These Old Shades

“I am taking Leonie to England, where I shall place her ’neath my sister’s wing until I have found some discreet lady who will act the part of duenna to my ward, Mademoiselle Leonie de Bonnard. Again the fan expresses my emotions.” He performed a sweep in the air with it, but Hugh was staring in open-mouthed wonderment.

“Your—your ward! But—why?”

“Oh, my reputation!” mourned his Grace. “A whim, Hugh, a whim!”

“You’ll adopt her as your daughter?”

“As my daughter.”

“For how long? If it be a whim only——”

“It is not. I have a reason. Leonie will not leave me until—let us say until she finds a more fitting home.”

“Until she marries, you mean?”

The thin black brows twitched suddenly together.

“I did not mean that, but let it stand. All that signifies is that Leonie is as safe in my care as she would be in—I will say yours, for want of a better simile.”

Hugh rose.

“I—you—Good God, Justin, are you jesting?”

“I believe not.”

“You seriously mean what you say?”

“You seem dazed, my dear.”

“More like a sheep than ever, then,” retorted Hugh, with a quick smile, and held out his hand. “If you are honest now—and I think you are——”

“You overwhelm me,” murmured his Grace.

“—you are doing something that is——”

“—quite unlike anything I have ever done before.”

“Something that is damned good!”

“But then you do not know my motives.”

“I wonder if you yourself know your motives?” Hugh said quietly.

“Very obscure, Hugh. I flatter myself that I do know—full well.”

“I am not so certain.” Hugh sat down again. “Ay, you’ve amazed me. What now? Does Leon know that you have discovered his—her—fiend seize it, I am becoming involved again!—sex?”

“She does not.”

Hugh was silent for a few moments.

“Perhaps she will not wish to remain with you when you tell her,” he said at last.

“It is possible, but she is mine, and she must do as I bid her.”

Suddenly Hugh rose again, and went to the window.

“Justin, I don’t like it.”

“May I ask why you do not like it?”

“She—she is too fond of you.”

“Well?”

“Would it not be kinder to make some arrangement—send her away?”

“Whither, my conscientious one?”

“I don’t know.”

“How helpful! As I do not know either I think we may safely banish that notion.”

Hugh turned, and came back to the table.

“Very well. I trust no harm will come of this, Justin. When shall you—put an end to her boyhood?”

“When we arrive in England. You see, I am deferring that moment as long as may be.”

“Why?”

“One reason, my dear, is that she might feel shy of me in her boy’s raiment when once I knew the secret. The other—the other——” He paused, and studied his fan, frowning. “Well, let us be honest. I have grown fond of Leon, and I do not want to exchange him for Leonie.”

“I thought so,” Hugh nodded. “Be kind to Leonie, Justin.”

“It is my intention,” bowed the Duke.

CHAPTER IX

Leon and Leonie

Early in the next week Davenant left Paris for Lyons. On the same day Avon summoned his maitre d’hotel, Walker, to his presence, and informed him that he was leaving France on the morrow. Well accustomed to his master’s sudden decisions, Walker felt no surprise. He was a discreet personage with an unyielding countenance. For many years he had been in the Avon employ, and as he had proved himself to be scrupulously honest and trustworthy, the Duke had placed him in charge of his Paris establishment. As his Grace owned another establishment in St. James’s Square, London, and kept both open and staffed with servants, this post was one of considerable importance. It was Walker’s duty to keep the Hotel Avon in such strictness and order that it should always be ready for the Duke or for his brother.

When Walker left the library he went below-stairs to inform Gaston, the valet, Meekin, the groom, and Leon, the page, that they must hold themselves in readiness to depart from Paris to-morrow morning. He found Leon seated on the table in the housekeeper’s room, swinging his legs and munching a slice of cake. Madame Dubois was sitting in a large chair before the fire, dolefully regarding him. She welcomed Walker with a coy smile, for she was a comely woman, but Leon, having cast one glance towards the prim figure in the doorway, tilted his head a little, and went on eating.

“Eh bien, m’sieur!” Madame smoothed her gown, smiling upon the maitre d’hotel.

“I crave pardon thus to have disturbed you, madame,” Walker bowed. “I came but to find Leon.”

Leon wriggled round to face him.

“You perceive me, Walker,” he said.

A slight spasm contracted Walker’s features. Alone amongst the staff Leon never gave him a prefix to his name.

“His Grace sent for me a few moments back to tell me that he is leaving for London to-morrow. I come to warn you, Leon, that you must be ready to accompany him.”

“Bah! He had told me that this morning,” said Leon scornfully.

Madame nodded.

“Yes, and he comes to eat a last cake with me, le petit.” She sighed gustily. “Indeed, my heart is heavy to think I must lose thee, Leon. But thou—thou art glad, little ingrate!”

“I have never been to England, you see,” apologized Leon. “I am so excited, ma mcre.”

“Ah, c’est cela! So excited that you will forget fat old Madame Dubois.”

“No, I swear I will not! Walker, will you have some of Madame’s cake?”

Walker drew himself up.

“No, I thank you.”

“Voyons, he insults your skill, ma mcre!” chuckled Leon.

“I assure you, madame, it’s no such thing.” Walker bowed to her and withdrew.

“He is like a camel,” remarked the page placidly.

He repeated this observation to the Duke next day, as they sat in the coach, bound for Calais.

“A camel?” said his Grace. “Why?”

“We-ll . . .” Leon wrinkled his nose. “I saw one once, a long time ago, and I remember it walked along with its head very high, and a smile on its face, just like Walker. It was so full of dignity, Monseigneur. You see?”

“Perfectly,” yawned his Grace, leaning farther back into the corner.

“Do you think that I shall like England, Monseigneur?” asked Leon presently.

“It is to be hoped that you will, my infant.”

“And—and do you think that I shall feel sick upon the ship?”

“I trust not.”