“Was the
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. Leon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.”
Hugh looked inquiringly at the page.
“What is the joke, Leon? Do you know?”
Leon shook his head.
“No, m’sieur.”
“Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,” said his Grace. “Leon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.”
Leon 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. Leon, 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.”
“Hotel,” suggested Hugh.
“Once more you are right. Hotel 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.
“Leon, where does your remarkable brother live?”
Leon started, and fell back a pace.
“Mon—Monseigneur?”
“Where is his inn?”
Suddenly Leon 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. Leon 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 Leon, clinging tighter still. “Promise, promise!”
Avon loosened the clasp on his sleeve.
“My dear Leon, 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!” Leon 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, Leon, 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.”
Leon 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.”
Leon 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.”
Leon 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
