulled a dice-box from his pocket. “Two ponies? Will you throw?”

Justin cast his dice carelessly on the table, and turned his head to watch Léon. The page was at Davenant’s elbow. Davenant looked up.

“Well, Léon? What is it?”

“Monseigneur sent me, m’sieur, to see if you had commands for me.”

Saint-Vire shot him a quick look, leaning back in his chair, one hand lying lightly clenched on the table.

“Thank you, no,” Hugh replied. “Unless—Saint-Vire, will you drink with me? And you, messieurs?”

“I thank you, Davenant,” said the Comte. “You have no thirst, Lavoulčre?”

“At the moment, no. Oh, if you all must drink, then so will I!”

“Léon, will you fetch burgundy, please?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” bowed Léon. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He walked away again, looking about him appreciatively. When he returned he made use of the lesson just learned at Avon’s table, and presented the silver tray first to Saint-Vire.

The Comte turned in his chair and, picking up the decanter, slowly poured out a glassful, and handed it to Davenant. He poured out another, his eyes on Léon’s face. Conscious of the steady regard Léon looked up, and met Saint-Vire’s eyes frankly. The Comte held the decanter poised, but poured no more for a long minute.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Léon, m’sieur.”

Saint-Vire smiled.

“No more?”

The curly head was shaken.

“Je ne sais plus rien, m’sieur.”

“So ignorant?” Saint-Vire went on with his work. As he picked up the last glass he spoke again. “Methinks you have not been long with M. le Duc?”

“No, m’sieur. As m’sieur says.” Léon rose, and looked across at Davenant. “M’sieur?”

“That is all, Léon, thank you.”

“So you have found a use for him, Hugh? Was I not wise to bring him? Your servant, Lavoulčre.”

The soft voice startled Saint-Vire, and his hand shook, so that a little liquid was spilled from his glass. Avon stood at his side, quizzing-glass raised.

“A very prince of pages,” smiled Lavoulčre. “How is your luck to-night, Justin?”

“Wearisome,” sighed the Duke. “For a week it has been impossible to lose. From the dreamy expression on Hugh’s face I infer that it is not so with him.” He went to stand behind Hugh’s chair, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Belike, my dear Hugh, I shall bring you better luck.”

“I have never known you do that yet,” retorted Davenant. He set down his emptied glass. “Shall we play again?”

“By all means,” nodded Saint-Vire. “You and I are in a sad way, Davenant.”

“And shall soon be in a sadder,” remarked Hugh, shuffling the pack. “Remind me, Lavoulčre, that in future I only play with you as my partner.” He dealt the cards round, and, as he did so, spoke quietly to the Duke, in English. “Send the child downstairs, Alastair. You have no need of him.”

“I am as wax in your hands,” replied his Grace. “He has served his turn. Léon, you will await me in the hall.” He stretched out his hand to pick up Hugh’s cards. “Dear me!” He laid them down again, and watched the play in silence for a while.

At the end of the round Lavoulčre spoke to him.

“Where is your brother, Alastair? The so charming youth! He is quite, quite mad!”

“Lamentably so. Rupert, for all I know, is either languishing in an English sponging house, or living upon my hapless brother-in-law’s bounty.”

“That is Miladi Fanny’s husband, yes? Edward Marling, n’est-ce pas? You have only one brother and sister?”

“They more than suffice me,” said his Grace.

Lavoulčre laughed.

“Voyons, it amuses me, your family! Is there no love between you at all?”

“Very little.”

“And yet I have heard that you reared them, those two!”

“I have no recollection of it,” said Justin.

“Come now, Justin, when your mother died you kept a hand on the reins!” expostulated Davenant.

“But lightly, my dear. Enough only to make both a little afraid of me; no more.”

“Lady Fanny is very fond of you.”

“Yes, I believe she is occasionally,” agreed Justin calmly.

“Ah, Miladi Fanny!” Lavoulčre kissed his finger-tips. “Behold! how she is ravissante!”

“Also behold that Hugh wins,” drawled his Grace. “My compliments, Davenant.” He shifted his position slightly, so that he faced Saint-Vire. “Pray how is Madame, your charming wife, dear Comte?”

“Madame is well, I thank you, m’sieur.”

“And the Vicomte, your so enchanting son?”

“Also.”

“Not here to-night, I think?” Avon raised his glass, and through it surveyed the room. “I am desolated. No doubt you deem him too young for these delights? He is but nineteen, I believe?”

Saint-Vire laid his cards face downwards on the table, and looked angrily up at that handsome, enigmatic countenance.

“You are most interested in my son, M. le Duc!”

The hazel eyes widened and narrowed again.

“But how could it be otherwise?” asked the Duke politely.

Saint-Vire picked up his cards again.

“He is at Versailles, with his mother,” he said curtly. “My play, Lavoulčre?”

CHAPTER III

Which tells of a Debt Unpaid

When Davenant returned to the house in the Rue St.-Honoré, he found that although Léon had long since come in, and was now in bed, his Grace was still out. Guessing that Avon had gone from Vassaud’s to visit his latest light o’ love, Hugh went into the library to await him. Soon the Duke sauntered in, poured himself out a glass of canary wine, and came to the fire.

“A most instructive evening. I hope my very dear friend Saint-Vire recovered from the sorrow my early departure must have occasioned him?”

“I think so,” smiled Hugh. He rested his head back against the cushions of his chair, and looked at the Duke with rather a puzzled expression on his face. “Why do you so hate one another, Justin?”

The straight brows rose.

“Hate? I? My dear Hugh!”

“Very well, if you like it better I will say why does Saint-Vire hate you?”

“It is a very old tale, Hugh; almost a forgotten tale. The—er—contretemps between the amiable Comte and myself took place in the days before I had the advantage of possessing your friendship, you see.”

“So there was a contretemps? I suppose you behaved abominably?”

“What I admire in you, my dear, is your charming candour,” remarked his Grace. “But in this instance I did not behave abominably. Amazing, is it not?”

“What happened?”

“Very little. It was really quite trivial. So trivial that nearly every one has forgotten it.”

“It was a woman, of course?”

“Even so. No less a personage than the present Duchesse de Belcour.”

“Duchesse de Belcour?” Hugh sat upright in surprise. “Saint-Vire’s sister? That red-haired shrew?”

“Yes, that red-haired shrew. As far as I remember, I admired her—er—shrewishness—twenty years ago. She was really very lovely.”

“Twenty years ago! So long! Justin, surely you did not——”

“I wanted to wed her,” said Avon pensively. “Being young and foolish. It seems incredible now; yet so it was. I applied for permission to woo her—yes, is it not amusing?—to her worthy father.” He paused, looking into the fire. “I was—let me see! twenty—a little more; I forget. My father and her father had not been the best of friends. Again a woman; I believe my sire won that encounter. I suppose it rankled. And on my side there were, even at that age, my dear, some trifling intrigues.” His shoulders shook. “There always are—in my family. The old Comte refused to give me leave to woo his daughter. Not altogether surprising, you think? No, I did not elope with her. Instead I received a visit from Saint-Vire. He was then Vicomte de Valmé. That visit was almost humiliating.” The lines about Justin’s mouth were grim. “Al-most hu-miliating.”

“For you?”

Avon smiled.

“For me. The noble Henri came to my lodging with a large and heavy whip.” He looked down as Hugh gasped, and the smile grew. “No, my dear, I was not thrashed. To resume: Henri was enraged; there was a something between us, maybe a woman—I forget. He was very much enraged. It should afford me some consolation, that. I had dared to raise my profligate eyes to the daughter of that most austere family of Saint-Vire. Have you ever noticed the austerity? It lies in the fact that the Saint-Vire amours are carried on in secrecy. Mine, as you know, are quite open. You perceive the nice distinction? Bon!” Avon had seated himself on the arm of a chair, legs crossed. He started to twirl his wine glass, holding the narrow stem between thumb and finger. “My licentious—I quote his very words, Hugh—behaviour; my entire lack of morals; my soiled reputation; my vicious mind; my—but I forget the rest. It was epic—all these made my perfectly honourable proposal an insult. I was to understand that I was as the dirt beneath the Saint-Vire feet. There was much more, but at length the noble Henri came to his peroration. For my impudence I was to receive a thrashing at his hands. I! Alastair of Avon!”

“But, Justin, he must have been mad! It was not as though you were low-born! The Alastairs——”

“Precisely. He was mad. These red-haired people, my dear Hugh! And there was something between us. No doubt I had at some time or other behaved abominably to him. There followed, as you may imagine, a short argument. It did not take me long to come to my peroration. In short, I had the pleasure of cutting his face open with his own whip. Out came his sword.” Avon stretched out his arm, and the muscles rippled beneath the satin of his coat sleeve. “I was young, but I knew a little of the art of the duello, even in those days. I pinked him so well that he had to be carried home in my coach, by my lackeys. When he had departed I gave myself up to thought. You see, my dear, I was, or fancied that I was, very much in love with that—er—red-haired shrew. The noble Henri had told me that his sister had deemed herself insulted by my court. It occurred to me that perhaps the lady had mistaken my suit for a casual intrigue. I visited the Hotel Saint-Vire to make known mine intentions. I was received not by her father, but by the noble Henri, reclining upon a couch. There were also some friends of his. I forget. Before them, before his lackeys, he informed me that he stood in—er—loco parentis, and that his sister’s hand was denied me. Further that if I so much as dared to accost her his servants would whip me from her presence.”

“Good God!” cried Hugh.

“So I thought. I retired. What would you? I could not touch the man; I had well-nigh killed him already. When next I appeared in public I found that my visit to the Hôtel Saint-Vire had become the talk of Paris. I was compelled to leave France for a time. Happily another scandal arose which cast mine into the shade, so Paris was once more open to me. It is an old, old story, Hugh, but I have not forgotten.”

“And he?”

“He has not forgotten either. He was half mad at the time, but he would not apologize when he came to his senses; I don’t think I expected him to do so. We meet now as distant acquaintances; we are polite—oh, scrupulously!—but he knows that I am still waiting.”

“Waiting . . . ?”

Justin walked to the table and set down his glass.

“For an opportunity to pay that debt in full,” he said softly.

“Vengeance?” Hugh leaned forward. “I thought you disliked melodrama, my friend?”

“I do; but I have a veritable passion for—justice.”

“You’ve nourished thoughts of—vengeance—for twenty years?”

“My dear Hugh, if you imagine that the lust for vengeance has been my dominating emotion for twenty years, permit me to correct the illusion.”

“Has it not grown cold?” Hugh asked, disregarding.

“Very cold, my dear, but none the less dangerous.”

“And all this time not one opportunity has presented itself?”

“You see, I wish it to be thorough,” apologized the Duke.

“Are you nearer success now than you were—twenty years ago?”

A soundless laugh shook Justin.

“We shall see. Rest assured that when it comes it will be—so!” Very slowly he clenched his hand on his snuff-box, and opened his fingers to show the thin gold crushed.

Hugh gave a little shiver.

“My God, Justin, do you know just how vile you can be?”

“Naturally Do they not call me—Satanas?” The mocking smile came; the eyes glittered.

“I hope to heaven Saint-Vire never puts himself in your power! It seems they were right who named you Satanas!”

“Quite right, my poor Hugh.”

“Does Saint-Vire’s brother know?”

“Armand? No one knows save you, and I, and Saint-Vire. Armand may guess, of course.”

“And yet you and he are friends!”

“Oh, Armand’s hatred for the noble Henri is more violent than ever mine could be.”

In spite of himself Hugh smiled.

“It is a race betwixt you, then?”

“Not a whit. I should have said that Armand’s is a sullen detestation. Unlike me, he is content to hate.”

“He, I suppose, would sell his soul for Saint-Vire’s shoes.”

“And Saint-Vire,” said Avon gently, “would sell his soul to keep those shoes from Armand.”

“Yes, one knows that. It was common gossip at the time that that was his reason for marrying. One could not accuse him of loving his wife!”

“No,” said Justin, and chuckled as though at some secret thought.

“Well,” Hugh went on, “Armand’s hopes of the title were very surely dashed when Madame presented Saint-Vire with a son!”

“Precisely,” said Justin.

“A triumph for Saint-Vire, that!”

“A triumph indeed,” suavely agreed his Grace.

CHAPTER IV

His Grace of Avon Becomes Further Acquainted with his Page

For Léon the days passed swiftly, each one teeming with some new excitement. Never in his life had he seen such sights as now met his eyes. He was dazzled by the new life spread before him; from living in a humble, dirty tavern, he was transported suddenly into gorgeous surroundings, fed with strange foods, clad in fine clothes, and taken into the midst of aristocratic Paris. All at once life seemed to consist of silks and diamonds, bright lights, and awe-inspiring figures. Ladies whose fingers were covered with rings, and whose costly brocades held an elusive perfume, would stop to smile at him sometimes; great gentlemen with powdered wigs and high heels would flip his head with careless fingers as they passed. Even Monseigneur sometimes spoke to him.

Fashionable Paris grew accustomed to see him long before he became accustomed to his new existence. After a while people ceased to stare at him when he came in Avon’s wake, but it was some time before he ceased to gaze on all that met his eyes, in wondering appreciation.

To the amazement of Avon’s household, he still persisted in his worship of the Duke. Nothing could shake him from his standpoint, and if one of the lackeys vented his outraged feelings below-stairs in a tirade against Avon, Léon was up in arms at once, blind rage taking possession of him. Since the Duke had ordained that none should lay violent hands on his page, save at his express command, the lackeys curbed their tongues in Léon’s presence, for he was over-ready with his dagger, and they dared not disobey the Duke’s orders. Gaston, the valet, felt that this hot partisanship was sadly wrong; that any should defend the Duke struck forcibly at his sense of propriety, and more than once he tried to convince the page that it was the duty of any self-respecting menial to loathe the Duke.

“Mon petit,” he said firmly, “it is ridiculous. It is unthinkable. Męme, it is outrageous. It is against all custom. The Duke, he is not human. Some call him Satanas, and, mon Dieu, they have reason!”

“I have never seen Satan,” answered Léon, from a large chair where he sat with his feet tucked under him. “But I do not think that Monseigneur is like him.” He reflected. “But if he is like the devil no doubt I should like the devil very much. My brother says I am a child of the devil.”

“That is shame!” said fat Madame Dubois, the housekeeper, shocked.

“Faith, he has the devil’s own temper!” chuckled Gregory, a footman.

“But listen to me, you!” insisted Gaston. “M. le Duc is of a hardness! Ah, but who should know better than I? I tell you, moi qui vous parle, if he would but be enraged all would go well. If he would throw his mirror at my head I would say naught! That is a gentleman, a noble! But the Duc! Bah! he speaks softly—oh, so softly!—and his eyes they are al-most shut, while his voice—voila, I shudder!” He did shudder, but revived at the murmur of applause. “And you, petit! When has he spoken to you as a boy? He speaks to you as his dog! Ah, but it is imbecile to admire such a man! It is not to be believed!”

“I am his dog. He is kind to me, and I love him,” said Léon firmly.

“Kind! Madame, you hear?” Gaston appealed to the housekeeper, who sighed, and folded her hands.

“He is very young,” she said.

