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?”
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