“Ah!” sighed Madame, and shook her head.
Léon tilted his chin a little.
“It is no such great matter. Monseigneur would always play fair. That young man was a fool. Voilà 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 Léon gravely, “are like that, I think. I have seen many.”
“Fi donc!” Madame cried. “So young, too!”
Léon 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?”
Léon 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, Léon, do you accompany the Duke tonight?”
“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!”
Léon’s eyes sparkled mischievously.
“Last night I went with Monseigneur to the Maison Chourval,” he said demurely.
“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.
Léon 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, Léon, what is it like, the Maison Chourval?” asked Gaston, unable to conceal his curiosity.
“Oh, it is a big hôtel, 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 Léon 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 Léon 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.
Léon 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. Léon 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, Léon. 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 Marguéry’s ball that night Léon 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 latecomer of his hat and cloak.
Léon raised his eyes from his book in time to see the Comte de Saint-Vire enter. He was becoming familiar with the