“Now I will tell you of a thing!” Gaston exclaimed. “This Duc, what did he do, think you, three years ago? You see this hôtel? It is fine, it is costly! Eh bien! Me, I have served the Duke for six years, so you may know that I speak truth. Three years ago he was poor! There were debts and mortgages. Oh, we lived the same, bien sűr; the Alastairs are always thus. We had always the same magnificence, but there were only debts behind the splendour. Me, I know. Then we go to Vienna. As ever, the Duc he play for great stakes: that is the way of his house. At first he loses. You would not say he cared, for still he smiles. That too is his way. Then there comes a young nobleman, very rich, very joyous. He plays with the Duc. He loses; he suggests a higher stake; the Duc, he agrees. What would you? Still that young noble loses. On and on, until at last—pouf! It is over! That fortune, it has changed hands. The young man he is ruined—absolument! The Duc, he goes away. He smiles—ah, that smile! The young man fights a duel with pistols a little later, and he fires wide, wide! Because he was ruined he chose Death! And the Duc—” Gaston waved his hands—“he comes to Paris and buys this hôtel with that young noble’s fortune!”

“Ah!” sighed Madame, and shook her head.

Léon tilted his chin a little.

“It is no such great matter. Monseigneur would always play fair. That young man was a fool. Voilŕ tout!”

“Mon Dieu, is it thus you speak of the wickedness? Ah, but I could tell of things! If you knew the women that the Duc has courted! If you knew——”

“Monsieur!” Madame Dubois raised protesting hands. “Before me?”

“I ask pardon, madame. No, I say nothing. Nothing! But what I know!”

“Some men,” said Léon gravely, “are like that, I think. I have seen many.”

“Fi donc!” Madame cried. “So young, too!”

Léon disregarded the interruption, and looked at Gaston with a worldly wisdom that sat quaintly on his young face.

“And when I have seen these things I have thought that it is always the woman’s fault.”

“Hear the child!” exclaimed Madame. “What do you know, petit, at your age?”

Léon shrugged one shoulder, and bent again over his book.

“Perhaps naught,” he answered.

Gaston frowned upon him, and would have continued the discussion had not Gregory forestalled him.

“Tell me, Léon, do you accompany the Duke to-night?”

“I always go with him.”

“Poor, poor child!” Madame Dubois sighed gustily. “Indeed, it is not fitting.”

“Why is it not fitting? I like to go.”

“I doubt it not, mon enfant. But to take a child to Vassaud’s, and to Torquillier’s—voyons, it is not convenable!”

Léon’s eyes sparkled mischievously.

“Last night I went with Monseigneur to the Maison Chourval,” he said demurely.

“What!” Madame sank back in her chair. “It passes all bounds!”

“Have you been there, Madame?”

“I? Nom de Dieu, what next will you ask? Is it likely that I should go to such a place?”

“No, Madame. It is for the nobles, is it not?”

Madame snorted.

“And for every pretty slut who walks the streets!” she retorted.

Léon tilted his head to one side.

“Me, I did not think them pretty. Painted, and vulgar, with loud voices, and common tricks. But I did not see much.” His brow wrinkled. “I do not know—I think perhaps I had offended Monseigneur, for of a sudden he swept round, and said ‘Await me below!’ He said it as though he were angered.”

“Tell us, Léon, what is it like, the Maison Chourval?” asked Gaston, unable to conceal his curiosity.

“Oh, it is a big hôtel, all gold and dirty white, and smelling of some scent that suffocates one. There is a card-room, and other rooms; I forget. There was much wine, and some were drunk. Others, like Monseigneur, were just bored. The women—ah, they are just nothing!”

Gaston was rather disappointed; he opened his mouth to question Léon further, but madame’s eye was upon him, and he shut it again. A bell was heard in the distance, and at the sound of it Léon shut his book, and untucked his legs, waiting expectantly. A few minutes later a footman appeared with a summons for him. The page sprang up delightedly, and ran to where a cracked mirror hung. Madame Dubois watched him smooth his copper curls, and smiled indulgently.

“Voyons, petit, you are as conceited as a girl,” she remarked.

Léon flushed, and left the mirror.

“Would you have me present myself to Monseigneur in disorder? I suppose he is going out. Where is my hat? Gaston, you have sat upon it!” He snatched it from the valet, and, hurriedly twitching it into shape, went out in the wake of the footman.

Avon was standing in the hall, talking to Hugh Davenant. He twirled a pair of soft gloves by their tassels, and his three-cornered hat was under one arm. Léon sank down on to one knee.

The hard eyes travelled over him indifferently.

“Well?”

“Monseigneur sent for me?”

“Did I? Yes, I believe you are right. I am going out. Do you come with me, Hugh?”

“Where?” asked Davenant. He bent over the fire, warming his hands.

“I thought it might be amusing to visit La Fournoise.”

Hugh made a grimace of distaste.

“I like actresses on the stage, Justin, but not off it. La Fournoise is too opulent.”

“So she is. You may go, Léon. Take my gloves.” He tossed them to the page, and his hat after them. “Come and play at piquet, Hugh.” He strolled away to the salon, yawning, and with a tiny shrug of his shoulders Hugh followed.

At the Comtesse de Marguéry’s ball that night Léon was left to await his master in the hall. He found a chair in a secluded corner, and settled down quite contentedly to watch the arrival of the guests. As it was the Duke’s custom to make his appearance as late as possible, he was not very hopeful of seeing many arrivals. He pulled a book out of his capacious pocket, and started to read.

For a while only the desultory conversation of the lackeys came to his ears, as they lounged against the stair-rail. Then suddenly they sprang to attention, and the idle chatter stopped. One flung open the door, while another stood ready to relieve this late-comer of his hat and cloak.

Léon raised his eyes from his book in time to see the Comte de Saint-Vire enter. He was becoming familiar with the notables of town, but even had this not been so Saint-Vire would have been hard to mistake. In these days of fastidiousness in all matters of dress the Comte was conspicuous for the carelessness with which he bore himself, and the slight disorder of his clothes. He was tall, and loose-limbed, with a heavy face, and beak-like nose. His mouth had a sullen curve, and his eyes a latent fierceness in their dark pupils. As usual his thick hair, rather grizzled now, was inadequately powdered, so that here and there a gleam of red showed. He wore many jewels, seemingly chosen at random, and with no regard to the colour of his coat.

His coat was revealed now, as he allowed the attendant lackey to take his long cloak. Purple velvet met Léon’s critical eye; a salmon-pink vest with embroidering in gold and silver; purple small clothes with white stockings loosely rolled above the knee, and red-heeled shoes with large jewelled buckles. The Comte shook out his ruffles, and put up one hand to straighten his tumbled cravat. As he did so he cast a quick glance about him, and saw the page. A frown came, and the heavy mouth pouted a little. The Comte gave the lace at his throat an impatient twist, and walked slowly towards the stairs. With his hand on the rail he paused and, half-turning, jerked his head as a sign that he wished to speak to Léon.

The page rose at once, and went to him.

“M’sieur?”

The spatulate fingers on the rail drummed methodically; Saint-Vire looked the page over broodingly, and for a moment did not speak.

“Your master is here?” he said at last, and the very lameness of the question seemed to indicate that it was but an excuse to call Léon to him.

“Yes, m’sieur.”

The Comte hesitated still, tapping his foot on the polished floor.

“You accompany him everywhere, I believe?”

“When Monseigneur wishes it, m’sieur.”

“From where do you come?” Then, as Léon looked puzzled, he changed the question, speaking sharply. “Where were you born?”

Léon let fall the long lashes over his eyes.

“In the country, m’sieur,” he said.

The Comte’s thick brows drew together.

“What part of the country?”

“I do not know, m’sieur.”

“You are strangely ignorant,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically.

“Yes, m’sieur.” Léon glanced up, chin firmly set. “I do not know why m’sieur should take so great an interest in me.”

“You are impertinent. I have no interest in peasant-children.” The Comte went on up the staircase, to the ballroom.

In a group by the door stood his Grace of Avon, clad in shades of blue, with his star on his breast, a cluster of blazing diamonds. Saint-Vire paused for a moment before he tapped that straight shoulder.

“If you please, m’sieur . . . !”

The Duke turned to see who accosted him, eyebrows raised. When his eyes alighted on Saint-Vire the haughty look faded, and he smiled, bowing with the exaggerated flourish that made a veiled insult of the courtesy.

“My dear Comte! I had almost begun to fear that I should not have the felicity of meeting you here to-night. I trust I see you well?”

“I thank you, yes.” Saint-Vire would have passed on, but again his Grace stood in the way.

“Strange to say, dear Comte, Florimond and I were but this instant speaking of you—your brother, rather. Where is the good Armand?”

“My brother, m’sieur, is this month in attendance at Versailles.”

“Ah? Quite a family gathering at Versailles,” smiled the Duke. “I trust the Vicomte, your so charming son, finds court life to his taste?”

The man who stood at the Duke’s elbow laughed a little at this, and addressed Saint-Vire.

“The Vicomte is quite an original, is he not, Henri?”

“Oh, the boy is young yet!” Saint-Vire answered. “He likes court well enough.”

Florimond de Chantourelle tittered amiably.

“He so amused me with his megrims and his sighs! He told me once that he liked best to be in the country, and that ’twas his ambition to have a farm under his own management at Saint-Vire!”

A shadow crossed the Comte’s face.

“A boy’s fancy. When at Saint-Vire he pines for Paris. Your pardon, messieurs—I see Madame de Marguéry.” He brushed past Avon as he spoke, making his way towards his hostess.

“Our friend is always so delightfully brusque,” remarked the Duke. “One wonders why he is tolerated.”

“He has moods,” answered Chantourelle. “Sometimes he is very agreeable, but he is not much liked. Now Armand is another matter. Of a gaiety——! You know that there is enmity between them?” He lowered his voice mysteriously, agog to relate the tale.

“The dear Comte is at pains to show us that it is so,” said Avon. “My esteemed friend!” He waved one languid hand to a lavishly powdered and painted individual. “Did I see you with Mademoiselle de Sonnebrune? Now that is a taste I find hard to cultivate.”

The painted gentleman paused, simpering.

“Oh, my dear Duc, she is the dernier cri! One must worship at her feet; it is de rigueur, I assure you.”

Avon put up his glass the better to observe Mademoiselle.

“H’m! Is Paris so devoid of beauties, then?”

“You do not admire her, no? It is a stately beauty, of course.” He was silent for a while, watching the dancers; then he turned again to Avon. “A propos, Duc, is it true that you have acquired a most striking page? I have been out of Paris this fortnight, but I hear now that a red-haired boy goes everywhere in your wake.”

“Quite true,” said Justin. “I thought that the violent but fleeting interest of the world had died?”

“No, oh no! It was Saint-Vire who spoke of the boy. It seems there is some mystery attached to him, is it not so? A nameless page!”

Justin turned his rings round, smiling faintly.

“You may tell Saint-Vire, my friend, that there is no mystery. The page has a very good name.”

“I may tell him?” The Vicomte was puzzled. “But why, Duc? ’Twas but an idle conversation.”

“Naturally.” The enigmatical smile grew. “I should have said that you may tell him if he asks again.”

“Certainly, but I do not suppose—Ah, there is Davenant! Mille pardons, Duc!” He minced away to meet Davenant.

Avon smothered a yawn in his scented handkerchief, and proceeded in his leisurely fashion to the card-room, where he remained for perhaps an hour. Then he sought out his hostess, complimented her in his soft voice, and departed.

Léon was half asleep downstairs, but he opened his eyes as the Duke’s footfall sounded, and jumped up. He assisted the Duke into his cloak, handed him his hat and gloves, and asked whether he was to summon a chair. But the Duke elected to walk, and further commanded his page to keep step beside him. They walked slowly down the street and had turned the corner before Avon spoke.

“My child, when the Comte de Saint-Vire questioned you this evening, what did you answer?”

Léon gave a little skip of surprise, looking up at his master in frank wonderment.

“How did you know, Monseigneur? I did not see you.”

“Possibly not. No doubt you will answer my question in your own good time.”

“Pardon, Monseigneur! M. le Comte asked me where I was born. I do not understand why he should wish to know.”

“I suppose you told him so?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” nodded Léon. He looked up, twinkling. “I thought you would not be angered if I spoke just a little rudely to that one?” He saw Avon’s lips curl, and flushed in triumph at having made the Duke smile.

“Very shrewd,” remarked Justin. “And then you said——?”

“I said I did not know, Monseigneur. It is true.”

“A comforting thought.”

“Yes,” agreed the page. “I do not like to tell lies.”

“No?” For once Avon seemed disposed to encourage his page to talk. Nothing loth, Léon continued.

“No, Monseigneur. Of course it is sometimes necessary, but I do not like it. Once or twice I lied to Jean because I was afraid to tell the truth, but that is cowardly, n’est-ce pas? I think it is not so wicked to lie to your enemy, but one could not lie—to a friend, or—or to somebody one loved. That would be a black sin, would it not?”

“As I cannot remember ever having loved anyone, I am hardly fitted to answer that question, my child.”

Léon considered him gravely.

“No one?” he asked. “Me, I do not love often, but when I do it is for ever. I loved my mother, and the Curé, and—and I love you, Monseigneur.”

“I beg your pardon?” Avon was a little startled.

“I—I only said that I loved you, Monseigneur.”

“I thought that I could not have heard aright. It is, of course, gratifying, but I do not think you have chosen too wisely. I am sure they will seek to reform you, below-stairs.”

The big eyes flashed.

“They dare not!”

The quizzing-glass was raised.

“Indeed? Are you so formidable?”

“I have a very bad temper, Monseigneur.”

“And you use it in my defence. It is most amusing. Do you fly out upon—my valet, for instance?”

Léon gave a tiny sniff of scorn.

“Oh, he is just a fool, Monseigneur!”

“Lamentably a fool. I have often remarked it.”

They had come to Avon’s hôtel by now, and the waiting lackeys held the door for them to pass through. In the hall Avon paused, while Léon stood expectantly before him.

“You may bring wine to the library,” said the Duke, and went in.

When Léon appeared with a heavy silver tray Justin was seated by the fire, his feet upon the hearth. Beneath drooping lids he watched his page pour out a glass of burgundy. Léon brought it to him.

“Thank you.” Avon smiled at Léon’s evident surprise at the unusual courtesy. “No doubt you imagined that I was sadly lacking in manners? You may sit down. At my feet.”

Léon promptly curled up on the rug, cross-legged, and sat looking at the Duke, rather bewildered, but palpably pleased.

Justin drank a little wine, still watching the page, and then set the glass down on a small table at his elbow.

“You find me a trifle unexpected? I desire to be entertained.”

Léon looked at him seriously.

“What shall I do, Monseigneur?”

“You may talk,” Avon said. “Your youthful views on life are most amusing. Pray continue.”

Léon laughed suddenly.

“I do not know what to say, Monseigneur! I do not think I have anything interesting to talk about. I chatter and chatter, they tell me, but it is all nothing. Madame Dubois lets me talk, but Walker—ah, Walker is dull and strict!”

“Who is Madame—er—Dubois?”

Léon opened his eyes very wide.

“But she is your housekeeper, Monseigneur!”

“Really? I have never seen her. Is she a stimulating auditor?”

“Monseigneur?”

“No matter. Tell me of your life in Anjou. Before Jean brought you to Paris.”

Léon settled himself more comfortably, and as the arm of Avon’s chair was near enough to be an inviting prop, he leaned against it, unaware that he was committing a breach of etiquette. Avon said nothing, but picked up his glass and started to sip the wine it held.

