“You may perhaps call to mind, my good Gaston, a golden chain studded with sapphires, presented to me by I forget whom. Also a sapphire clasp in the shape of a circle.”
“Y-yes, Monseigneur?”
“Fetch them.”
Gaston hurried away, presently to reappear with the required ornaments. Avon took the heavy sapphire chain and threw it over Léon’s head so that it lay across his breast, glowing with an inward fire, yet no brighter or more liquid than the boy’s eyes.
“Monseigneur!” gasped Léon. He put up his hand to feel the precious chain.
“Give me your hat. The clasp, Gaston.” Unhurriedly he fixed the diamond and sapphire circle on the upturned brim of the page’s hat. Then he gave it to Léon, and stepped back to observe the effect of his handiwork. “Yes, I wonder why I never thought of sapphires before? The door, my infant.”
Still dazed by his master’s unexpected action, Léon flew to open the door for him. Avon passed out, and climbed into the waiting coach. Léon looked up at him inquiringly, wondering whether he was to mount the box or enter with his master.
“Yes, you may come with me,” said Avon, answering the unspoken question. “Tell them to let go the horses.”
Léon delivered the order, and sprang hurriedly into the coach, for he knew the ways of Avon’s horses. The postilions mounted quickly, and in a trice the fretting horses leaped forward in their collars, and the coach swerved round towards the wrought-iron gates. Out they swept, and down the narrow street as swiftly as was possible. But the very narrowness of the street, the slippery cobblestones, and the many twists and turns, made their progress necessarily slow, so that it was not until they came out on the road to Versailles that the speed and power of the horses could be demonstrated. Then they seemed to spring forward as one, and the coach bowled along at a furious pace, lurching a little over the worst bumps in the road, but so well sprung that for the most part the surface of the road might have been of glass for all the jolting or inconvenience that the occupants felt.
It was some time before Léon could find words to thank the Duke for his chain. He sat on the edge of the seat beside the Duke, fingering the polished stones in awe, and trying to squint down at his breast to see how the chain looked. At length he drew a deep breath and turned to gaze at his master, who lay back against the velvet cushions idly surveying the flying landscape.
“Monseigneur—this is—too precious for—me to wear,” he said in a hushed voice.
“Do you think so?” Avon regarded his page with an amused smile.
“I—I would rather not wear it, Monseigneur. Suppose—suppose I were to lose it?”
“I should then be compelled to buy you another. You may lose it an you will. It is yours.”
“Mine?” Léon twisted his fingers together. “Mine, Monseigneur? You cannot mean that! I—I have done nothing—I could do nothing to deserve such a present.”
“I suppose it had not occurred to you that I pay you no wage? Somewhere in the Bible—I don’t know where—it says that the labourer is worthy of his hire. A manifestly false observation for the most part, of course, but I choose to give you that chain as—er—hire.”
Léon pulled his hat off at that, and slipped the chain over his head, almost throwing it at the Duke. His eyes burned dark in a very pale face.
“I do not want payment! I would work myself to death for you, but payment—no! A thousand times no! You make me angry!”
“Evidently,” murmured his Grace. He picked up the chain, and began to play with it. “Now I had imagined you would be pleased.”
Léon brushed his hand across his eyes. His voice shook a little as he answered.
“How could you think that? I—I never looked for payment! I served you for love, and—and out of gratitude, and—you give me a chain! As if—as if you thought I should not continue to work well for you without payment!”
“If I had thought that I should not have given it to you,” yawned his Grace. “It may interest you to know that I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion by my pages.”
“I—I am sorry, Monseigneur,” whispered Léon. He turned his face away, biting his lips.
Avon watched him for a time in silence, but presently the mixture of forlornness and hurt dignity in his page drew a soft laugh from him, and he pulled one of the bright curls admonishingly.
“Do you expect me to apologise, my good child?”
Léon jerked his head away, and still stared out of the window.
“You are very haughty.” The mocking note in that gentle voice brought a wave of colour to Léon’s cheeks.
“I—you are not—kind!”
“So you have just discovered that? But I do not see why I should be called unkind for rewarding you.”
“You do not understand!” said Léon fiercely.
“I understand that you deem yourself insulted, infant. It is most entertaining.”
A tiny sniff, which was also a sob, answered him. Again he laughed, and this time laid a hand on Léon’s shoulder. Under the steely pressure Léon came to his knees, and stayed there, eyes downcast. The chain was flung over his head.
“My Léon, you will wear this because it is my pleasure.”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Léon stiffly.
The Duke took the pointed chin in his hand, and forced it up.
“I wonder why I bear with you?” he said. “The chain is a gift. Are you satisfied?”
Léon pressed his chin down quickly to kiss the Duke’s wrist.
“Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you. Indeed I am sorry.”
“Then you may sit down again.”
Léon picked up his hat, gave a shaky laugh, and settled himself on the wide seat beside the Duke.
“I think I have a very bad temper,” he remarked naively. “M. le Curé would have made me do penance for it. He used to say that temper is a black sin. He talked to me about it—oh, often!”
“You do
