These Old Shades (8 page)

“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.”