“In Anjou—it is all so very far away,” sighed Léon. “We lived in a little house, and there were horses and cows and pigs—oh, many animals! And my father did not like it that I would not touch the cows or the pigs. They were dirty, you understand. Maman said I should not work on the farm, but she made me care for the fowls. I did not mind that so much. There was one speckled hen, all mine. Jean stole it to tease me. Jean is like that, you know. Then there was M. le Curé. He lived a little way from our farm, in a tiny house next the church. And he was very, very good and kind. He gave me sweetmeats when I learned my lessons well, and sometimes he told stories—oh, wonderful stories of fairies and knights! I was only a baby then, but I can still remember them. And my father said it was not seemly that a priest should tell of things that are not, like fairies. I was not very fond of my father. He was like Jean, a little. . . . Then there was the plague, and people died. I went to the Curé, and—but Monseigneur knows all this.”

“Tell me of your life in Paris, then,” said Justin.

Léon nested his head against the arm of the chair, looking dreamily into the fire. The cluster of candles at Avon’s elbow played softly over the copper curls so that they seemed alive and on fire in the golden light. Léon’s delicate profile was turned towards the Duke, and he watched it inscrutably; each quiver of the fine lips, each flicker of the dark lashes. And so Léon told his tale, haltingly at first, and shyly, hesitating over the more sordid parts, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion until he seemed to forget to whom he spoke, and lost himself in his narration. Avon listened in silence, sometimes smiling at the quaint philosophy the boy unfolded, but more often expressionless, always watching Léon’s face with narrowed keen eyes. The hardships and endurances of those years in Paris were revealed more by what was left unsaid than by any complaint or direct allusion to the petty tyrannies and cruelties of Jean and his wife. At times the recital was that of a child, but every now and then a note of age and experience crept into the little deep voice, lending a strange whimsicality to the story, which seemed to invest the teller with a Puck-like quality of old and young wisdom. When at last the rambling tale was finished Léon moved slightly, and put up a timid hand to touch the Duke’s sleeve.

“And then you came, Monseigneur, and you brought me here, giving me everything. I shall never forget that.”

“You have not seen the worst of me yet, my friend,” answered Justin. “I am really not the hero you think me. When I bought you from your estimable brother it was not, believe me, from any desire to save you from bondage. I had a use for you. If it should chance that you are after all of no use to me I am quite likely to cast you forth. I say this that you may be warned.”

“If you send me away I will drown myself!” said Léon passionately. “When you are tired of me, Monseigneur, I will serve in your kitchen. But I will never leave you.”

“Oh, when I am tired of you I shall give you to Mr. Davenant!” Avon chuckled a little. “It should be amusing—Dear me, speak of angels——!”

Hugh came quietly in, but paused on the threshold, staring at the two by the fire.

“Quite a touching picture, eh, Hugh? Satanas in a new rôle.” He flicked Léon’s head with one careless finger. “Bed, my child.”

Léon rose at once, and reverently kissed the Duke’s hand. With a little bow to Davenant he went out.

Hugh waited until he had closed the door; then he strode forward to the fire, frowning. Resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, his other hand thrust deep into his pocket, he stood looking down at his friend with a good deal of severity in his glance.

“When are you going to end this folly?” he demanded.

Justin tilted his head back, returning the angry stare with one of amused cynicism.

“What ails you now, my good Hugh?”

“Seeing that child at your feet fills me with—disgust!”

“Yes, I thought that you seemed perturbed. It must tickle your sense of the ridiculous to observe me upon a pinnacle of heroism.”

“It sickens me! The child worshipping at your feet! I hope his admiration stings you! If it could make you realize your own unworthiness it were to some purpose!”

“Unhappily it does not. May I ask, my dear Hugh, why you take so great an interest in—a page?”

“It is his youth and innocence that command my pity.”

“Curiously enough he is by no means as innocent as you imagine.”

Davenant turned impatiently on his heel. He walked to the door, but as he opened it Avon spoke again.

“By the way, my dear, I am relieving you of my company to-morrow. Pray hold me excused from going with you to Lourdonne’s card-party.”

Hugh looked back.

“Oh? Where are you going?”

“I am going to Versailles. I feel that it is time I again paid homage to King Louis. I suppose it is useless to ask your company?”

“Quite, I thank you. I’ve no love for Versailles. Is Léon to go with you?”

“I have really not given the matter a thought. It seems probable. Unless you wish to take him to Lourdonne’s?”

Hugh left the room without a word.

CHAPTER V

His Grace of Avon Visits Versailles

The Duke’s light town coach, with its four grey horses, stood at the door of his house shortly before six on the following evening. The horses champed at their bits and tossed their beautiful heads in impatience, and the paved courtyard rang with the sound of their stamping. The postilions, liveried in black and gold, stood to their heads, for the Duke’s horses were not chosen for their docility.

In the hall Léon awaited his master, aglow with excitement. His Grace had issued certain orders earlier in the day; in accordance with them the page was dressed in black velvet, with real lace at his throat and wrists. He carried his tricorne beneath his arm, and in his other hand he held his master’s beribboned cane.

Avon came slowly down the stairs, and seeing him Léon drew in a quick breath of wonderment. The Duke was always magnificent, but to-night he had surpassed himself. His coat was made of cloth-of-gold, and on it the blue ribbon of the Garter lay, and three orders blazed in the light of the candles. Diamonds nestled in the lace of his cravat, and formed a solid bar above the riband that tied back his powdered hair. His shoes had jewelled heels and buckles, and below his knee he wore the Garter. Over his arm he carried a long black cloak, lined with gold, which he handed to Léon; and in his hand was his snuff-box, and scented handkerchief. He looked his page over in silence, and frowned at last, and turned to his valet.

“You may perhaps call to mind, my good Gaston, a golden chain studded with sapphires, presented to me by I forget whom. Also a sapphire clasp in the shape of a circle.”

“Y-yes, Monseigneur?”

“Fetch them.”

Gaston hurried away, presently to reappear with the required ornaments. Avon took the heavy sapphire chain and threw it over Léon’s head so that it lay across his breast, glowing with an inward fire, yet no brighter or more liquid than the boy’s eyes.

“Monseigneur!” gasped Léon. He put up his hand to feel the precious chain.

“Give me your hat. The clasp, Gaston.” Unhurriedly he fixed the diamond and sapphire circle on the upturned brim of the page’s hat. Then he gave it to Léon, and stepped back to observe the effect of his handiwork. “Yes, I wonder why I never thought of sapphires before? The door, my infant.”

Still dazed by his master’s unexpected action, Léon flew to open the door for him. Avon passed out, and climbed into the waiting coach. Léon looked up at him inquiringly, wondering whether he was to mount the box or enter with his master.

“Yes, you may come with me,” said Avon, answering the unspoken question. “Tell them to let go the horses.”

Léon delivered the order, and sprang hurriedly into the coach, for he knew the ways of Avon’s horses. The postilions mounted quickly, and in a trice the fretting horses leaped forward in their collars, and the coach swerved round towards the wrought-iron gates. Out they swept, and down the narrow street as swiftly as was possible. But the very narrowness of the street, the slippery cobble-stones, and the many twists and turns, made their progress necessarily slow, so that it was not until they came out on the road to Versailles that the speed and power of the horses could be demonstrated. Then they seemed to spring forward as one, and the coach bowled along at a furious pace, lurching a little over the worst bumps in the road, but so well sprung that for the most part the surface of the road might have been of glass for all the jolting or inconvenience that the occupants felt.

It was some time before Léon could find words to thank the Duke for his chain. He sat on the edge of the seat beside the Duke, fingering the polished stones in awe, and trying to squint down at his breast to see how the chain looked. At length he drew a deep breath and turned to gaze at his master, who lay back against the velvet cushions idly surveying the flying landscape.

“Monseigneur—this is—too precious for—me to wear,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Do you think so?” Avon regarded his page with an amused smile.

“I—I would rather not wear it, Monseigneur. Suppose—suppose I were to lose it?”

“I should then be compelled to buy you another. You may lose it an you will. It is yours.”

“Mine?” Léon twisted his fingers together. “Mine, Monseigneur? You cannot mean that! I—I have done nothing—I could do nothing to deserve such a present.”

“I suppose it had not occurred to you that I pay you no wage? Somewhere in the Bible—I don’t know where—it says that the labourer is worthy of his hire. A manifestly false observation for the most part, of course, but I choose to give you that chain as—er—hire.”

Léon pulled his hat off at that, and slipped the chain over his head, almost throwing it at the Duke. His eyes burned dark in a very pale face.

“I do not want payment! I would work myself to death for you, but payment—no! A thousand times no! You make me angry!”

“Evidently,” murmured his Grace. He picked up the chain, and began to play with it. “Now I had imagined you would be pleased.”

Léon brushed his hand across his eyes. His voice shook a little as he answered.

“How could you think that? I—I never looked for payment! I served you for love, and—and out of gratitude, and—you give me a chain! As if—as if you thought I should not continue to work well for you without payment!”

“If I had thought that I should not have given it to you,” yawned his Grace. “It may interest you to know that I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion by my pages.”

“I—I am sorry, Monseigneur,” whispered Léon. He turned his face away, biting his lips.

Avon watched him for a time in silence, but presently the mixture of forlornness and hurt dignity in his page drew a soft laugh from him, and he pulled one of the bright curls admonishingly.

“Do you expect me to apologize, my good child?”

Léon jerked his head away, and still stared out of the window.

“You are very haughty.” The mocking note in that gentle voice brought a wave of colour to Léon’s cheeks.

“I—you are not—kind!”

“So you have just discovered that? But I do not see why I should be called unkind for rewarding you.”

“You do not understand!” said Léon fiercely.

“I understand that you deem yourself insulted, infant. It is most entertaining.”

A tiny sniff, which was also a sob, answered him. Again he laughed, and this time laid a hand on Léon’s shoulder. Under the steely pressure Léon came to his knees, and stayed there, eyes downcast. The chain was flung over his head.

“My Léon, you will wear this because it is my pleasure.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Léon stiffly.

The Duke took the pointed chin in his hand, and forced it up.

“I wonder why I bear with you?” he said. “The chain is a gift. Are you satisfied?”

Léon pressed his chin down quickly to kiss the Duke’s wrist.

“Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you. Indeed I am sorry.”

“Then you may sit down again.”

Léon picked up his hat, gave a shaky laugh, and settled himself on the wide seat beside the Duke.

“I think I have a very bad temper,” he remarked naively. “M. le Curé would have made me do penance for it. He used to say that temper is a black sin. He talked to me about it—oh, often!”

“You do not appear to have profited unduly from his discourse,” replied Avon dryly.

“No, Monseigneur. But it is difficult, you understand. My temper is too quick for me. In a minute it is up, and I cannot stop it. But I am nearly always sorry afterwards. Shall I see the King to-night?”

“Quite possibly. You will follow me close. And do not stare.”

“No, Monseigneur, I will try not to. But that is difficult too.” He looked round confidingly as he spoke, but the Duke, to all outward appearance, was asleep. So Léon snuggled into one corner of the coach, and prepared to enjoy the drive in silence. Occasionally they passed other vehicles, all bound for Versailles, but not once did a coach pass them. The four English thoroughbreds swept by their French brethren time and again, and those within the coaches that were left behind leaned out to see who it was that drove at such a pace. The crest on the door of Avon’s coach, seen in the light of their own lanterns, told them surely enough, and the black and gold livery was unmistakable.

“One might have known,” said the Marquis de Chourvanne, drawing in his head. “Who else would drive at such a pace?”

“The English Duc?” asked his wife.

“Of course. Now I met him last night and he spoke no word of coming to the levée to-night.”

“Theodore de Ventour told me that no one knows from one moment to the next where the Duc will be.”

“Poseur!” snorted the Marquis, and put up the window.

The black and gold coach rolled on its way, scarcely checking till Versailles was reached. Then it slowed to enter the gates, and Léon sat forward to peer interestedly out into the gloom. Very little met his eyes, save when the coach passed under a lamp, until they entered the Cour Royale. Léon stared first this way and then that. The three-sided court was a blaze of light, shining from every unshuttered window that gave on to it, and further supplemented by great flambeaux. Coaches were streaming in a long line to the entrance, pausing there to allow their burdens to alight, then passing on to allow others to take their place.

Not until they finally drew up at the door did the Duke open his eyes. He looked out, dispassionately surveying the brilliant court, and yawned.

“I suppose I must alight,” he remarked, and waited for his footman to let down the steps. Léon climbed down first, and turned to assist his Grace. The Duke stepped slowly out, paused for a moment to look at the waiting coaches, and strolled past the palace lackeys with Léon at his heels, still holding the cloak and cane. Avon nodded to him to relinquish both to an expectant servant, and proceeded through the various antechambers to the Marble Court, where he was soon lost in the crowd. Léon followed as best he might while Avon greeted his friends. He had ample opportunity for taking stock of his surroundings, but the vast dimensions of the court, and its magnificence, dazzled him. After what seemed to be an interminable time, he found that they were no longer in the Marble Court, having moved slowly but surely to the left. They stood now before a great marble staircase, heavily encrusted with gold, up which a stream of people were wending their way. Avon fell in with a very much painted lady, and offered his arm. Together they mounted the broad stairs, crossed the hall at the top, and traversed various chambers until they came to the old Śil de Bśuf. Restraining an impulse to clutch the whaleboned skirts of Avon’s coat, Léon followed him as closely as he dared into a room beside which all the others through which he had passed faded to nothingness. Some one had said downstairs that the levée was being held in the Galerie des Glaces; Léon realized that this was it. It seemed to him that the huge gallery was even double its real size, filled with a myriad candles in scintillating chandeliers, peopled by thousands of silk-clad ladies and gentlemen, until he discovered that one entire side was covered by gigantic mirrors. Opposite were as many windows; he tried to count them but ceased presently in despair, for groups of people from time to time obscured his view. The room was stuffy, yet cold, covered by two great Aubusson carpets. There were very few chairs, he thought, for this multitude of people. Again the Duke was bowing to right and left, sometimes stopping to exchange a few words with a friend, but always working his way to one end of the gallery. As they neared the fireplace the crowd became less dense, and Léon was able to see more than the shoulders of the man in front of him. A stout gentleman in full court dress and many orders sat in a gilded chair by the fire, with various gentlemen standing about him, and a fair lady in a chair by his side. The wig of this gentleman was almost grotesque, so large were the rolling curls that adorned it. He wore pink satin with gold lacing; he was bejewelled and painted, with black patches on his florid face, and a diamond-hilted sword at his side.

Avon turned his head to speak to Léon, and smiled faintly at the look of astonishment on the page’s face.

“You have seen the King. Await me now over there.” He waved his hand towards an embrasure, and Léon started to retrace his steps, feeling very much as though his one support and guide in this vast place had deserted him.

The Duke paid homage to King Louis the Fifteenth, and to the pale Queen beside him, stayed for a few minutes to speak to the Dauphin, and proceeded in a leisurely fashion to where stood Armand de Saint-Vire, in attendance on the King.

Armand clasped his hands in warm welcome.

“Mon Dieu, but it is refreshing to see your face, Justin! I did not know even that you were in Paris. Since when have you returned, mon cher?”

