These Old Shades

“Yes, Justin. I do. I am coming to Paris with you.”

“I am gratified, of course,” said his Grace. “Nevertheless, my dear, you will go with your husband.”

“I thank you!” Marling laughed harshly. “I do not take her an she comes at your bidding! She must come at mine.”

“I w-won’t go at anyone’s b-bidding!” Lady Fanny’s face puckered like that of a child about to cry. “You are very unkind!”

Marling said nothing. She dabbed at her eyes.

“You come—bullying, and—and scowling—I won’t go with you. I hate you, Edward!”

“It needed only that,” said Marling, and turned to the door.

There was a rustle of silks as my lady fled across the room.

“Oh, Edward, I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t!”

He held her away from him.

“You will return with me?”

She hesitated, then looked up into his face. Two large tears stole down her cheeks. Marling took her hands, and pressed them.

“In truth,” he said gently, “I cannot bear to see you weep, love. Go with Justin.”

At that she cast herself into his arms, and sobbed.

“Oh Edward, I will come! I truly will! You must f-forgive me!”

“My dear!” He caught her to him.

“I am decidedly de trop,” remarked his Grace, and poured out another glass of burgundy.

“I’ll come, Edward, but I do—oh, I do want to go to Paris!”

“Then go, sweetheart. I’d not deny you your pleasure.”

“But I c-can’t bear to leave you!” sobbed Fanny.

“May I be allowed to make a suggestion?” His Grace came slowly forward. “There is really no occasion for these heart-burnings. The matter is very simple.” He swept Marling a magnificent leg. “Pray come with us to Paris, my dear Edward.”

“Oh, I thank you, but——”

“Yes, I know,” said Avon languidly. “You would prefer not to enter the unhallowed portals of my abode.”

Marling flushed.

“I protest——”

“It is quite unnecessary, believe me. I would not propose such a distasteful plan were it not for the fact that I have need of Fanny.”

“I don’t understand why you should need her, Avon.”

His Grace was incredulous.

“My very dear Edward, I should have thought that with your strict sense of propriety the reason must positively leap to your understanding.”

“Leonie! I had forgot.” Marling stood irresolute. “Can you find no other lady to chaperon her?”

“I could doubtless find an hundred, but I require a hostess.”

“Then Fanny had best stay with you. I will go back to England.”

Fanny sighed.

“Edward, if you will not come to Paris I must return with you. But I do wish that you would come!”

At that moment Leonie appeared, and clapped her hands at sight of Marling.

“Parbleu, it is M. Marling! Bonjour, m’sieur!”

He smiled, and kissed her hand.

“I hope I see you well, child? Your pretty colour answers me.”

“My infant finds favour in the austere eyes,” murmured his Grace. “Infant, I am trying to prevail upon Mr. Marling to honour my poor house with his presence. Pray add your entreaties to mine.”

“Yes?” Leonie looked from one to the other. “Please will you come, m’sieur? I shall ask Monseigneur to invite M. Davenant also.”

In spite of himself Avon smiled.

“A happy thought, ma fille.”

“Why, child, I believe I must not,” Marling said. “You shall take her ladyship, and let me go home.”

“Ah, bah!” said Leonie. “It is because you do not like Monseigneur, is it not?”

“My infant is nothing if not outspoken,” remarked Avon. “That is the matter in a nutshell, child.”

“You do not think he is enough respectable. But indeed he is very respectable now, je vous assure!”

A choking sound came from Rupert; my lady’s shoulders shook, and Marling collapsed into helpless laughter. Leonie looked at the convulsed trio in disgust, and turned to the Duke.

“What is the matter with them, Monseigneur? Why do they laugh?”

“I have no idea, infant,” replied Avon gravely.

“They are silly, I think. Very silly.”

But the laughter cleared the air. Marling looked at the Duke, and said unsteadily:

“I confess—it’s your lack of—of respectability that sticks—somewhat in my gullet!”

“I am sure it must,” said his Grace. “But you shall have Davenant to support you. He will be delighted to join you in mourning over my departed morals.”

“The prospect is most alluring,” Marling said. He glanced uncertainly at his wife. “But I do not think I fit well in this mad venture.”

“My dear Edward, do I fit well in it?” asked his Grace, pained. “I count upon you to aid me in lending a note of sobriety to the party.”

Marling regarded his Grace’s coat of dull crimson velvet quizzically.

“I might lend sobriety, but you, Avon? You supply the magnificence, I think.”

“You flatter me,” Avon bowed. “I am to understand that you will join us?”

“Yes, Edward, yes! Oh please!”

“Voyons, it will be fort amusant, m’sieur. You must come.”

Rupert ventured to uplift his voice.

“Ay, join us, Marling. The more the merrier.”

“In face of such kind entreaties what can I say?” Marling took his wife’s hand. “I thank you, Avon. I will come.”

“Gaston, then, had best return to London for your baggage,” said his Grace.

Leonie chuckled.

“He will die, Monseigneur. I know it.”

“As you observe,” remarked his Grace to Marling, “death and disaster are a source of never-failing amusement to my infant.”

Marling laid a hand on Leonie’s head.

“She is a rogue, Avon, is she not? But a pretty rogue.”

Leonie opened wide her eyes.

“Vraiment? Am I pretty, Monseigneur? Do you think so?”

“Passable, my infant, passable.”

Her face fell.

“I was afraid you would not think so, Monseigneur.”

Avon pinched her chin.

“Child, do I not call you ‘ma belle’?”

Leonie caught his hand to her lips.

“Merci, Monseigneur! You make me very happy, enfin! ”

Marling looked suddenly at his wife. She smiled, and cast down her eyes. Marling turned to Rupert.

“I think I’ll take your excellent—though ill-timed—advice, my boy.”