These Old Shades

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 Leon. 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. Leon, 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 Leon 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 levee.” 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 Leon to await him in the Sil de Bsuf, and remained for perhaps an hour in the gallery.

When he joined Leon in the Sil de Bsuf 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 Leon entered the luxurious vehicle and with a sigh of content Leon 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 Leon 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 Leon, 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 Leon.

“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 Leon. “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 Leon’s head sank against his Grace’s shoulder, and remained there.

“I am undoubtedly a fool,” remarked the Duke. He pushed a cushion under Leon’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 Leon 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 Leon he smiled, as if at some pleasant thought.