“Nearly two months ago. Really, this is most fatiguing. I am thirsty already, but I suppose it is quite impossible to obtain any burgundy?”

Armand’s eyes sparkled in sympathy.

“In the Salle de Guerre!” he whispered. “We will go together. No, wait, mon ami, La Pompadour has seen you. Ah, she smiles! You have all the luck, Justin.”

“I could find another name for it,” said Avon, but he went to the King’s mistress, and bowed exceeding low as he kissed her hand. He remained at her side until the Comte de Stainville came to claim her attention, and then made good his escape to the Salle de Guerre. There he found Armand, with one or two others, partaking of light French wines, and sugared sweetmeats.

Someone handed the Duke a glass of burgundy; one of the footmen presented a plate of cakes, which he waved aside.

“A welcome interlude,” he remarked. “A ta santé, Joinlisse! Your servant, Tourdeville. A word in your ear, Armand.” He took Saint-Vire aside to where a couch stood. They sat down, and for a time talked of Paris, court-life, and the trials of a gentleman-in-waiting. Avon allowed his friend to ramble on, but at the first pause in Armand’s rather amusing discourse, he turned the subject.

“I must make my bow to your charming sister-in-law,” he said. “I trust she is present to-night?”

Armand’s round good-humoured face became marred all at once by a gloomy scowl.

“Oh yes. Seated behind the Queen, in an obscure corner. If you are épris in that direction, Justin, your taste has deteriorated.” He snorted disdainfully. “Curds and whey! How Henri could have chosen her passes my comprehension!”

“I never credited the worthy Henri with much sense,” answered the Duke. “Why is he in Paris and not here?”

“Is he in Paris? He was in Champagne. He fell into slight disfavour here.” Armand grinned. “That damnable temper, you understand. He left Madame, and that clod-hopping son.”

Avon put up his eyeglass.

“Clod-hopping?”

“What, have you not seen him, then? A boorish cub, Justin, with the soul of a farmer. And that is the boy who is to be Comte de Saint-Vire! Mon Dieu, but there must be bad blood in Marie! My beautiful nephew did not get his boorishness from us. Well, I never thought that Marie was of the real nobility.”

The Duke looked down at his wine.

“I must certainly see the young Henri,” he said. “They tell me that he is not very like his father or his mother.”

“Not a whit. He has black hair, a bad nose, and square hands. It is a judgment on Henri! First he weds a puling, sighing woman with no charm and less beauty, and then he produces—that!”

“One would almost infer that you are not enamoured of your nephew,” murmured his Grace.

“No, I am not! I tell you, Justin, if it had been a true Saint-Vire I could have borne it better. But this—this half-witted bumpkin! It would enrage a saint!” He set down his glass on a small table with a force that nearly smashed the frail vessel. “You may say that I am a fool to brood over it, Alastair, but I cannot forget! To spite me Henri marries this Marie de Lespinasse, who presents him with a son after three fruitless years! First it was a still-born child, and then, when I had begun to think myself safe, she astonishes us all with a boy! Heaven knows what I have done to deserve it!”

“She astonished you with a boy. I think he was born in Champagne, was he not?”

“Ay, at Saint-Vire. Plague take him. I never set eyes on the brat until three months later when they brought him to Paris. Then I was well-nigh sick with disgust at Henri’s fatuous triumph.”

“Well, I must see him,” repeated the Duke. “How old is he?”

“I neither know nor care. He is nineteen,” snapped Armand. He watched the Duke rise, and smiled in spite of himself. “Where’s the good of growling, eh? It’s the fault of this damned life I lead, Justin. It’s all very well for you who come on a visit to this place. You think it very fine and splendid, but you’ve not seen the apartments they give to the gentlemen-in-waiting. Airless holes, Justin, I give you my word! Well, let’s go back into the gallery.”

They went out, and paused for a moment just within the gallery.

“Yes, there she is,” said Armand. “With Julie de Cornalle over there. Why do you want her?”

Justin smiled.

“You see, mon cher,” he explained sweetly, “it will afford me much satisfaction to be able to tell the dear Henri that I spent a pleasant half-hour with his fascinating wife.”

Armand chuckled.

“Oh, if that is your will——! You so love the dear Henri, do you not?”

“But of course,” smiled the Duke. He waited until Armand had melted into the crowd before he beckoned to Léon, who, in obedience to his commands, still stood in the embrasure. The page came to him slipping between two groups of chattering ladies, and followed him across the gallery to the couch on which sat Madame de Saint-Vire.

Avon swept the lady a magnificent leg.

“My dear Comtesse!” He took her thin hand, and holding it with the tips of his fingers just brushed it with his lips. “I had hardly dared hope for this joy.”

She inclined her head, but out of the corner of her eye she was watching Léon. Mademoiselle de Cornalle had moved away, and Avon seated himself in her place. Léon went to stand behind him.

“Believe me, Comtesse,” continued the Duke, “I was desolated not to see you in Paris. How is your delightful son?”

She answered nervously, and under pretence of arranging her skirt changed her position on the couch, so that she almost faced Avon, and thus was able to see the page behind him. Her eyes fluttered up to the boy’s face, and widened for an instant before they fell. She became aware of Avon’s smiling scrutiny, and coloured deeply, unfurling her fan with fingers that trembled slightly.

“My—my son? Oh, Henri is well, I thank you! You see him over there, m’sieur, with Mademoiselle de Lachčre.”

Justin’s gaze followed the direction of her pointing fan. He beheld a short, rather stocky youth, dressed in the height of fashion and seated mumchance beside a sprightly lady who was with difficulty restraining a yawn. The Vicomte de Valmé was very dark, with brown eyes heavy-lidded now from weariness and boredom. His mouth was a trifle wide, but well-curved; his nose, so far from following the Saint-Vire aquiline trend, showed a tendency to turn up.

“Ah yes!” said Justin. “I should hardly have recognized him, madame. One looks usually for red hair and blue eyes in a Saint-Vire, does not one?” He laughed gently.

“My son wears a wig,” answered Madame rather quickly. Again she sent a fleeting glance towards Léon. Her mouth twitched slightly, uncontrollably. “He—he has black hair. It often happens so, I believe.”

“Ah, no doubt,” agreed Justin. “You are looking at my page, madame? A curious combination, is it not?—his copper hair and black brows.”

“I? No, why should I——?” With an effort she collected her wits. “It is an unusual combination, as you say. Who—who is the child?”

“I have no idea,” said his Grace blandly. “I found him one evening in Paris and bought him for the sum of a jewel. Quite a pretty boy, is he not? He attracts no little attention, I assure you.”

“Yes—I suppose so. It seems hard to believe that—that hair is—is natural.” Her eyes challenged him, but again he laughed.

“It must seem quite incredible,” he said. “It is so seldom that one sees that—particular—combination.” Then as the Comtesse stirred restlessly, opening and shutting her fan, he deftly turned the subject. “Ah, behold the Vicomte!” he remarked. “His fair companion has deserted him.”

The Comtesse looked across at her son, who was standing irresolute a few paces away. He saw his mother’s eyes upon him, and came to her, heavy-footed and deliberate, glancing curiously at the Duke.

“My—my son, m’sieur. Henri, the Duc of Avon.”

The Vicomte bowed, but although his bow was of just the required depth, and the wave of his hat in exact accordance with the decrees of fashion, the whole courtesy lacked spontaneity and grace. He bowed as one who had been laboriously coached in the art. Polish was lacking, and in its place was a faint suggestion of clumsiness.

“Your servant, m’sieur.” The voice was pleasant enough if not enthusiastic.

“My dear Vicomte!” Avon flourished his handkerchief. “I am charmed to make your acquaintance. I remember you when you were still with your tutor, but of late years I have been denied the pleasure of meeting you. Léon, a chair for m’sieur.”

The page slipped from his place behind the couch, and went to fetch a low chair which stood against the wall, some few paces away. He set it down for the Vicomte, bowing as he did so.

“If m’sieur will be seated?”

The Vicomte looked him over in surprise. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder, the one slim and delicate, with eyes that matched the sapphires about his neck; and glowing curls swept back from a white brow beneath whose skin the veins showed faintly blue. The other was thickset and dark, with square hands and short neck; powdered, perfumed, and patched, dressed in rich silks and velvet, but in spite of all rather uncouth and awkward. Avon heard Madame draw in her breath swiftly, and his smile grew. Then Léon went back to his original place, and the Vicomte sat down.

“Your page, m’sieur?” he asked. “You were saying that you had not met me, I think? You see, I do not love Paris, and when my father permits I stay in Champagne, at Saint-Vire.” He smiled, casting a rueful glance at his mother. “My parents do not like me to be in the country, m’sieur. I am a great trial to them.”

“The country . . .” The Duke unfobbed his snuff-box. “It is pleasing to the eye, no doubt, but it is irrevocably associated in my mind with cows and pigs—even sheep. Necessary but distressing evils.”

“Evils, m’sieur? Why——”

“Henri, the Duc is not interested in such matters!” interposed the Comtesse. “One—does not talk of—of cows and pigs at a levée.” She turned to Avon, smiling mechanically. “The boy has an absurd whim, m’sieur: he would like to be a farmer! I tell him that he would very soon tire of it.” She started to fan herself, laughing.

“Yet another necessary evil,” drawled his Grace. “Farmers. You take snuff, Vicomte?”

The Vicomte helped himself to a pinch.

“I thank you, m’sieur. You have come from Paris? Perhaps you have seen my father?”

“I had that felicity yesterday,” replied Avon. “At a ball. The Comte remains the same as ever, madame.” The sneer was thinly veiled.

Madame flushed scarlet.

“I trust you found my husband in good health, m’sieur?”

“Excellent, I believe. May I be the bearer of any message you may wish to send, madame?”

“I thank you, m’sieur, but I am writing to him—tomorrow,” she answered. “Henri, will you fetch me some negus? Ah, madame!” She beckoned to a lady who stood in a group before them.

The Duke rose.

“I see my good Armand yonder. Pray give me leave, madame. The Comte will be overjoyed to hear that I found you well—and your son.” He bowed, and left her, walking away into the dwindling crowd. He sent Léon to await him in the Śil de Bśuf, and remained for perhaps an hour in the gallery.

When he joined Léon in the Śil de Bśuf he found him almost asleep, but making valiant efforts to keep himself awake. He followed the Duke downstairs, and was sent to retrieve Avon’s cloak and cane. By the time he had succeeded in obtaining these articles the black-and-gold coach was at the door.

Avon swung the cloak over his shoulders and sauntered out. He and Léon entered the luxurious vehicle and with a sigh of content Léon nestled back against the soft cushions.

“It is all very wonderful,” he remarked, “but very bewildering. Do you mind if I fall asleep, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” said his Grace politely. “I trust you were satisfied with the King’s appearance?”

“Oh yes, he is just like the coins!” said Léon drowsily. “Do you suppose he likes to live in such a great palace, Monseigneur?”

“I have never asked him,” replied the Duke. “Versailles does not please you?”

“It is so very large,” explained the page. “I feared I had lost you.”

“What an alarming thought!” remarked his Grace.

“Yes, but you came after all.” The deep little voice was getting sleepier and sleepier. “It was all glass and candles, and ladies, and—Bonne nuit, Monseigneur,” he sighed. “I am sorry, but everything is muddled, and I am so very tired. I do not think I snore when I sleep, but if I do, then of course you must wake me. And I might slip, but I hope I shall not. I am right in the corner, so perhaps I shall remain here. But if I slip on to the floor——”

“Then I suppose I am to pick you up?” said Avon sweetly.

“Yes,” agreed Léon, already on the borderland of sleep. “I won’t talk any more now. Monseigneur does not mind?”

“Pray do not consider me in the slightest,” answered Avon. “I am here merely to accommodate you. If I disturb you I beg you will not hesitate to mention it. I will then ride on the box.”

A very sleepy chuckle greeted this sally, and a small hand tucked itself into the Duke’s.

“I wanted to hold your coat because I thought I should lose you,” murmured Léon.

“I presume that is why you are holding my hand now?” inquired his Grace. “You are perhaps afraid lest I should hide myself under the seat?”

“That is silly,” replied Léon. “Very silly. Bonne nuit, Monseigneur.”

“Bonne nuit, mon enfant. You will not lose me—or I you—very easily, I think.”

There was no answer, but Léon’s head sank against his Grace’s shoulder, and remained there.

“I am undoubtedly a fool,” remarked the Duke. He pushed a cushion under Léon’s relaxed arm. “But if I wake him he will begin to talk again. What a pity Hugh is not here to see! . . . I beg your pardon, my infant?”

But Léon had muttered only in his sleep. “If you are going to converse in your sleep I shall be compelled to take strong measures of prevention,” said his Grace. He leaned his head back against the padded seat, and, smiling, closed his eyes.

CHAPTER VI

His Grace of Avon Refuses to Sell his Page

When Davenant met his Grace at breakfast next morning he found that the Duke was in excellent spirits. He was more than usually urbane, and whenever his eye alighted on Léon he smiled, as if at some pleasant thought.

“Was the levée well attended?” asked Hugh, attacking a red sirloin. Unlike the Duke, who never ate more than a roll for breakfast, he made a hearty meal of eggs and bacon, and cold meats, washed down by English ale, especially imported by the Duke for his delectation.

The Duke poured himself out a second cup of coffee.

“Crowded, my dear Hugh. It was in honour of some birthday, or saint’s day, or something of the sort.”

“Did you see Armand?” Hugh reached out his hand for the mustard.

“I saw Armand, and the Comtesse, and the Vicomte, and everybody I least wished to meet.”

“One always does. I suppose La Pompadour was delighted to see you?”

“Oppressively so. The King sat on his throne and smiled benignantly. Just like a coin.”

Hugh suspended his fork in mid-air.

“Just like a what?”

“A coin. Léon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.”

Hugh looked inquiringly at the page.

“What is the joke, Léon? Do you know?”

Léon shook his head.

“No, m’sieur.”

“Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,” said his Grace. “Léon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.”

Léon blushed.

“I—I am afraid I was asleep, Monseigneur.”

“Very nearly so. Do you always sleep as one dead?”

“N-no. That is—I do not know, Monseigneur. I was put to bed in all my clothes.”

“Yes, I did that. Having wasted ten minutes in endeavouring to rouse you, I thought that the simplest plan would be to carry you up to bed. You are not all joy, my infant.”

“I am very sorry, Monseigneur; you should have made me wake up.”

“If you would tell me how that may be done I shall do so on the next occasion. Hugh, if you must eat beef, pray do not brandish it in my face at this hour.”

Davenant, whose fork was still suspended midway between his plate and mouth, laughed, and went on eating.

Justin began to sort the letters that lay beside his plate. Some he threw away, others he slipped into his pocket. One had come from England, and spread over several sheets. He opened them and started to decipher the scrawl.

“From Fanny,” he said. “Rupert is still at large, it seems. At Mistress Carsby’s feet. When I saw him last he was madly in love with Julia Falkner. From one extreme to another.” He turned over the page. “Now, how interesting! Dear Edward has given Fanny a chocolate-coloured coach with pale blue cushions. The wheat is picked out in blue.” He held the sheet at arm’s length. “It seems strange, but no doubt Fanny is right. I have not been in England for such a time——Ah, I beg her pardon! You will be relieved to hear, my dear Hugh, that the wheat in England still grows as ever it did. The wheels are picked out in blue. Ballentor has fought another duel, and Fanny won fifty guineas at play the other night. John is in the country because town air does not suit him. Now, is John her lap-dog or her parrot?”

