“Tell me of your life in Paris, then,” said Justin.
Léon nested his head against the arm of the chair, looking dreamily into the fire. The cluster of candles at Avon’s elbow played softly over the copper curls so that they seemed alive and on fire in the golden light. Léon’s delicate profile was turned towards the Duke, and he watched it inscrutably; each quiver of the fine lips, each flicker of the dark lashes. And so Léon told his tale, haltingly at first, and shyly, hesitating over the more sordid parts, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion until he seemed to forget to whom he spoke, and lost himself in his narration. Avon listened in silence, sometimes smiling at the quaint philosophy the boy unfolded, but more often expressionless, always watching Léon’s face with narrowed keen eyes. The hardships and endurances of those years in Paris were revealed more by what was left unsaid than by any complaint or direct allusion to the petty tyrannies and cruelties of Jean and his wife. At times the recital was that of a child, but every now and then a note of age and experience crept into the little deep voice, lending a strange whimsicality to the story, which seemed to invest the teller with a Puck-like quality of old and young wisdom. When at last the rambling tale was finished Léon moved slightly, and put up a timid hand to touch the Duke’s sleeve.
“And then you came, Monseigneur, and you brought me here, giving me everything. I shall never forget that.”
“You have not seen the worst of me yet, my friend,” answered Justin. “I am really not the hero you think of me. When I bought you from your estimable brother it was not, believe me, from any desire to save you from bondage. I had a use for you. If it should chance that you are after all of no use to me I am quite likely to cast you forth. I say this that you may be warned.”
“If you send me away I will drown myself!” said Léon passionately. “When you are tired of me, Monseigneur, I will serve in your kitchen. But I will never leave you.”
“Oh, when I am tired of you I shall give you to M. Davenant!” Avon chuckled a little. “It should be amusing—Dear me, speak of angels—!”
Hugh came quietly in, but paused on the threshold, staring at the two by the fire.
“Quite a touching picture, eh, Hugh? Satanas in a new role.” He flicked Léon’s head with one careless finger. “Bed, my child.”
Léon rose at once, and reverently kissed the Duke’s hand. With a little bow to Davenant he went out.
Hugh waited until he had closed the door; then he strode forward to the fire, frowning. Resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, his other hand thrust deep into his pocket, he stood looking down at his friend with a good deal of severity in his glance.
“When are you going to end this folly?” he demanded.
Justin tilted his head back, returning the angry stare with one of amused cynicism.
“What ails you now, my good Hugh?”
“Seeing that child at your feet fills me with—disgust!”
“Yes, I thought that you seemed perturbed. It must tickle your sense of the ridiculous to observe me upon a pinnacle of heroism.”
“It sickens me! That child worshipping at your feet! I hope his admiration stings you! If it could make you realise your own unworthiness it were to some purpose!”
“Unhappily it does not. May I ask, my dear Hugh, why you take so great an interest in—a page?”
“It is his youth and innocence that command my pity.”
“Curiously enough he is by no means as innocent as you imagine.”
Davenant turned impatiently on his heel. He walked to the door, but as he opened it Avon spoke again.
“By the way, my dear, I am relieving you of my company tomorrow. Pray hold me excused from going with you to Lourdonne’s card-party.”
Hugh looked back.
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“I am going to Versailles. I feel that it is time I again paid homage to King Louis. I suppose it is useless to ask your company?”
“Quite, I thank you. I’ve no love for Versailles. Is Léon to go with you?”
“I have really not given the matter a thought. It seems probable. Unless you wish to take him to Lourdonne’s?”
Hugh left the room without a word.
V
His Grace of Avon Visits Versailles
The Duke’s light town coach, with its four grey horses, stood at the door of his house shortly before six on the following evening. The horses champed at their bits and tossed their beautiful heads in impatience, and the paved courtyard rang with the sound of their stamping. The postilions, liveried in black and gold, stood to their heads, for the Duke’s horses were not chosen for their docility.
In the hall Léon awaited his master, aglow with excitement. His Grace had issued certain orders earlier in the day; in accordance with them the page was dressed in black velvet, with real lace at his throat and wrists. He carried his tricorne beneath his arm, and in his other hand he held his master’s beribboned cane.
Avon came slowly down the stairs, and seeing him Léon drew in a quick breath of wonderment. The Duke was always magnificent, but tonight he had surpassed himself. His coat was made of cloth-of-gold, and on it the blue ribbon of the Garter lay, and three orders blazed in the light of the candles. Diamonds nestled in the lace of his cravat, and formed a solid bar above the ribbon that tied back his powdered hair. His shoes had jewelled heels and buckles, and below his knee he wore the Garter. Over his arm he carried a long black cloak, lined with gold, which he handed to Léon; and in his hand was his snuffbox, and scented handkerchief. He looked his page over in silence, and frowned at last, and turned to
