These Old Shades
By Georgette Heyer.
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… This Age I grant (and grant with pride)
Is varied, rich, eventful:
But if you touch its weaker side,
Deplorably resentful:Belaud it, and it takes your praise
With air of calm conviction:
Condemn it, and at once you raise
A storm of contradiction.Whereas with these old shades of mine,
Austin Dodson, Epilogue to Eighteenth-Century Vignettes
Their ways and dress delight me;
And should I trip by word or line,
They cannot well indict me. …
These Old Shades
I
His Grace of Avon Buys a Soul
A gentleman was strolling down a side street in Paris, on his way back from the house of one Madame de Verchoureux. He walked mincingly, for the red heels of his shoes were very high. A long purple cloak, rose-lined, hung from his shoulders and was allowed to fall carelessly back from his dress, revealing a full-skirted coat of purple satin, heavily laced with gold; a waistcoat of flowered silk; faultless small clothes; and a lavish sprinkling of jewels on his cravat and breast. A three-cornered hat, point-edged, was set upon his powdered wig, and in his hand he carried a long beribboned cane. It was little enough protection against footpads, and although a light dress sword hung at the gentleman’s side its hilt was lost in the folds of his cloak, not quickly to be found. At this late hour, and in this deserted street, it was the height of foolhardiness to walk unattended and flaunting jewels, but the gentleman seemed unaware of his recklessness. He proceeded languidly on his way, glancing neither to left nor to right, apparently heedless of possible danger.
But as he walked down the street, idly twirling his cane, a body hurled itself upon him, shot like a cannonball from a dark alley that yawned to the right of the magnificent gentleman. The figure clutched at the elegant cloak, cried out in a startled voice, and tried to regain his balance.
His Grace of Avon swirled about, gripping his assailant’s wrists and bearing them downwards with a merciless strength belied by his foppish appearance. His victim gave a whimper of pain and sank quivering to his knees.
“M’sieur! Ah, let me go! I did not mean—I did not know—I would not—Ah, m’sieur, let me go!”
His Grace bent over the boy, standing a little to one side so that the light of an adjacent street lamp fell on that white agonized countenance. Great violet-blue eyes gazed wildly up at him, terror in their depths.
“Surely you are a little young for this game?” drawled the Duke. “Or did you think to take me unawares?”
The boy flushed, and his eyes grew dark with indignation.
“I did not seek to rob you! Indeed, indeed I did not! I—I was running away! I—oh, m’sieur, let me go!”
“In good time, my child. From what were you running, may I ask? From another victim?”
“No! Oh, please let me go! You—you do not understand! He will have started in pursuit! Ah, please, please, milor’!”
The Duke’s curious, heavy-lidded eyes never