“Her son,” said Davenant.

“Is he? Yes, I believe you are right. What next? If I can find her a French cook she vows she will love me more than ever. Léon, tell Walker to find me a French cook.—She wishes she could visit me as I suggested some time ago—how rash of me!—but it is quite impossible as she cannot leave her darling Edward alone, and she fears he would not accompany her to my hovel. Hovel. Not very polite of Fanny. I must remember to speak to her about it.”

“Hôtel,” suggested Hugh.

“Once more you are right. Hôtel it is. The rest of this enthralling communication concerns Fanny’s toilettes. I will reserve it. Oh, have you finished?”

“Finished and gone,” answered Davenant, rising. “I am riding out with D’Anvau. I shall see you later.” He went out.

Avon leaned his arms on the table, resting his chin on the back of his clasped hands.

“Léon, where does your remarkable brother live?”

Léon started, and fell back a pace.

“Mon—Monseigneur?”

“Where is his inn?”

Suddenly Léon fell on his knees beside Avon’s chair, and clutched the Duke’s sleeve with desperate fingers. His face was upturned, pale and agonized, the great eyes swimming in tears.

“Oh no, no, no, Monseigneur! You would not—Oh, please not that! I—I will never go to sleep again! Please, please forgive me! Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

Avon looked down at him with upraised brows. Léon had pressed his forehead against his master’s arm, and was shaking with suppressed sobs.

“You bewilder me,” complained the Duke. “What is it that I am not to do, and why will you never sleep again?”

“Don’t—don’t give me back to Jean!” implored Léon, clinging tighter still. “Promise, promise!”

Avon loosened the clasp on his sleeve.

“My dear Léon, I beg you will not weep over this coat. I have no intention of giving you to Jean, or to anyone else. Stand up, and do not be ridiculous.”

“You must promise! You shall promise!” Léon shook the arm he held almost fiercely.

The Duke sighed.

“Very well: I promise. Now tell me where I may find your brother, my child.”

“I won’t! I won’t! You—he—I won’t tell you!”

The hazel eyes became hard.

“I have borne much from you in patience, Léon, but I will not brook your defiance. Answer me at once.”

“I dare not! Oh, please, please do not make me tell! I—I do not mean to be defiant! But perhaps Jean is sorry now that—that he let me go, and—and will try to m-make you give me back!” He was plucking at the Duke’s sleeve now, and again Avon removed the frenzied fingers.

“Do you think Jean could make me give you back?” he asked.

“N-no—I don’t know. I thought perhaps because I went to sleep you were angered, and—and—”

“I have already told you that it is not so. Strive to have a little sense. And answer my question.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. I—I am sorry. Jean—Jean lives in the Rue Sainte-Marie. There is only one inn—the Crossbow. Oh, what are you going to do, Monseigneur?”

“Nothing at all alarming, I assure you. Dry your tears.”

Léon hunted through his various pockets.

“I—I have lost my handkerchief,” he apologized.

“Yes, you are very young, are you not?” commented his Grace. “I suppose I must give you mine.”

Léon took the fine lace handkerchief which the Duke held out, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and gave it back again. The Duke received it gingerly, and eyed the crumpled ball through his quizzing-glass.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are nothing if not thorough. I think you had better keep it now.”

Léon pocketed it cheerfully.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said. “Now I am happy again.”

“I am relieved,” said the Duke, and rose. “I shall not want you this morning.” He strolled out, and in half an hour’s time was in his coach, driving towards the Rue Sainte-Marie.

The street was very narrow, with refuse in the kennels on either side of the road; the houses were mostly tumbledown, projecting outward from the first storey. Hardly one had all its windows intact; there were cracked and missing panes on all sides, and where curtains hung they were ragged and dirty. Half a dozen partly clothed children were playing in the road, and scattered to right and left as the coach drove up, standing on the footway, and watched the progress of this fine equipage with astonished eyes, and many startled comments.

The tavern of the Crossbow was situated midway down the squalid street, and from its open door issued a smell of cooking, and of cabbage water, thrown carelessly out into the kennel. The coach drew up outside the inn, and one of the footmen sprang down to open the door for his Grace to alight. His countenance was quite impassive, and only by the lofty tilt of his chin did he betray his emotions.

His Grace came slowly down from the coach, his handkerchief held to his nose. He picked his way across the filth and garbage to the inn door, and entered what appeared to be the taproom and the kitchen. A greasy woman was bending over the fire at one end, a cooking-pot in her hand, and behind the counter opposite the door stood the man who had sold Léon to the Duke a month ago.

He gaped when he saw Avon enter, and for a moment did not recognize him. He came forward cringingly, rubbing his hands together, and desired to know Monseigneur’s pleasure.

“I think you know me,” said his Grace gently.

Bonnard stared, and suddenly his eyes dilated, and his full-blooded countenance turned a sickly grey.

“Léon! Milor’—I——”

“Precisely. I want two words with you in private.”

The man looked at him fearfully, passing his tongue between his lips.

“I swear by God——”

“Thank you. In private I said.”

The woman, who had watched the encounter open-mouthed, came forward now, arms akimbo. Her soiled dress was in disorder, cut low across her scraggy bosom, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“Now, if the little viper has said aught against us,” she began shrilly, but was cut short by Avon’s lifted hand.

“My good woman, I have no desire to speak with you. You may return to your stew-pots. Bonnard, in private!”

Charlotte would have interrupted again, but her husband hustled her back to the stove, whispering to her to hold her tongue.

“Yes, milor’, indeed yes! If milor’ will follow me?” He pushed open the crazy, rat-eaten door at the other end of the room, and ushered his Grace into the parlour. The room was scantily furnished, but it was not so dirty as the taproom. Avon went to the table that stood by the window, flicked the dust from its surface with a corner of his cloak, and sat down on the edge of the rickety structure.

“Now, my friend. That you may not misunderstand me, or seek to evade me, let me tell you that I am the Duke of Avon. Yes, I thought that you would be surprised. You realize, I am sure, that it would be very dangerous to play with me. I am going to ask you one or two questions about my page. I wish to know first where he was born.”

“I—I think in the north, Monseigneur. In—Champagne, but I am not sure. Our—our parents never spoke of that time, and I can scarce remember—I——”

“No? It seems strange that you do not know why your worthy parents went so suddenly to live in Anjou.”

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 cared 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.”

“I have spoken naught but the truth, Monseigneur, I swear!”

“Let us hope that it is so. One thing, however—” he produced another louis—“you can tell me. Where shall I find the curé at Bassincourt, and what is his name?”

“M. de Beaupré, Monseigneur, but he may be dead now, for aught I know. He was an old man when we left Bassincourt. He used to live in a little house beside the church. You cannot mistake it.”

Avon threw the louis into his eager hand.

“Very well.” He went to the door. “Be advised by me, my friend, and strive to forget that you ever had a sister. For you had not, and it might be that if you remembered a Léonie there would be a reckoning to be paid for your treatment of her. I shall not forget you, I assure you.” He swept out, and through the taproom to his coach.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

That afternoon, when Avon sat in the library of his house, writing to his sister, a footman came to him and announced that M. de Faugenac wished to see him.

The Duke raised his head.

“M. de Faugenac? Admit him.”

In a few minutes’ time there entered a tubby little gentleman with whom his Grace was but slightly acquainted. Avon rose as he came in and bowed.

“Monsieur!”

“Monsieur!” De Faugenac returned the bow. “Pardon the unseemly hour of this intrusion, I beg!”

“Not at all,” answered the Duke. “Fetch wine, Jules. Pray be seated, m’sieur.”

“No wine for me, I thank you! The gout, you understand. A sad affliction!”

“Very,” agreed his Grace. “Is there something I can do for you, I wonder?”

De Faugenac stretched his hands to the fire.

“Yes, I come on business, m’sieur. Bah, the ugly word! M’sieur will pardon the interruption, I am sure! A splendid fire, Duc!”

Avon bowed. He had seated himself on the arm of a chair, and was looking at his visitor in mild surprise. He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to De Faugenac, who helped himself to a liberal pinch and sneezed violently.

“Exquisite!” he said enthusiastically. “Ah, the business! M’sieur, you will think I come upon a strange errand, but I have a wife!” He beamed at Avon, and nodded several times.

“I felicitate you, m’sieur,” said Avon gravely.

“Yes, yes! A wife! It will explain all.”

“It always does,” answered his Grace.

“Aha, the pleasantry!” De Faugenac broke into delighted laughter. “We know, we husbands, we know!”

“As I am not a husband I may be excused my ignorance. I am sure you are about to enlighten me.” His Grace was becoming bored, for he had remembered that De Faugenac was an impoverished gentleman usually to be found at the heels of Saint-Vire.

“Indeed yes. Yes indeed. My wife. The explanation! She has seen your page, m’sieur!”

“Wonderful!” said the Duke. “We progress.”

“We——? You said progress? We? Progress?”

“It seems I erred,” Avon sighed. “We remain at the same place.”

De Faugenac was puzzled for a moment, but all at once his face broke into fresh smiles.

“Another pleasantry! Yes, yes, I see!”

“I doubt it,” murmured Avon. “You were saying, m’sieur, that your wife had seen my page.”

De Faugenac clasped his hands to his breast.

“She is ravished! She is envious! She pines!”

“Dear me!”

“She gives me no peace!”

“They never do.”

“Aha! No, never, never! But you do not take my meaning, m’sieur, you do not take my meaning!”

“But then, that is hardly my fault,” said Avon wearily. “We have arrived at the point at which your wife gives you no peace.”

“That is the matter in a nutshell! She eats out her heart for your so lovely, your so enchanting, your so elegant——”

Avon held up his hand.

“M’sieur, my policy has ever been to eschew married women.”

De Faugenac stared.

“But—but—what do you mean, m’sieur? Is it another pleasantry? My wife pines for your page.”

“How very disappointing!”

“Your page, your so elegant page! She plagues me day and night to come to you. And I am here! Behold me!”

“I have beheld you for the past twenty minutes, m’sieur,” said Avon rather tartly.

“She begs me to come to you, to ask you if you would part with your page! She cannot rest until she has him to hold her train for her, to carry her gloves and fan. She cannot sleep at night until she knows that he is hers!”

“It seems that madame is destined to spend many sleepless nights,” said Avon.

“Ah no, m’sieur! Consider! It is said that you bought your page. Now, is it not truly said that what may be bought may be sold?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes, yes! Possibly! M’sieur, I am as a slave to my wife.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “I am as the dirt beneath her feet.” He clasped his hands. “I must bestow on her all that she desires, or die!”

“Pray make use of my sword,” invited his Grace. “It is in the corner behind you.”

“Ah no! M’sieur cannot mean that he refuses! It is impossible! M’sieur, you may name your own price and I will give it!”

Avon stood up. He picked up a silver hand-bell, and rang it.

“M’sieur,” he said silkily, “you may bear my compliments to the Comte de Saint-Vire, and tell him that Léon, my page, is not for sale. Jules, the door.”

De Faugenac rose, very crestfallen.

“M’sieur?”

Avon bowed.

“M’sieur. You mistake! You do not understand!”

“Believe me, I understand perfectly.”

“Ah, but you have no soul thus to thwart a lady’s wish!”

“My misfortune entirely, m’sieur. I am desolate that you are unable to stay longer. M’sieur, your very obedient!” So he bowed De Faugenac out.

No sooner had the door closed behind the little man than it opened again to admit Davenant.

“Who in the name of all that’s marvellous was that?” he asked.

“A creature of no account,” replied his Grace. “He wished to buy Léon. An impertinence. I am going into the country, Hugh.”

“Into the country? Why?”

“I forget. No doubt I shall call the reason to mind some time. Bear with me, my dear; I am still moderately sane.”

Hugh sat down.

“You never were sane. ’Pon rep, you’re a casual host!”

“Ah, Hugh, I crave your pardon on my knees! I encroach on your good nature.”

“Damme, you’re very polite! Is Léon to accompany you?”

“No, I leave him in your charge, Hugh, and I counsel you to have a care for him. While I am away he will not leave the house.”

“I thought there was some mystery. Is he in danger?”

“N-no. I can hardly say. But keep him close, and say naught, my dear. I should not be pleased if harm came to him. Incredible as it may seem, I am becoming fond of the child. I must be entering upon my dotage.”

“We are all fond of him,” said Hugh. “But he is an imp.”

“Undoubtedly. Do not allow him to tease you; he is an impertinent child. Unhappily he cannot be brought to realize that fact. And here he is.”

Léon came in and smiled confidingly as he met the Duke’s eyes.

“Monseigneur, you told me to be ready to accompany you out at three, and it is now half-past the hour,” he said.

Hugh’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter; he turned away, coughing.

“It would appear that I owe you an apology,” said his Grace. “Pray hold me excused for once. I am not going out after all. Come here.”

Léon approached.

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

“I am going into the country for a few days, my infant, from to-morrow. Oblige me by looking on M. Davenant as master in mine absence, and do not, on any account, leave the house until I return.”

“Oh!” Léon’s face fell. “Am I not to come with you?”

“I am denying myself that honour. Please do not argue with me. That is all that I wished to say.”

Léon turned away and went with lagging steps to the door. A small sniff escaped him, and at the sound of it Avon smiled.

“Infant, the end of the world has not come. I shall return, I hope, within the week.”

“I wish—oh, I wish that you would take me!”

“That is hardly polite to M. Davenant. I do not think he is likely to ill-use you. I am not going out to-night, by the way.”

Léon came back.

“You—you won’t go to-morrow without saying goodbye, will you, Monseigneur?”

“You shall hand me into my coach,” promised the Duke, and gave him his hand to kiss.

CHAPTER VII

Satan and Priest at One

The village of Bassincourt, which lay some six or seven miles to the west of Saumur, in Anjou, was a neat and compact place whose white houses were for the most part gathered about its hub, a square market-place paved by cobblestones as large as a man’s fist. On the north the square was flanked by various houses of the more well-to-do inhabitants; on the west by smaller cottages, and by a lane that led into the square at right-angles to this side, and which stretched out into the open country, winding this way and that to touch each of the three farms that lay to the west of Bassincourt. On the south side was the small grey church, within whose square tower a cracked bell was wont to ring out its summons to the villagers. The church stood back from the market-place with its burial ground all about it and beyond, on one side, the Curé’s modest house, squatting in its own garden, and seeming to smile across the square in gentle rulership.

The east side of the square was close-packed by shops, a blacksmith’s yard, and a white inn, over whose open door hung a gay green shield, with a painting of the Rising Sun thereon. The sign swung to and fro with every wind that blew, creaking a little if the gale were fierce, but more often sighing only on its rusted chains.

On this particular day of November the square was a-hum with voices, and echoing occasionally to a child’s shrill laugh, or to the stamp of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Old Farmer Mauvoisin had driven into Bassincourt with three pigs for sale in his cart, and had drawn up at the inn to exchange the time of day with the landlord, and to quaff a tankard of thin French ale while his pigs grunted and snuffled behind him. Close by, gathered about a stall where La Mčre Gognard was selling vegetables, was a group of women, alternately haggling and conversing. Several girls in stuff gowns kilted high above their ankles, their feet in clumsy wooden sabots, stood chattering beside the ancient porch which led into the graveyard; in the centre of the square, near to the fountain, some sheep were herded, while a party of possible buyers picked their way amongst them, prodding and inspecting at will. From the blacksmith’s yard came the ring of hammer on anvil, mingled with spasmodic snatches of song.

