These Old Shades

“So do I,” said Leon devoutly.

As it chanced, the journey was quite uneventful. They spent one night on the road to Calais, and embarked next day on a night boat. Much to Leon’s disgust, the Duke sent him into his cabin, with orders to remain there. For perhaps the first time in all his Channel crossings Avon remained on deck. Once he went down to the tiny cabin, and, finding Leon fast asleep in a chair, lifted him, and put him gently into a bunk, covering him with a fur rug. Then he went out again to pace the deck until morning.

When Leon appeared on deck next morning he was shocked to find that his master had remained there all night, and said so. Avon pulled one of his curls, and, having breakfasted, went below to sleep until Dover was reached. Then he emerged, and with becoming languor went ashore, Leon at his heels. Gaston had disembarked one of the first, and by the time the Duke arrived at the inn on the quay had roused the landlord to activity. A private parlour awaited them, with lunch set out on the table.

Leon eyed the meal with some disapproval and not a little surprise. A sirloin of English beef stood at one end of the table, flanked by a ham and some capons. A fat duck was at the other end, with pasties and puddings. There was also a flagon of burgundy, and a jug of foaming ale.

“Well, my Leon?”

Leon turned. His Grace had entered the room, and stood behind him, fanning himself. Leon looked sternly at the fan, and seeing the condemnation in his eyes Avon smiled.

“The fan does not find favour with you, infant?”

“I do not like it at all, Monseigneur.”

“You distress me. What think you of our English meats?”

Leon shook his head.

“Terrible, Monseigneur. It is—it is barbare!”

The Duke laughed, and came to the table. At once Leon went to him, intending to stand behind his chair.

“Child, you will observe that two places are laid. Seat yourself.” He shook out his napkin, and picked up the carving-knife and fork. “Will you essay the duck?”

Leon sat down shyly.

“Yes, please, Monseigneur.” He was served, and began to eat, rather nervously, but daintily, as Avon saw.

“So—so this is Dover,” remarked Leon presently, in a politely conversational tone.

“You are right, infant,” replied his Grace. “This is Dover. You are pleased to approve?”

“Yes, Monseigneur. It is queer to see everything English, but I like it. I should not like it if you were not here, of course.”

Avon poured some burgundy into his glass.

“I fear you are a flatterer,” he said severely.

Leon smiled.

“No, Monseigneur. Did you remark the landlord?”

“I know him well. What of him?”

“He is so little, and so fat, with such a bright, bright nose! When he bowed to you, Monseigneur, I thought he would burst! It looked so droll!” His eyes twinkled.

“A horrible thought, my child. You would appear to have a slightly gruesome sense of humour.”

Leon gave a delighted chuckle.

“Do you know, Monseigneur,” he said, wrestling with a stubborn joint, “I had never seen the sea until yesterday! It is very wonderful, but just for a little while it made the inside of me go up and down. Like that.” He described the motion with his hand.

“My dear Leon! Really, I cannot have that topic discussed at meal time. You make me feel quite ill.”

“Well, it made me feel ill, Monseigneur. But I was not sick. I shut my mouth very tightly——”

Avon picked up his fan and dealt Leon a smart rap with it across the knuckles.

“Continue to keep it shut, infant, I beg of you.”

Leon rubbed his hand, looking at the Duke in aggrieved wonderment.

“Yes, Monseigneur, but——”

“And do not argue.”

“No, Monseigneur. I was not going to argue. I only——”

“My dear Leon, you are arguing now. I find you most wearisome.”

“I was trying to explain, Monseigneur,” said Leon, with great dignity.

“Then please do not. Confine your energy to the duck.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” Leon continued eating in silence for perhaps three minutes. Then he looked up again. “When do we begin to go to London, Monseigneur?”

“What an original way of putting it!” remarked his Grace. “We begin in about an hour’s time.”

“Then when I have finished my dejeuner may I go for a walk?”

“I am desolated to have to refuse my permission. I want to talk to you.”

“To talk to me?” echoed Leon.

“Madness, you think? I have something of import to say. What is the matter now?”

Leon was examining a black pudding with an expression akin to loathing on his face.

“Monseigneur, this—” he pointed disdainfully at the pudding—“this is not for people to eat! Bah!”

“Is aught amiss with it?” inquired his Grace.

“Everything!” said Leon crushingly. “First I am made to feel sick upon that ship, and then I am made to feel sick again by an evil—pudding, you call it? Voyons, it is a good name! Pig-pudding! Monseigneur, you must not eat it! It will make you——”

“Pray do not describe my probable symptoms as well as your own, infant. You have certainly been prodigiously ill-used, but endeavour to forget it! Eat one of those sweetmeats.”

Leon selected one of the little cakes, and started to nibble it.

“Do you always eat these things in England, Monseigneur?” he asked, pointing to the beef and the puddings.

“Invariably, my infant.”

“I think it would be better if we did not stay very long here,” said Leon firmly. “I have finished now.”

“Then come here.” His Grace had moved to the fire, and was sitting on the oaken settle. Leon sat beside him obediently.

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

Avon started to play with his fan, and his mouth was rather grim. He was frowning slightly, and Leon racked his brains to think how he could have offended his master. Suddenly Avon clasped his hand on Leon’s and held it in a cool, strong clasp.

“My infant, it has become necessary for me to put an end to the little comedy you and I have been playing.” He paused, and saw the big eyes grow apprehensive. “I am very fond of Leon, my child, but it is time he was Leonie.”

The little hand in his quivered.

“Mon-seigneur!”

“Yes, my child. You see, I have known from the very first.”

Leonie sat rigid, staring up into his face with the look of a stricken creature in her eyes. Avon put up his free hand to pat her white cheek.

“It is no such great matter after all, infant,” he said gently.

“You—you won’t send me—away?”

“I will not. Have I not bought you?”

“I—I may still be your page?”

“Not my page, child. I am sorry, but it is not possible.”

All the rigidity went out of the slight frame. Leonie gave one great sob, and buried her face in his coat sleeve.

“Oh please! oh please!”