“My—my son? Oh, Henri is well, I thank you! You see him over there, m’sieur, with Mademoiselle de Lachère.”
Justin’s gaze followed the direction of her pointing fan. He beheld a short, rather stocky youth, dressed in the height of fashion and seated mumchance beside a sprightly lady who was with difficulty restraining a yawn. The Vicomte de Valmé was very dark, with brown eyes heavy lidded now from weariness and boredom. His mouth was a trifle wide, but well-curved; his nose, so far from following the Saint-Vire aquiline trend, showed a tendency to turn up.
“Ah, yes!” said Justin. “I should hardly have recognised him, madame. One looks usually for red hair and blue eyes in a Saint-Vire, does not one?” He laughed gently.
“My son wears a wig,” answered Madame rather quickly. Again she sent a fleeting glance towards Léon. Her mouth twitched slightly, uncontrollably. “He—he has black hair. It often happens so, I believe.”
“Ah, no doubt,” agreed Justin. “You are looking at my page, madame? A curious combination, is it not?—his copper hair and black brows.”
“I? No, why should I—?” With an effort she collected her wits. “It is an unusual combination, as you say. Who—who is the child?”
“I have no idea,” said his Grace blandly. “I found him one evening in Paris, and bought him for the sum of a jewel. Quite a pretty boy, is he not? He attracts no little attention, I assure you.”
“Yes—I suppose so. It seems hard to believe that—that hair is–is natural.” Her eyes challenged him, but again he laughed.
“It must seem quite incredible,” he said. “It is so seldom that one sees that—particular—combination.” Then, as the Comtesse stirred restlessly, opening and shutting her fan, he deftly turned the subject. “Ah, behold the Vicomte!” he remarked. “His fair companion has deserted him.”
The Comtesse looked across at her son, who was standing irresolute a few paces away. He saw his mother’s eyes upon him, and came to her, heavy-footed and deliberate, glancing curiously at the Duke.
“My—my son, m’sieur. Henri, the Duc of Avon.”
The Vicomte bowed, but although his bow was of just the required depth, and the wave of his hat in exact accordance with the decrees of fashion, the whole courtesy lacked spontaneity and grace. He bowed as one who had been laboriously coached in the art. Polish was lacking, and in its place was a faint suggestion of clumsiness.
“Your servant, m’sieur.” The voice was pleasant enough if not enthusiastic.
“My dear Vicomte!” Avon flourished his handkerchief. “I am charmed to make your acquaintance. I remember you when you were still with your tutor, but of late years I have been denied the pleasure of meeting you. Léon, a chair for m’sieur.”
The page slipped from his place behind the couch, and went to fetch a low chair which stood against the wall, some few paces away. He set it down for the Vicomte, bowing as he did so.
“If m’sieur will be seated?”
The Vicomte looked him over in surprise. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder, the one slim and delicate, with eyes that matched the sapphires about his neck; and glowing curls swept back from a white brow beneath whose skin the veins showed faintly blue. The other was thickset and dark, with square hands and short neck; powdered, perfumed, and patched, dressed in rich silks and velvet, but in spite of all rather uncouth and awkward. Avon heard Madame draw in her breath swiftly, and his smile grew. Then Léon went back to his original place, and the Vicomte sat down.
“Your page, m’sieur?” he asked. “You were saying that you had not met me, I think? You see, I do not love Paris, and when my father permits I stay in Champagne, at Saint-Vire.” He smiled, casting a rueful glance at his mother. “My parents do not like me to be in the country, m’sieur. I am a great trial to them.”
“The country …” The Duke unfobbed his snuffbox. “It is pleasing to the eye, no doubt, but it is irrevocably associated in my mind with cows and pigs—even sheep. Necessary but distressing evils.”
“Evils, m’sieur? Why—”
“Henri, the Duc is not interested in such matters!” interposed the Comtesse. “One—does not talk of—of cows and pigs at a levée.” She turned to Avon, smiling mechanically. “The boy has an absurd whim, m’sieur: he would like to be a farmer! I tell him that he would very soon tire of it.” She started to fan herself, laughing.
“Yet another necessary evil,” drawled his Grace. “Farmers. You take snuff, Vicomte?”
The Vicomte helped himself to a pinch.
“I thank you, m’sieur. You have come from Paris? Perhaps you have seen my father?”
“I had that felicity yesterday,” replied Avon. “At a ball. The Comte remains the same as ever, madame.” The sneer was thinly veiled.
Madame flushed scarlet.
“I trust you found my husband in good health, m’sieur?”
“Excellent, I believe. May I be the bearer of any message you may wish to send, madame?”
“I thank you, m’sieur, but I am writing to him—tomorrow,” she answered. “Henri, will you fetch me some negus? Ah, madame!” She beckoned to a lady who stood in a group before them.
The Duke rose.
“I see my good Armand yonder. Pray give me leave, madame. The Comte will be overjoyed to hear that I found you well—and your son.” He bowed, and left her, walking away into the dwindling crowd. He sent Léon to await him in the Œil de Bœuf, and remained for perhaps an hour in the gallery.
When he joined Léon in the Œil de Bœuf he found him almost asleep, but making valiant efforts to keep himself awake. He followed the Duke downstairs, and was sent to retrieve Avon’s cloak and cane. By the time he had succeeded in obtaining these articles the black and gold coach was at the door.
Avon swung the cloak over his shoulders and sauntered out. He and Léon entered the luxurious vehicle, and with