Into this busy, contented scene rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He came trotting into the market-place from the eastern road that led to Saumur, dressed all in sombre black, with lacing of gold. As soon as his horse’s hoofs struck the uneven cobblestones he reined in, and sitting gracefully at ease in the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly on his hip, cast a languid glance round.

He attracted no little attention. The villagers stared at him from his point-edged hat to his spurred boots, and back again. One tittering girl, remarking those cold eyes, and the thin, curling lips, whispered that it was the devil himself come amongst them. Although her companion scoffed at her for a foolish maid, she crossed herself surreptitiously, and drew back into the shelter of the porch.

The Duke’s glance swept all round the square, and came to rest at last on a small boy, who watched him with goggling eyes, and his thumb in his mouth. One hand in its embroidered gauntlet beckoned imperiously, and the small boy took a hesitating step forward in answer to the Duke’s summons.

His Grace looked down at him, faintly smiling. He pointed to the house beside the church.

“Am I right in thinking that that is the abode of your Curé?”

The boy nodded.

“Yes, milor’.”

“Do you think that I shall find him within?”

“Yes, milor’. He came back from the house of Madame Tournaud an hour since, if you please, milor’.”

Avon swung himself lightly down from the saddle, and twitched the bridle over his horse’s head.

“Very well, child. Be so good as to hold this animal for me until I return. You will thus earn a louis.”

The boy took the bridle willingly.

“A whole louis, milor’? For holding your horse?” he said breathlessly.

“Is it a horse?” The Duke eyed the animal through his quizzing-glass. “Perhaps you are right. I thought it was a camel. Take it away and water it.” He turned on his heel, and sauntered up to the Curé’s house. The wondering villagers saw M. de Beaupré’s housekeeper admit him, and started to propound their views on this strange visitation, one to the other.

His Grace of Avon was led through a tiny spotless hall to the Curé’s sanctum, a sunny room at the back of the house. The rosy-cheeked housekeeper ushered him into her master’s presence with unruffled placidity.

“Here, mon pčre, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,” she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.

The Curé was seated at a table by the window, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up to see who was his visitor, and, perceiving a stranger, laid down his quill and rose. He was slight, with thin, beautiful hands, calm blue eyes, and aristocratic features. He wore a long soutane, and his head was uncovered. For an instant Avon thought that the milky white hair was a wig, so ordered were the soft waves, and then he saw that it was natural, brushed smoothly back from a broad low brow.

“M. de Beaupré, I believe?” His Grace bowed deeply.

“Yes, m’sieur, but you have the advantage of me.”

“I am one Justin Alastair,” said the Duke, and laid his hat and gloves on the table.

“Yes? You will pardon me, monsieur, if I do not at once recognize you. I have been out of the world for many years, and for the moment I cannot call to mind whether you are of the Alastairs of Auvergne, or of the English family.” De Beaupré cast him an appraising look, and put forward a chair.

Justin sat down.

“The English family, monsieur. You perhaps knew my father?”

“Slightly, very slightly,” answered De Beaupré. “You are the Duc of Avon, I think? What may I have the honour of doing for you?”

“I am the Duke of Avon, m’sieur, as you say. Am I right in thinking that I address a relative of the Marquis de Beaupré?”

“His uncle, m’sieur.”

“Ah!” Justin bowed. “You are the Vicomte de Marrillon, then.”

The Curé seated himself at the table again.

“I renounced that title years ago, m’sieur, deeming it empty. My family will tell you that I am mad. They do not mention my name.” He smiled. “Naturally, I have disgraced them. I chose to work amongst my people here when I might have worn a cardinal’s hat. But I suppose you did not come all the way to Anjou to hear that. What is it I may do for you?”

Justin offered his host some snuff.

“I hope, m’sieur, that you may be able to enlighten me,” he said.

De Beaupré took a pinch of snuff, holding it delicately to one nostril.

“It is hardly probable, m’sieur. As I said, I have long since withdrawn from the world, and what I knew of it I have well-nigh forgotten.”

“This, mon pčre, has naught to do with the world,” replied his Grace. “I want you to cast your mind back seven years.”

“Well?” De Beaupré picked up his quill and passed it through his fingers. “Having done that, mon fils, what then?”

“Having done that, m’sieur, you may perhaps recall a family living here by the name of Bonnard.”

The Curé nodded. His eyes never wavered from Avon’s face.

“More particularly the child—Léonie.”

“One wonders what the Duc of Avon knows of Léonie. I am not likely to forget.” The blue eyes were quite inscrutable.

His Grace swung one booted leg gently to and fro.

“Before I go farther, mon pčre, I would have you know that I speak in confidence.”

The Curé brushed his quill lightly across the table.

“And before I consent to respect the confidence, my son, I will learn what it is you want of a peasant girl, and what that peasant girl is to you,” he answered.

“At the moment she is my page,” said Avon blandly.

The Curé raised his brows.

“So? Do you usually employ a girl as your page, M. le Duc?”

“It is not one of my most common practices, mon pčre. This girl does not know that I have discovered her sex.”

The quill brushed the table again, rhythmically.

“No, my son? And what comes to her?”

Avon looked haughtily across at him.

“M. de Beaupré, you will pardon me, I am sure, for pointing out to you that my morals are not your concern.”

The Curé met his look unflinchingly.

“They are your own, my son, but you have seen fit to make them all the world’s. I might retort: Léonie’s welfare is not your concern.”

“She would not agree with you, mon pčre. Let us understand one another. Body and soul she is mine. I bought her from the ruffian who called himself her brother.”

“He had reason,” said De Beaupré calmly.

“Do you think so? Rest assured, m’sieur, that Léonie is safer with me than with Jean Bonnard. I have come to ask your help for her.”

“I have never before heard that—Satanas—chose a priest for his ally, m’sieur.”

Avon’s teeth showed white for a moment in a smile.

“Withdrawn as you are from the world, mon pčre, you yet have heard that?”

“Yes, m’sieur. Your reputation is well known.”

“I am flattered. In this case my reputation lies. Léonie is safe with me.”

“Why?” asked De Beaupré serenely.

“Because, my father, there is a mystery attached to her.”

“It seems an insufficient reason.”

“Nevertheless it must suffice. My word, when I give it, is surety enough.”

The Curé folded his hands before him, and looked quietly into Avon’s eyes. Then he nodded.

“It is very well, mon fils. Tell me what became of la petite. That Jean was worthless, but he would not leave Léonie with me. Where did he take her?”

“To Paris, where he bought a tavern. He dressed Léonie as a boy, and a boy she has been for seven years. She is my page now, until I end that comedy.”

“And when you end it, what then?”

Justin tapped one polished finger-nail against the lid of his snuff-box.

“I take her to England—to my sister. I have some vague notion of—ah—adopting her. As my ward, you 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 pčre?”

“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 Mčre 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 Mčre 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 pčre, 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 pčre?” 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 those black brows, coupled with hair of flame, I was puzzled. I am an old man, and that was fifteen or more years ago. Yet even then I had been out of the world for many years, and I had seen no one of that world since the days of my youth. Very little news reaches us here, monsieur; you will find me strangely ignorant. As I say, I watched Léonie grow up, and every day I saw her become more and more like to a family I had known before I was a priest. It is not easy to mistake a descendant of the Saint-Vires, m’sieur.” He turned, looking at Avon.

The Duke lay back in his chair. Beneath his heavy lids his eyes glittered coldly.

“And thinking that—suspecting that, my father—you yet let Léonie slip through your fingers? You knew also that the Bonnards came from Champagne. It is to be supposed that you remembered where the Saint-Vire estate lay.”

The Curé looked down at him in surprised hauteur.

“I fail to understand you, m’sieur. It is true that I thought Léonie a daughter of Saint-Vire, but what could that knowledge avail her? If Madame Bonnard wished her to know she could have told her. But Bonnard himself recognized the child as his. It was better that Léonie should not know.”

The hazel eyes opened wide.

“Mon pčre, I think we are at cross-purposes. In plain words, what do you think Léonie?”

“The inference is sufficiently obvious, I think,” said the Curé, flushing.

Avon shut his snuff-box with a click.

“We will have it in plain words, nevertheless, my father. You deemed Léonie a base-born child of the Comte de Saint-Vire. It is possible that you have never appreciated the situation between the Comte and his brother Armand.”

“I have no knowledge of either, m’sieur.”

“It is manifest, mon pčre. Listen to me a while. When I found Léonie that night in Paris a dozen thoughts came into my head. The likeness to Saint-Vire is prodigious, I assure you. At first I thought as you. Then there flashed before mine eyes a picture of Saint-Vire’s son as last I had seen him. A raw clod, my father. A clumsy thickset yokel. I remembered that between Saint-Vire and his brother had ever been a most deadly hatred. You perceive the trend of the matter? Saint-Vire’s wife is a sickly creature; it was common knowledge that he married her simply to spite Armand. Now behold the irony of fate. Three years pass. Madame fails to present her lord with anything but a still-born child. Then—miraculously a son is born, in Champagne. A son who is now nineteen years old. I counsel you, my father, to put yourself in Saint-Vire’s place for one moment, not forgetting that the flame of the Saint-Vire hair is apt to enter the Saint-Vire head. He is determined that there shall be no mistake this time. He carries Madame into the country, where she is brought to bed, and delivered of—let us say—a girl. Conceive the chagrin of Saint-Vire! But, my father, we will suppose that he had prepared for this possibility. On his estate was a family of the name of Bonnard. We will say that Bonnard was in his employ. Madame Bonnard gives birth to a son some few days before the birth of—Léonie. In a fit of Saint-Vire madness the Comte exchanged the children. Evidently he bribed Bonnard very heavily, for we know that the Bonnard family came here and bought a farm, bringing with them Léonie de Saint-Vire, and leaving their son to become—Vicomte de Valmé. Eh bien?”

“Impossible!” said De Beaupré sharply. “A fairy tale!”

“Nay, but listen,” purred his Grace. “I find Léonie in the streets of Paris. Bien. I take her to my hôtel, I clothe her as my page. She accompanies me everywhere, and thus I flaunt her under the nose of Saint-Vire. That same nose quivers with apprehension, mon pčre. That is nothing, you say? Wait! I take Léon—I call her Léon—to Versailles, where Madame de Saint-Vire is in attendance. One may always trust a woman to betray a secret, monsieur. Madame was agitated beyond all words. She could not drag her eyes from Léon’s face. A day later I receive an offer from one of Saint-Vire’s satellites to buy Léon. You see? Saint-Vire dare not show his hand in the matter. He sends a friend to work for him. Why? If Léon is a base-born child of his what is simpler—if he wants to rescue her from my clutches—than to approach me, telling me all? He does not do that. Léonie is his legitimate daughter, and he is afraid. For aught he knows I may have proof of that fact. I should tell you, mon pčre, that he and I are not the closest of friends. He fears me, and he dare not move one way or the other lest I should suddenly disclose some proof of which he knows nothing. It may also be that he is not sure that I know, or even suspect, the truth. I do not quite think that. I have something of a reputation, my father, for—uncanny omniscience. Whence, in part, my sobriquet.” He smiled. “It is my business to know everything, father. I am thus a personality in polite circles. An amusing pose. To return: You perceive that M. le Comte de Saint-Vire finds himself in something of a quandary?”

The Curé came slowly to his chair, and sat down.

“But, m’sieur—what you suggest is infamous!”

“Of course it is. Now I had hoped, mon pčre, that you would know of some document to prove the truth of my conviction.”

De Beaupré shook his head.

“There was none. I went through all the papers with Jean, after the plague.”

“Saint-Vire is more clever than I had imagined, then. Nothing, you say? It seems that this game must be carefully played.”

De Beaupré was hardly listening.

“Then—at her death, when Madame Bonnard tried so hard to speak to me, it must have been that!”

“What did she say, mon pčre?”

“So little! ‘Mon pčre—écoutez donc—Léonie n’est pas—je ne peux plus——!’ No more. She died with those words on her lips.”

“A pity. But Saint-Vire shall think that she made confession—in writing. I wonder if he knows that the Bonnards are dead? M. de Beaupré, if he should come here, on this same errand, allow him to think that I bore away with me—a document. I do not think he will come. It is probable that he purposely lost trace of the Bonnards.” Justin rose, and bowed. “My apologies for wasting your time in this fashion, my father.”

The Curé laid a hand on his arm.

“What are you going to do, my son?”

“If she is indeed what I think her I am going to restore Léonie to her family. How grateful they will be! If not——” He paused. “Well, I have not considered that possibility. Rest assured that I shall provide for her. For the present she must learn to be a girl again. After that we shall see.”

The Curé looked full into his eyes for a moment.

“My son, I trust you.”

“You overwhelm me, father. As it chances, I am to be trusted this time. One day I will bring Léonie to see you.”

The Curé walked with him to the door, and together they passed out into the little hall.

“Does she know, m’sieur?”

Justin smiled.

“My dear father, I am far too old to place my secrets in a woman’s keeping. She knows nothing.”

“The poor little one! Of what like is she now?”

Avon’s eyes gleamed.

“She is something of an imp, mon pčre, with all the Saint-Vire spirit, and much impudence of which she is unaware. She has seen much, as I judge, and at times I espy a cynicism in her that is most entertaining. For the rest she is wise and innocent by turn. A hundred years old one minute, a babe the next. As are all women!”

They had come to the garden gate now, and Avon beckoned to the boy who held his horse.

Some of the anxious lines were smoothed from De Beaupré’s face.

“My son, you have described the little one with feeling. You speak as one who understands her.”

“I have reason to know her sex, my father.”

“That may be. But have you ever felt towards a woman as you feel towards this—imp?”

“She is more a boy to me than a girl. I admit I am fond of her. You see, it is so refreshing to have a child of her age—and sex—in one’s power, who thinks no ill of one, nor tries to escape. I am a hero to her.”

“I hope that you will ever be that. Be very good to her, I pray you.”

Avon bowed to him, kissing his hand with a gesture of half-ironical respect.

“When I feel that I can no longer maintain the heroic pose I will send Léonie—by the way, I am adopting her—back to you.”

“C’est entendu,” nodded De Beaupré. “For the present I am with you. You will take care of the little one, and perhaps restore her to her own. Adieu, mon fils.”

Avon mounted, tossed the small boy a louis, and bowed again, low over his horse’s withers.

“I thank you, father. It seems that we understand one another very well—Satan and priest.”

“Perhaps you have been misnamed, my son,” said De Beaupré, smiling a little.

“Oh, I think not! My friends know me rather well, you see. Adieu, mon pčre!” He put on his hat, and rode forward across the square, towards Saumur.

The small boy, clutching his louis, raced to his mother’s side.

“Maman, maman! It was the Devil! He said so himself!”

CHAPTER VIII

Hugh Davenant is Amazed

A week after Avon’s departure for Saumur, Hugh Davenant sat in the library, endeavouring to amuse the very disconsolate Léon with a game of chess.

“I would like to play cards, if you please, m’sieur,” said Léon politely, on being asked his pleasure.

“Cards?” repeated Hugh.

