These Old Shades

snuff-box, and opened his fingers to show the thin gold crushed.

Hugh gave a little shiver.

“My God, Justin, do you know just how vile you can be?”

“Naturally Do they not call me—Satanas?” The mocking smile came; the eyes glittered.

“I hope to heaven Saint-Vire never puts himself in your power! It seems they were right who named you Satanas!”

“Quite right, my poor Hugh.”

“Does Saint-Vire’s brother know?”

“Armand? No one knows save you, and I, and Saint-Vire. Armand may guess, of course.”

“And yet you and he are friends!”

“Oh, Armand’s hatred for the noble Henri is more violent than ever mine could be.”

In spite of himself Hugh smiled.

“It is a race betwixt you, then?”

“Not a whit. I should have said that Armand’s is a sullen detestation. Unlike me, he is content to hate.”

“He, I suppose, would sell his soul for Saint-Vire’s shoes.”

“And Saint-Vire,” said Avon gently, “would sell his soul to keep those shoes from Armand.”

“Yes, one knows that. It was common gossip at the time that that was his reason for marrying. One could not accuse him of loving his wife!”

“No,” said Justin, and chuckled as though at some secret thought.

“Well,” Hugh went on, “Armand’s hopes of the title were very surely dashed when Madame presented Saint- Vire with a son!”

“Precisely,” said Justin.

“A triumph for Saint-Vire, that!”

“A triumph indeed,” suavely agreed his Grace.

CHAPTER IV

His Grace of Avon Becomes Further Acquainted with his Page

For Leon the days passed swiftly, each one teeming with some new excitement. Never in his life had he seen such sights as now met his eyes. He was dazzled by the new life spread before him; from living in a humble, dirty tavern, he was transported suddenly into gorgeous surroundings, fed with strange foods, clad in fine clothes, and taken into the midst of aristocratic Paris. All at once life seemed to consist of silks and diamonds, bright lights, and awe-inspiring figures. Ladies whose fingers were covered with rings, and whose costly brocades held an elusive perfume, would stop to smile at him sometimes; great gentlemen with powdered wigs and high heels would flip his head with careless fingers as they passed. Even Monseigneur sometimes spoke to him.

Fashionable Paris grew accustomed to see him long before he became accustomed to his new existence. After a while people ceased to stare at him when he came in Avon’s wake, but it was some time before he ceased to gaze on all that met his eyes, in wondering appreciation.

To the amazement of Avon’s household, he still persisted in his worship of the Duke. Nothing could shake him from his standpoint, and if one of the lackeys vented his outraged feelings below-stairs in a tirade against Avon, Leon was up in arms at once, blind rage taking possession of him. Since the Duke had ordained that none should lay violent hands on his page, save at his express command, the lackeys curbed their tongues in Leon’s presence, for he was over-ready with his dagger, and they dared not disobey the Duke’s orders. Gaston, the valet, felt that this hot partisanship was sadly wrong; that any should defend the Duke struck forcibly at his sense of propriety, and more than once he tried to convince the page that it was the duty of any self-respecting menial to loathe the Duke.

“Mon petit,” he said firmly, “it is ridiculous. It is unthinkable. Meme, it is outrageous. It is against all custom. The Duke, he is not human. Some call him Satanas, and, mon Dieu, they have reason!”

“I have never seen Satan,” answered Leon, from a large chair where he sat with his feet tucked under him. “But I do not think that Monseigneur is like him.” He reflected. “But if he is like the devil no doubt I should like the devil very much. My brother says I am a child of the devil.”

“That is shame!” said fat Madame Dubois, the housekeeper, shocked.

“Faith, he has the devil’s own temper!” chuckled Gregory, a footman.

“But listen to me, you!” insisted Gaston. “M. le Duc is of a hardness! Ah, but who should know better than I? I tell you, moi qui vous parle, if he would but be enraged all would go well. If he would throw his mirror at my head I would say naught! That is a gentleman, a noble! But the Duc! Bah! he speaks softly —oh, so softly!—and his eyes they are al-most shut, while his voice—voila, I shudder!” He did shudder, but revived at the murmur of applause. “And you, petit! When has he spoken to you as a boy? He speaks to you as his dog! Ah, but it is imbecile to admire such a man! It is not to be believed!”

“I am his dog. He is kind to me, and I love him,” said Leon firmly.

“Kind! Madame, you hear?” Gaston appealed to the housekeeper, who sighed, and folded her hands.

“He is very young,” she said.

“Now I will tell you of a thing!” Gaston exclaimed. “This Duc, what did he do, think you, three years ago? You see this hotel? It is fine, it is costly! Eh bien! Me, I have served the Duke for six years, so you may know that I speak truth. Three years ago he was poor! There were debts and mortgages. Oh, we lived the same, bien sur; the Alastairs are always thus. We had always the same magnificence, but there were only debts behind the splendour. Me, I know. Then we go to Vienna. As ever, the Duc he play for great stakes: that is the way of his house. At first he loses. You would not say he cared, for still he smiles. That too is his way. Then there comes a young nobleman, very rich, very joyous. He plays with the Duc. He loses; he suggests a higher stake; the Duc, he agrees. What would you? Still that young noble loses. On and on, until at last—pouf! It is over! That fortune, it has changed hands. The young man he is ruined—absolument! The Duc, he goes away. He smiles—ah, that smile! The young man fights a duel with pistols a little later, and he fires wide, wide! Because he was ruined he chose Death! And the Duc—” Gaston waved his hands —“he comes to Paris and buys this hotel with that young noble’s fortune!”

“Ah!” sighed Madame, and shook her head.

Leon tilted his chin a little.

“It is no such great matter. Monseigneur would always play fair. That young man was a fool. Voilr tout!”

“Mon Dieu, is it thus you speak of the wickedness? Ah, but I could tell of things! If you knew the women that the Duc has courted! If you knew——”

“Monsieur!” Madame Dubois raised protesting hands. “Before me?”

“I ask pardon, madame. No, I say nothing. Nothing! But what I know!”

“Some men,” said Leon gravely, “are like that, I think. I have seen many.”

“Fi donc!” Madame cried. “So young, too!”

Leon disregarded the interruption, and looked at Gaston with a worldly wisdom that sat quaintly on his young face.

“And when I have seen these things I have thought that it is always the woman’s fault.”

“Hear the child!” exclaimed Madame. “What do you know, petit, at your age?”

Leon shrugged one shoulder, and bent again over his book.

“Perhaps naught,” he answered.

Gaston frowned upon him, and would have continued the discussion had not Gregory forestalled him.

“Tell me, Leon, do you accompany the Duke to-night?”

“I always go with him.”

“Poor, poor child!” Madame Dubois sighed gustily. “Indeed, it is not fitting.”

“Why is it not fitting? I like to go.”

“I doubt it not, mon enfant. But to take a child to Vassaud’s, and to Torquillier’s— voyons, it is not convenable!”

Leon’s eyes sparkled mischievously.

“Last night I went with Monseigneur to the Maison Chourval,” he said demurely.