These Old Shades

“And you will obey Walker as you would myself.”

The firm chin was tilted at that; Leon looked speculatively at the Duke.

“If you do not”—the soft voice grew softer still—“you will find that I too know how to punish.”

“If it is your will that I obey this Walker,” said Leon with dignity, “I will do it, y-your-r-r Gr-r-race!”

Justin looked him over.

“Certainly you will do so. And I prefer that you call me Monseigneur.”

The blue eyes twinkled wickedly.

“This Walker, he has told me that when I speak to you, Monseigneur, I must say ‘your-r-r’ ah, bah! I cannot, enfin!”

For one moment Justin stared haughtily at his page. Instantly the twinkle disappeared. Leon stared back gravely.

“Be very careful,” Justin warned him.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” Leon said meekly.

“You may go now. This evening you will accompany me out.” The Duke dipped his quill in the inkhorn, and started to write.

“Where, Monseigneur?” inquired the page with great interest.

“Is that your affair? I dismissed you. Go.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Pardon!” Leon departed, carefully closing the door behind him. Outside he met Davenant, coming slowly down the stairs. Hugh smiled.

“Well, Leon? Where have you been all the morning?”

“Dressing myself, in these new clothes, m’sieu’. I think I look nice, n’est-ce pas? ”

“Very nice. Where are you going now?”

“I do not know, m’sieu’. Perhaps there is something I may do for Monseigneur?”

“If he gave you no orders there is nothing. Can you read?”

“But yes! I was taught. Ah, I have forgotten, m’sieu’!”

“Have you?” Hugh was amused. “If you come with me, child, I’ll find you a book.”

Twenty minutes later Hugh entered the library to find the Duke still writing, as Leon had left him.

“Justin, who and what is Leon? He is a delightful child; certainly no peasant!”

“He is a very impertinent child,” said Justin, with the ghost of a smile. “He is the first page I have had who ever dared to laugh at me.”

“Did he laugh at you? A very wholesome experience for you, Alastair. How old is the child?”

“I have reason to believe that he is nineteen,” said Justin placidly.

“Nineteen! Faith, it’s not possible! He is a babe!”

“Not entirely. Do you come with me to Vassaud’s tonight?”

“I suppose so. I’ve no money to lose, but what matter?”

“You need not play,” said Justin.

“If one does not play, why visit a gaming-house?”

“To talk to the monde. I go to Vassaud’s to see Paris.” He resumed his writing, and presently Hugh strolled away.

At dinner that evening Leon stood behind the Duke’s chair, and waited upon him. Justin seemed hardly to notice him, but Hugh could not take his eyes from that piquant little face. Indeed, he stared so hard that at last Leon stared back, with great dignity, and some reproach. Observing his friend’s fixed regard, Justin turned, and put up his glass to look at Leon.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Monseigneur, only looking at M. Davenant.”

“Then do not.”

“But he looks at me, Monseigneur!”

“That is another matter.”

“I do not see that that is fair,” remarked Leon, sotto voce.

Some time after dinner the two men set out for Vassaud’s. When Hugh realized that Leon was to accompany them he frowned, and took Avon aside.

“Justin, have done with this affectation! You can have no need of a page at Vassaud’s, and it’s no place for such a child!”

“My very dear Hugh, I do wish you would allow me to know my own mind,” answered Justin sweetly. “The page goes with me. Another whim.”

“But why? The child should be in bed!”

Justin flicked a speck of snuff from his coat.

“You force me to remind you, Hugh, that the page is mine.”

Davenant compressed his lips, and swung out of the door. Nonchalantly his Grace followed.

Vassaud’s was crowded, early in the evening though it was. The two men left their cloaks with the lackey in the vestibule, and proceeded, with Leon in their wake, across the hall to the broad stairway which led to the gaming-rooms on the first floor. Hugh saw a friend, standing at the foot of the stairs, and paused to exchange a greeting, but Avon swept on, bowing slightly to right and left as some chance acquaintance hailed him. He did not stop to speak to anyone, although several called to him as he passed, but went on his regal way with just a faint smile in his lips.

Leon followed him close, his blue eyes wide with interest. He attracted some attention, and many were the curious glances cast from him to the Duke. He flushed delicately when he encountered such a glance, but his Grace appeared to be quite unaware of the surprise he had created.

“What ails Alastair now?” inquired the Chevalier d’Anvau, who was standing with one De Salmy in a recess on the staircase.

“Who knows?” De Salmy shrugged elegantly. “He must ever be unusual. Good evening, Alastair.”

The Duke nodded to him.

“I rejoice to see you, De Salmy. A hand of piquet later?”

De Salmy bowed.

“I shall be delighted.” He watched Avon pass on, and shrugged again. “He bears himself as though he were the king of France. I mislike those strange eyes. Ah, Davenant, well met!”

Davenant smiled pleasantly.

“You here? A crowd, is it not?”

“All Paris,” agreed the Chevalier. “Why has Alastair brought his page?”

“I have no idea, Justin is never communicative. I see Destourville is back.”

“Ah yes, he arrived last night. You have no doubt heard the scandal?”

“Oh, my dear Chevalier, I never listen to scandal!” Hugh laughed, and went on up the stairs.

“Je me demande,” remarked the Chevalier, watching Hugh’s progress through his eyeglass, “why it is that the good Davenant is a friend of the bad Alastair?”

The salon on the first floor was brilliantly lighted, and humming with gay, inconsequent conversation. Some were already at play, others were gathered about the buffet, sipping their wine. Hugh saw Avon through the folding doors that led into a smaller salon, the centre of a group, his page standing at a discreet distance behind him.

A muttered exclamation near him made him turn his head. A tall, rather carelessly dressed man was standing beside him, looking across the room at Leon. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth was shut hard. Through the powder his hair glinted red, but his arched brows were black, and very thick.

“Saint-Vire?” Hugh bowed to him. “You are wondering at Alastair’s page? A freak, is it not?”

“Your servant, Davenant. A freak, yes. Who is the boy?”

“I do not know. Alastair found him yesterday. He is called Leon. I trust Madame your wife is well?”

“I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?”

“Here he comes,” answered Hugh. “You had best ask him.”

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

“My dear Comte!” The hazel eyes mocked. “My very dear Comte!”

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.