“Or dice, m’sieur. Only I have no money.”

“We will play chess,” said Hugh firmly, and set out the ivory men.

“Very well, m’sieur.” Léon privately thought Hugh a little mad, but if he wished to play chess with his friend’s page he must of course be humoured.

“Do you think Monseigneur will return soon, m’sieur?” he asked presently. “I remove your bishop.” He did so, to Hugh’s surprise. “It was a little trap,” he explained. “Now it is check.”

“So I see. I grow careless. Yes, I expect Monseigneur will return quite soon. Farewell to your rook, my child.”

“I thought you would do that. Now I move a pawn forward, so!”

“Much ado about nothing, petit. Where did you learn to play this game? Check.”

Léon interposed one of his knights. He was not taking a very keen interest in the game.

“I forget, m’sieur.”

Hugh looked across at him shrewdly.

“You’ve a surprisingly short memory, have you not, my friend?”

Léon peeped at him through his lashes.

“Yes, m’sieur. It—it is very sad. And away goes your queen. You do not attend.”

“Do I not? Your knight is forfeit, Léon. You play a monstrous reckless game.”

“Yes, that is because I like to gamble. Is it true, m’sieur, that you leave us next week?”

Hugh hid a smile at the proprietary “us”.

“Quite true. I am bound for Lyons.”

Léon’s hand hovered uncertainly over the board.

“I have never been there,” he said.

“No? There is time yet.”

“Oh, but I do not wish to go!” Léon swooped down upon a hapless pawn, and took it. “I have heard that Lyons is a place of many smells, and not very nice people.”

“So you won’t go there? Well, perhaps you’re wise. What’s toward?” Hugh raised his head, listening.

There was some slight commotion without; the next moment a footman flung open the library door, and the Duke came slowly in.

Table, chessboard, and men went flying. Léon had sprung impetuously out of his chair, and had almost flung himself at Avon’s feet, all etiquette and decorum forgotten.

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur!”

Over his head Avon met Davenant’s eyes.

“He is mad, of course. I beg you will calm yourself, my Léon.”

Léon gave his hand a last kiss, and rose to his feet.

“Oh, Monseigneur, I have been miserable!”

“Now, I should never have suspected Mr. Davenant of cruelty to infants,” remarked his Grace. “How are you, Hugh?” He strolled forward, and just touched Hugh’s outstretched hands with his finger-tips. “Léon, signify your delight at seeing me by picking up the chessmen.” He went to the fire, and stood with his back to it, Hugh beside him.

“Have you had a pleasant time?” Hugh asked.

“A most instructive week. The roads here are remarkable. Allow me to point out to your notice, Léon, that an insignificant pawn lies under that chair. It is never wise to disregard the pawns.”

Hugh looked at him.

“What may that mean?” he inquired.

“It is merely advice, my dear. I should have made an excellent father. My philosophy is almost equal to Chesterfield’s.”

Hugh chuckled.

“Chesterfield’s conversation is marvellous.”

“A little tedious. Yes, Léon, what now?”

“Shall I bring wine, Monseigneur?”

“Mr. Davenant has certainly trained you well. No, Léon, you shall not bring wine. I trust he has been no trouble, Hugh?”

Léon cast Davenant an anxious glance. There had been one or two slight battles of will between them. Hugh smiled at him.

“His behaviour has been admirable,” he said.

His Grace had seen the anxious look, and the reassuring smile.

“I am relieved. May I now have the truth?”

Léon looked up at him gravely, but volunteered no word. Hugh laid his hand on Avon’s shoulder.

“We have had a few small disputes, Alastair. That is all.”

“Who won?” inquired his Grace.

“We reached the end by a compromise,” said Hugh solemnly.

“Very unwise. You should have insisted on utter capitulation.” He took Léon’s chin in his hand, and looked into the twinkling blue eyes. “Even as I should have done.” He pinched the chin. “Should I not, infant?”

“Perhaps, Monseigneur.”

The hazel eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps? What is this? Are you so demoralized during this one short week?”

“No, oh no!” Léon’s dimples quivered. “But I am very obstinate, Monseigneur, sometimes. Of course I will always try to make myself do as you wish.”

Avon released him.

“I believe you will,” he said unexpectedly, and waved one white hand to the door.

“I suppose it is useless to ask where you have been?” said Hugh, when Léon had gone.

“Quite.”

“Or where you intend to go next?”

“No, I believe I can answer that. I am going to London.”

“London?” Hugh was surprised. “I thought you intended to remain here some months?”

“Did you, Hugh? I never have intentions. That is why mothers of lovely daughters eye me askance. I am constrained to return to England.” He drew from his pocket a fan of dainty chicken-skin, and spread it open.

“What constrains you?” Hugh frowned upon the Duke’s fan. “Why that new affectation?”

Avon held the fan at arm’s length.

“Exactly what I ask myself, dear Hugh. I found it awaiting me here. It comes from March, who begs——” He searched in his pocket for a folded sheet of paper, and, putting up his glass, read the scrawled lines aloud. “Begs—yes, here we are. ‘I send you this pretty trifle, which I give you my word is now become the rage here, all men who aspire to be beaux using them both in warm weather and cold, so that we rival the ladies now in this matter. I beg you will make use of it, my dear Justin; it is cunningly painted, you will agree, and was procured by me from Geronimo, expressly for you. The golden sticks should please you, as I hope they will do.’” Avon raised his eyes from the letter to observe the fan, which was painted black, with a gold design, and gold sticks and tassels. “I wonder if I do like it?” he said.

“Foppery!” answered Hugh shortly.

“Undoubtedly. Natheless it will give Paris something fresh to talk about. I shall purchase a muff for March. Of miniver, I think. You perceive that I must return to England forthwith.”

“To give March a muff?”

“Precisely.”

“I perceive that you will make that an excuse. Léon goes with you?”

“As you say, Léon goes with me.”

“I had meant to ask you once again to give him to me.”

The Duke fanned himself with an air, handling the chicken-skin like a woman.

“I really could not permit it, my dear; it would be most improper.”

Hugh looked sharply up at him.

“Now, what mean you by that, Justin?”

“Is it possible that you have been hoodwinked? Dear, dear!”

“You’ll explain, if you please!”

“I had come to think you omniscient,” sighed his Grace. “You have had Léon in your care for eight days, and you are as innocent of his deception as you were when I first introduced him to your notice.”

“You mean?”

“I mean, my dear, that Léon is Léonie.”

Davenant threw up his hands.

“You knew, then!”

His Grace stopped fanning himself.

“I knew? I knew from the first. But you?”

“Perhaps a week after he came here. I hoped that you knew nothing.”

“Oh, my dear Hugh!” Avon shook with gentle laughter. “You thought me guileless! I forgive you only because you have restored my faith in your omniscience.”

“I never dreamed that you suspected!” Hugh took a few quick steps across the room and back again. “You’ve hidden it well!”

“So also have you, my dear.” Avon resumed his fanning.

“What was your object in allowing the deception to go on?”

“What was yours, oh worthy Hugh?”

“I dreaded lest you should discover the truth! I wanted to take the child away from you.”

His Grace smiled slowly, eyes nearly shut.

“The fan expresses my emotions. I must kiss March’s hands and feet. Metaphorically speaking.” He waved the fan gently to and fro.

Davenant glared at him for a moment, annoyed at his nonchalance. Then an unwilling laugh broke from him.

“Justin, pray put that fan away! If you know that Léon is a girl what will you do? I beg that you will give her to me——”

“My dear Hugh! Bethink you, you are but thirty-five—quite a child still. It would be most improper. Now, I—I am over forty. A veteran, and therefore harmless.”

“Justin——” Hugh came to him, and laid a hand on his arm. “Will you sit down, and talk this over—quietly and reasonably?”

The fan paused.

“Quietly? But did you imagine that I wished to bawl at you?”

“No. Don’t be flippant, Justin. Sit down.”

Avon went to a chair, and sat upon its arm.

“When you become excited, my dear, you remind me of an agitated sheep. Quite irresistible, believe me.”

Hugh controlled a quivering lip, and seated himself opposite the Duke. Avon stretched out his hand to where a small spindle-legged table stood and pulled it into place between himself and Davenant.

“So. I am now reasonably safe. Continue, Hugh.”

“Justin, I am not jesting——”

“Oh, my dear Hugh!”

“—and I want you also to be serious. Put away that damned fan!”

“It incites you to wrath? If you assault me I shall summon assistance.” But he shut the fan, and held it so, between his hands. “I am all attention, beloved.”

“Justin, you and I are friends, are we not? Let us for once have plain speaking!”

“But you always speak plainly, dear Hugh,” murmured his Grace.

“You’ve been kind—ay, I admit that—to little Léon; you’ve permitted him to take many liberties with you. At times I’ve hardly recognized you with him. I thought—well, never mind that. And all the while you knew he was a girl.”

“You are becoming rather involved,” remarked Avon.

“She, then. You knew she was a girl. Why have you allowed her to keep up the pretence? What do you mean by her?”

“Hugh——” Avon tapped the table with his fan. “Your painful anxiety impels me to inquire—what do you mean by her?”

Davenant looked his disgust.

“My God, do you think you are amusing? I mean this: That I will have her away from you if it costs me my life.”

“This becomes interesting,” said Avon. “How will you have her away from me, and why?”

“You can ask that? I never thought you were a hypocrite, Justin.”

Avon unfurled his fan.

“If you were to ask me, Hugh, why I permit myself to bear with you I could not tell you.”

“My manners are atrocious. I know it. But I’ve an affection for Léon, and if I allowed you to take her, innocent as he is——”

“Careful, Hugh, careful!”

“Oh, she, then! If I allowed that—I——”

“Calm yourself, my dear. If I did not fear that you would mutilate it I would lend you my fan. May I make known mine intentions.”

“It’s what I want!”

“I should not have guessed that, somehow. Strange how one may be mistaken. Or even how two may be mistaken. It will surprise you to hear that I am fond of Léon.”

“No. She will make a beautiful girl.”

“Remind me one day to teach you how to achieve a sneer, Hugh. Yours is too pronounced, and thus is but a grimace. It should be but a faint curl of the lips. So. But to resume. You will at least be surprised to hear that I had not thought of Léonie in the light of a beautiful girl.”

“It amazes me.”

“That is much better, my dear. You are an apt pupil.”

“Justin, you are impossible. This is no laughing matter!”

“Certainly not. You see in me—a strict guardian.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am taking Léonie to England, where I shall place her ’neath my sister’s wing until I have found some discreet lady who will act the part of duenna to my ward, Mademoiselle Léonie de Bonnard. Again the fan expresses my emotions.” He performed a sweep in the air with it, but Hugh was staring in open-mouthed wonderment.

“Your—your ward! But—why?”

“Oh, my reputation!” mourned his Grace. “A whim, Hugh, a whim!”

“You’ll adopt her as your daughter?”

“As my daughter.”

“For how long? If it be a whim only——”

“It is not. I have a reason. Léonie will not leave me until—let us say until she finds a more fitting home.”

“Until she marries, you mean?”

The thin black brows twitched suddenly together.

“I did not mean that, but let it stand. All that signifies is that Léonie is as safe in my care as she would be in—I will say yours, for want of a better simile.”

Hugh rose.

“I—you—Good God, Justin, are you jesting?”

“I believe not.”

“You seriously mean what you say?”

“You seem dazed, my dear.”

“More like a sheep than ever, then,” retorted Hugh, with a quick smile, and held out his hand. “If you are honest now—and I think you are——”

“You overwhelm me,” murmured his Grace.

“—you are doing something that is——”

“—quite unlike anything I have ever done before.”

“Something that is damned good!”

“But then you do not know my motives.”

“I wonder if you yourself know your motives?” Hugh said quietly.

“Very obscure, Hugh. I flatter myself that I do know—full well.”

“I am not so certain.” Hugh sat down again. “Ay, you’ve amazed me. What now? Does Léon know that you have discovered his—her—fiend seize it, I am becoming involved again!—sex?”

“She does not.”

Hugh was silent for a few moments.

“Perhaps she will not wish to remain with you when you tell her,” he said at last.

“It is possible, but she is mine, and she must do as I bid her.”

Suddenly Hugh rose again, and went to the window.

“Justin, I don’t like it.”

“May I ask why you do not like it?”

“She—she is too fond of you.”

“Well?”

“Would it not be kinder to make some arrangement—send her away?”

“Whither, my conscientious one?”

“I don’t know.”

“How helpful! As I do not know either I think we may safely banish that notion.”

Hugh turned, and came back to the table.

“Very well. I trust no harm will come of this, Justin. When shall you—put an end to her boyhood?”

“When we arrive in England. You see, I am deferring that moment as long as may be.”

“Why?”

“One reason, my dear, is that she might feel shy of me in her boy’s raiment when once I knew the secret. The other—the other——” He paused, and studied his fan, frowning. “Well, let us be honest. I have grown fond of Léon, and I do not want to exchange him for Léonie.”

“I thought so,” Hugh nodded. “Be kind to Léonie, Justin.”

“It is my intention,” bowed the Duke.

CHAPTER IX

Léon and Léonie

Early in the next week Davenant left Paris for Lyons. On the same day Avon summoned his maître d’hôtel, Walker, to his presence, and informed him that he was leaving France on the morrow. Well accustomed to his master’s sudden decisions, Walker felt no surprise. He was a discreet personage with an unyielding countenance. For many years he had been in the Avon employ, and as he had proved himself to be scrupulously honest and trustworthy, the Duke had placed him in charge of his Paris establishment. As his Grace owned another establishment in St. James’s Square, London, and kept both open and staffed with servants, this post was one of considerable importance. It was Walker’s duty to keep the Hôtel Avon in such strictness and order that it should always be ready for the Duke or for his brother.

When Walker left the library he went below-stairs to inform Gaston, the valet, Meekin, the groom, and Léon, the page, that they must hold themselves in readiness to depart from Paris to-morrow morning. He found Léon seated on the table in the housekeeper’s room, swinging his legs and munching a slice of cake. Madame Dubois was sitting in a large chair before the fire, dolefully regarding him. She welcomed Walker with a coy smile, for she was a comely woman, but Léon, having cast one glance towards the prim figure in the doorway, tilted his head a little, and went on eating.

“Eh bien, m’sieur!” Madame smoothed her gown, smiling upon the maître d’hôtel.

“I crave pardon thus to have disturbed you, madame,” Walker bowed. “I came but to find Léon.”

Léon wriggled round to face him.

“You perceive me, Walker,” he said.

A slight spasm contracted Walker’s features. Alone amongst the staff Léon never gave him a prefix to his name.

“His Grace sent for me a few moments back to tell me that he is leaving for London to-morrow. I come to warn you, Léon, that you must be ready to accompany him.”

“Bah! He had told me that this morning,” said Léon scornfully.

Madame nodded.

“Yes, and he comes to eat a last cake with me, le petit.” She sighed gustily. “Indeed, my heart is heavy to think I must lose thee, Léon. But thou—thou art glad, little ingrate!”

“I have never been to England, you see,” apologized Léon. “I am so excited, ma mčre.”

“Ah, c’est cela! So excited that you will forget fat old Madame Dubois.”

“No, I swear I will not! Walker, will you have some of Madame’s cake?”

Walker drew himself up.

“No, I thank you.”

“Voyons, he insults your skill, ma mčre!” chuckled Léon.

