These Old Shades

“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!” Leon’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.”

Leon 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.”

Leon 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 Cure’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 Mcre 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 Cure?”

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 Cure’s house. The wondering villagers saw M. de Beaupre’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 Cure’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 pcre, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,” she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.

The Cure 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 Beaupre, 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 Beaupre 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 Beaupre. “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 Beaupre?”

“His uncle, m’sieur.”

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

The Cure 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 Beaupre 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 pcre, has naught to do with the world,” replied his Grace. “I want you to cast your mind back seven years.”

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