These Old Shades

“What!” Madame sank back in her chair. “It passes all bounds!”

“Have you been there, Madame?”

“I? Nom de Dieu, what next will you ask? Is it likely that I should go to such a place?”

“No, Madame. It is for the nobles, is it not?”

Madame snorted.

“And for every pretty slut who walks the streets!” she retorted.

Leon tilted his head to one side.

“Me, I did not think them pretty. Painted, and vulgar, with loud voices, and common tricks. But I did not see much.” His brow wrinkled. “I do not know—I think perhaps I had offended Monseigneur, for of a sudden he swept round, and said ‘Await me below!’ He said it as though he were angered.”

“Tell us, Leon, what is it like, the Maison Chourval?” asked Gaston, unable to conceal his curiosity.

“Oh, it is a big hotel, all gold and dirty white, and smelling of some scent that suffocates one. There is a card-room, and other rooms; I forget. There was much wine, and some were drunk. Others, like Monseigneur, were just bored. The women—ah, they are just nothing!”

Gaston was rather disappointed; he opened his mouth to question Leon further, but madame’s eye was upon him, and he shut it again. A bell was heard in the distance, and at the sound of it Leon shut his book, and untucked his legs, waiting expectantly. A few minutes later a footman appeared with a summons for him. The page sprang up delightedly, and ran to where a cracked mirror hung. Madame Dubois watched him smooth his copper curls, and smiled indulgently.

“Voyons, petit, you are as conceited as a girl,” she remarked.

Leon flushed, and left the mirror.

“Would you have me present myself to Monseigneur in disorder? I suppose he is going out. Where is my hat? Gaston, you have sat upon it!” He snatched it from the valet, and, hurriedly twitching it into shape, went out in the wake of the footman.

Avon was standing in the hall, talking to Hugh Davenant. He twirled a pair of soft gloves by their tassels, and his three-cornered hat was under one arm. Leon sank down on to one knee.

The hard eyes travelled over him indifferently.

“Well?”

“Monseigneur sent for me?”

“Did I? Yes, I believe you are right. I am going out. Do you come with me, Hugh?”

“Where?” asked Davenant. He bent over the fire, warming his hands.

“I thought it might be amusing to visit La Fournoise.”

Hugh made a grimace of distaste.

“I like actresses on the stage, Justin, but not off it. La Fournoise is too opulent.”

“So she is. You may go, Leon. Take my gloves.” He tossed them to the page, and his hat after them. “Come and play at piquet, Hugh.” He strolled away to the salon, yawning, and with a tiny shrug of his shoulders Hugh followed.

At the Comtesse de Marguery’s ball that night Leon was left to await his master in the hall. He found a chair in a secluded corner, and settled down quite contentedly to watch the arrival of the guests. As it was the Duke’s custom to make his appearance as late as possible, he was not very hopeful of seeing many arrivals. He pulled a book out of his capacious pocket, and started to read.

For a while only the desultory conversation of the lackeys came to his ears, as they lounged against the stair-rail. Then suddenly they sprang to attention, and the idle chatter stopped. One flung open the door, while another stood ready to relieve this late-comer of his hat and cloak.

Leon raised his eyes from his book in time to see the Comte de Saint-Vire enter. He was becoming familiar with the notables of town, but even had this not been so Saint-Vire would have been hard to mistake. In these days of fastidiousness in all matters of dress the Comte was conspicuous for the carelessness with which he bore himself, and the slight disorder of his clothes. He was tall, and loose-limbed, with a heavy face, and beak-like nose. His mouth had a sullen curve, and his eyes a latent fierceness in their dark pupils. As usual his thick hair, rather grizzled now, was inadequately powdered, so that here and there a gleam of red showed. He wore many jewels, seemingly chosen at random, and with no regard to the colour of his coat.

His coat was revealed now, as he allowed the attendant lackey to take his long cloak. Purple velvet met Leon’s critical eye; a salmon-pink vest with embroidering in gold and silver; purple small clothes with white stockings loosely rolled above the knee, and red-heeled shoes with large jewelled buckles. The Comte shook out his ruffles, and put up one hand to straighten his tumbled cravat. As he did so he cast a quick glance about him, and saw the page. A frown came, and the heavy mouth pouted a little. The Comte gave the lace at his throat an impatient twist, and walked slowly towards the stairs. With his hand on the rail he paused and, half-turning, jerked his head as a sign that he wished to speak to Leon.

The page rose at once, and went to him.

“M’sieur?”

The spatulate fingers on the rail drummed methodically; Saint-Vire looked the page over broodingly, and for a moment did not speak.

“Your master is here?” he said at last, and the very lameness of the question seemed to indicate that it was but an excuse to call Leon to him.

“Yes, m’sieur.”

The Comte hesitated still, tapping his foot on the polished floor.

“You accompany him everywhere, I believe?”

“When Monseigneur wishes it, m’sieur.”

“From where do you come?” Then, as Leon looked puzzled, he changed the question, speaking sharply. “Where were you born?”

Leon let fall the long lashes over his eyes.

“In the country, m’sieur,” he said.

The Comte’s thick brows drew together.

“What part of the country?”

“I do not know, m’sieur.”

“You are strangely ignorant,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically.

“Yes, m’sieur.” Leon glanced up, chin firmly set. “I do not know why m’sieur should take so great an interest in me.”

“You are impertinent. I have no interest in peasant-children.” The Comte went on up the staircase, to the ballroom.

In a group by the door stood his Grace of Avon, clad in shades of blue, with his star on his breast, a cluster of blazing diamonds. Saint-Vire paused for a moment before he tapped that straight shoulder.

“If you please, m’sieur . . . !”

The Duke turned to see who accosted him, eyebrows raised. When his eyes alighted on Saint-Vire the haughty look faded, and he smiled, bowing with the exaggerated flourish that made a veiled insult of the courtesy.

“My dear Comte! I had almost begun to fear that I should not have the felicity of meeting you here to-night. I trust I see you well?”

“I thank you, yes.” Saint-Vire would have passed on, but again his Grace stood in the way.

“Strange to say, dear Comte, Florimond and I were but this instant speaking of you—your brother, rather. Where is the good Armand?”

“My brother, m’sieur, is this month in attendance at Versailles.”

“Ah? Quite a family gathering at Versailles,” smiled the Duke. “I trust the Vicomte, your so charming son, finds court life to his taste?”

The man who stood at the Duke’s elbow laughed a little at this, and addressed Saint-Vire.

“The Vicomte is quite an original, is he not, Henri?”

“Oh, the boy is young yet!” Saint-Vire answered. “He likes court well enough.”