“I assure you, madame, it’s no such thing.” Walker bowed to her and withdrew.

“He is like a camel,” remarked the page placidly.

He repeated this observation to the Duke next day, as they sat in the coach, bound for Calais.

“A camel?” said his Grace. “Why?”

“We-ll . . .” Léon wrinkled his nose. “I saw one once, a long time ago, and I remember it walked along with its head very high, and a smile on its face, just like Walker. It was so full of dignity, Monseigneur. You see?”

“Perfectly,” yawned his Grace, leaning farther back into the corner.

“Do you think that I shall like England, Monseigneur?” asked Léon presently.

“It is to be hoped that you will, my infant.”

“And—and do you think that I shall feel sick upon the ship?”

“I trust not.”

“So do I,” said Léon devoutly.

As it chanced, the journey was quite uneventful. They spent one night on the road to Calais, and embarked next day on a night boat. Much to Léon’s disgust, the Duke sent him into his cabin, with orders to remain there. For perhaps the first time in all his Channel crossings Avon remained on deck. Once he went down to the tiny cabin, and, finding Léon fast asleep in a chair, lifted him, and put him gently into a bunk, covering him with a fur rug. Then he went out again to pace the deck until morning.

When Léon appeared on deck next morning he was shocked to find that his master had remained there all night, and said so. Avon pulled one of his curls, and, having breakfasted, went below to sleep until Dover was reached. Then he emerged, and with becoming languor went ashore, Léon at his heels. Gaston had disembarked one of the first, and by the time the Duke arrived at the inn on the quay had roused the landlord to activity. A private parlour awaited them, with lunch set out on the table.

Léon eyed the meal with some disapproval and not a little surprise. A sirloin of English beef stood at one end of the table, flanked by a ham and some capons. A fat duck was at the other end, with pasties and puddings. There was also a flagon of burgundy, and a jug of foaming ale.

“Well, my Léon?”

Léon turned. His Grace had entered the room, and stood behind him, fanning himself. Léon looked sternly at the fan, and seeing the condemnation in his eyes Avon smiled.

“The fan does not find favour with you, infant?”

“I do not like it at all, Monseigneur.”

“You distress me. What think you of our English meats?”

Léon shook his head.

“Terrible, Monseigneur. It is—it is barbare!”

The Duke laughed, and came to the table. At once Léon went to him, intending to stand behind his chair.

“Child, you will observe that two places are laid. Seat yourself.” He shook out his napkin, and picked up the carving-knife and fork. “Will you essay the duck?”

Léon sat down shyly.

“Yes, please, Monseigneur.” He was served, and began to eat, rather nervously, but daintily, as Avon saw.

“So—so this is Dover,” remarked Léon presently, in a politely conversational tone.

“You are right, infant,” replied his Grace. “This is Dover. You are pleased to approve?”

“Yes, Monseigneur. It is queer to see everything English, but I like it. I should not like it if you were not here, of course.”

Avon poured some burgundy into his glass.

“I fear you are a flatterer,” he said severely.

Léon smiled.

“No, Monseigneur. Did you remark the landlord?”

“I know him well. What of him?”

“He is so little, and so fat, with such a bright, bright nose! When he bowed to you, Monseigneur, I thought he would burst! It looked so droll!” His eyes twinkled.

“A horrible thought, my child. You would appear to have a slightly gruesome sense of humour.”

Léon gave a delighted chuckle.

“Do you know, Monseigneur,” he said, wrestling with a stubborn joint, “I had never seen the sea until yesterday! It is very wonderful, but just for a little while it made the inside of me go up and down. Like that.” He described the motion with his hand.

“My dear Léon! Really, I cannot have that topic discussed at meal time. You make me feel quite ill.”

“Well, it made me feel ill, Monseigneur. But I was not sick. I shut my mouth very tightly——”

Avon picked up his fan and dealt Léon a smart rap with it across the knuckles.

“Continue to keep it shut, infant, I beg of you.”

Léon rubbed his hand, looking at the Duke in aggrieved wonderment.

“Yes, Monseigneur, but——”

“And do not argue.”

“No, Monseigneur. I was not going to argue. I only——”

“My dear Léon, you are arguing now. I find you most wearisome.”

“I was trying to explain, Monseigneur,” said Léon, with great dignity.

“Then please do not. Confine your energy to the duck.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” Léon continued eating in silence for perhaps three minutes. Then he looked up again. “When do we begin to go to London, Monseigneur?”

“What an original way of putting it!” remarked his Grace. “We begin in about an hour’s time.”

“Then when I have finished my déjeuner may I go for a walk?”

“I am desolated to have to refuse my permission. I want to talk to you.”

“To talk to me?” echoed Léon.

“Madness, you think? I have something of import to say. What is the matter now?”

Léon was examining a black pudding with an expression akin to loathing on his face.

“Monseigneur, this—” he pointed disdainfully at the pudding—“this is not for people to eat! Bah!”

“Is aught amiss with it?” inquired his Grace.

“Everything!” said Léon crushingly. “First I am made to feel sick upon that ship, and then I am made to feel sick again by an evil—pudding, you call it? Voyons, it is a good name! Pig-pudding! Monseigneur, you must not eat it! It will make you——”

“Pray do not describe my probable symptoms as well as your own, infant. You have certainly been prodigiously ill-used, but endeavour to forget it! Eat one of those sweetmeats.”

Léon selected one of the little cakes, and started to nibble it.

“Do you always eat these things in England, Monseigneur?” he asked, pointing to the beef and the puddings.

“Invariably, my infant.”

“I think it would be better if we did not stay very long here,” said Léon firmly. “I have finished now.”

“Then come here.” His Grace had moved to the fire, and was sitting on the oaken settle. Léon sat beside him obediently.

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

Avon started to play with his fan, and his mouth was rather grim. He was frowning slightly, and Léon racked his brains to think how he could have offended his master. Suddenly Avon clasped his hand on Léon’s and held it in a cool, strong clasp.

“My infant, it has become necessary for me to put an end to the little comedy you and I have been playing.” He paused, and saw the big eyes grow apprehensive. “I am very fond of Léon, my child, but it is time he was Léonie.”

The little hand in his quivered.

“Mon-seigneur!”

“Yes, my child. You see, I have known from the very first.”

Léonie sat rigid, staring up into his face with the look of a stricken creature in her eyes. Avon put up his free hand to pat her white cheek.

“It is no such great matter after all, infant,” he said gently.

“You—you won’t send me—away?”

“I will not. Have I not bought you?”

“I—I may still be your page?”

“Not my page, child. I am sorry, but it is not possible.”

All the rigidity went out of the slight frame. Léonie gave one great sob, and buried her face in his coat sleeve.

“Oh please! oh please!”

“Infant, sit up! Come, I object to having my coat ruined. You have not heard all yet.”

“I won’t, I won’t!” came the muffled voice. “Let me be Léon! Please let me be Léon!”

His Grace lifted her.

“Instead of my page you shall be my ward. My daughter. Is it so terrible?”

“I do not want to be a girl! Oh please, Monseigneur, please.” Léon slipped from the settle to the floor, and knelt at his feet, gripping his hand. “Say yes, Monseigneur ! Say yes!”

“No, my babe. Dry your tears and listen to me. Don’t tell me you have lost your handkerchief.”

Léonie drew it from her pocket, and mopped her eyes.

“I don’t w-want to be—a girl!”

“Nonsense, my dear. It will be far more pleasant to be my ward than my page.”

“No!”

“You forget yourself,” said his Grace sternly. “I will not be contradicted.”

Léonie gulped down another sob.

“I—I am sorry, Monseigneur.”

“It’s very well. As soon as we have come to London I am going to take you to my sister—no, do not speak—my sister, Lady Fanny Marling. You see, infant, you cannot live with me until I have found some lady to act as—ah—duenna.”

“I will not! I will not!”

“You will do as I say, my good child. My sister will clothe you as befits your new position, and teach you to be—a girl. You will learn these things——”

“I will not! Never, never!”

“—because I command it. Then, when you are ready, you shall come back to me, and I will present you to Society.”

Léonie tugged at his hand.

“I won’t go to your sister! I will be just Léon! You cannot make me do as you say, Monseigneur! I will not!”

His Grace looked down at her in some exasperation.

“If you were still my page I should know how to deal with you,” he said.

“Yes, yes! Beat me, if you like, and let me still be your page! Ah, please, Monseigneur!”

“Unhappily it is impossible. Recollect, my infant, that you are mine, and must do as I say.”

Léonie promptly collapsed into a crumpled heap beside the settle, and sobbed into the hand she held. Avon allowed her to weep unrestrainedly for perhaps three minutes. Then he drew his hand away.

“You want me to send you away altogether?”

“Oh!” Léonie started up. “Monseigneur, you would not! You—oh no, no!”

“Then you will obey me. It is understood?”

There was a long pause. Léonie stared hopelessly into the cold hazel eyes. Her lip trembled, and a large tear rolled down her cheek.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” she whispered, and drooped her curly head.

Avon leaned forward, and put his arm about the childish figure, drawing it close.

“A very good infant,” he said lightly. “You will learn to be a girl to please me, Léonie.”

She clung to him, her curls tickling his chin.

“Will—will it please you, Monseigneur?”

“Above all things, child.”

“Then—I’ll try,” said Léonie, a heartbroken catch in her voice. “You won’t l-leave me with y-your sister for l-long, will you?”

“Only until I can find someone to take care of you. Then you shall go to my house in the country, and learn to curtsy, to flirt with your fan, to simper, to have the vapours——”

“I—won’t!”

“I hope not,” said his Grace, smiling faintly. “My dear child, there is no need for such misery.”

“I have been Léon for so—so long! It will be so very, very hard!”

“I think it will,” said Avon, and took the crumpled handkerchief from her. “But you will try to learn all that you are taught, that I may be proud of my ward.”

“Could you be, Monseigneur? Of-of me?”

“It is quite possible, my infant.”

“I should like that,” said Léonie, more happily. “I will be very good.”

The Duke’s fine lips twitched.

“So you may be worthy of me? I wish Hugh could hear.”

“Does—does he know?”

“It transpired, my child, that he always knew. Allow me to suggest that you rise from your knees. So. Sit down.”

Léonie resumed her place on the settle, and gave a doleful sniff.

“I must wear petticoats, and not say bad words, and always be with a woman. It is very hard, Monseigneur. I do not like women. I wish to be with you.”

“And I wonder what Fanny will say to you?” remarked his Grace. “My sister, Léonie, is all a woman.”

“Is she like you?” asked Léonie.

“Now how am I to take that?” inquired his Grace. “She is not like me, infant. She is golden-haired and blue-eyed. I beg your pardon?”

“I said Bah!”

“You seem partial to that observation. It is not at all ladylike, my dear. You will obey Lady Fanny, and you will not flout and scorn her because of her golden hair.”

“Of course I shall not. She is your sister, Monseigneur,” answered Léonie. “Will she like me, do you think?” She looked up at him with a troubled gleam in her eyes.

“Why not?” said his Grace flippantly.

A little smile flitted across Léonie’s mouth.

“Oh—oh, I don’t know, Monseigneur!”

“She will be kind to you for my sake.”

“Thank you,” said Léonie meekly, and with eyes downcast. Then, as Avon said nothing, she peeped up, and the roguish dimple appeared. Seeing it Avon ruffled her curls as though she still had been a boy.

“You are refreshing,” he said. “Fanny will try and make you like the rest of your sex. I believe that I do not want that.”

“No, Monseigneur. I will be just myself.” She kissed his hand, and her lip trembled. She controlled it, and smiled through her tears. “You have taken my handkerchief, Monseigneur.”

CHAPTER X

Lady Fanny’s Virtue is Outraged

Lady Fanny Marling, reposing on a settee, found life monotonous. She pushed away the book of poems, over which she had been yawning, and started to play with one golden curl that had strayed over her shoulder and lay glistening on the lace of her wrapper. She was en déshabillé, her fair hair unpowdered, and loosely dressed beneath a Mechlin cap whose blue ribands were tied under her chin in a coquettish bow. She wore a blue taffeta gown, with a broad fichu about her perfect shoulders, and as the room in which she sat was furnished in gold and blue and white she had reason to be pleased with herself and her setting. She was pleased, but she would have liked it better had there been someone with her to share the aesthetic pleasure. So when she heard the clang of her front-door bell her china-blue eyes brightened, and she stretched out her hand for her mirror.

In a few minutes her black page tapped upon the door. She put the mirror down, and turned her head to look at him.

Pompey grinned and bobbed his woolly head.

“Genelman to see ma’am!”

“His name?” she asked.

A soft voice spoke from behind the page.

“His name, my dear Fanny, is Avon. I am fortunate to find you at home.”

Fanny shrieked, clapped her hands, and flew up to greet him.

“Justin! You! Oh, how prodigiously delightful!” She would not permit him to kiss her finger-tips, but flung her arms about his neck, and embraced him. “I declare, ’tis an age since I have seen you! The cook you sent is a marvel! Edward will be so pleased to see you! Such dishes! And a sauce at my last party which I positively cannot describe!”

The Duke disengaged himself, shaking out his ruffles.

“Edward and the cook would appear to have become entangled,” he remarked. “I trust I find you well, Fanny?”

“Yes, oh yes! And you? Justin, you cannot imagine how glad I am that you have come back! I vow I have missed you quite too dreadfully! Why, what is this?” Her eyes had alighted on Léonie, wrapped in a long cloak, her tricorne in one hand, a fold of the Duke’s coat in the other.

His Grace loosened the tight hold on his garment, and allowed Léonie to clutch his hand.

“This, my dear, was, until yesterday, my page. It is now my ward.”

Fanny gasped, and fell black a pace.

“Your—your ward! This boy? Justin, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No, my dear, I have not. I solicit your kindness for Mademoiselle Léonie de Bonnard.”

Fanny’s cheeks grew crimson. She drew her small figure up, and her eyes became haughtily indignant.

“Indeed, sir? May I ask why you bring your—your ward here?”

Léonie shrank a little, but spoke never a word. Very silky became Avon’s voice.

“I bring her to you, Fanny, because she is my ward, and because I have no duenna for her. She will be glad of you, I think.”

Fanny’s delicate nostrils quivered.

“You think so? Justin, how dare you! How dare you bring her here!” She stamped her foot at him “You have spoiled everything now! I hate you!”

“You will perhaps accord me a few minutes’ private conversation?” said his Grace. “My infant, you will await me in this room.” He went to one end of the room and opened a door, disclosing an antechamber. “Come, child.”

Léonie looked up at him suspiciously.

“You’ll not go?”

“I will not.”

“Promise! Please, you must promise!”

“This passion for oaths and promises!” sighed Avon. “I promise, my infant.”

Léonie released his hand then, and went into the adjoining room. Avon shut the door behind her, and turned to face his wrathful sister. From his pocket he drew his fan, and spread it open.

“You are really very foolish, my dear,” he said, and came to the fire.

“I am at least respectable! I think it very unkind and insulting of you to bring your—your——”

“Yes, Fanny? My——?”

“Oh, your ward! It’s not decent! Edward will be very, very angry, and I hate you!”

“Now that you have unburdened yourself of that sentiment no doubt you will allow me to explain.” His Grace’s eyes were nearly shut, and his thin lips sneered.

“I do not want an explanation! I want you to take that creature away!”