Hugh tilted his glass, watching the candlelight play on the dark wine.
“I heard,” he said slowly, “that the man from whom you won that fortune—a young man, Justin—”
“–with a blameless character.”
“Yes. That young man—so I heard—did blow his brains out.”
“You were misinformed, my dear. He was shot in a duel. The reward of virtue. The moral is sufficiently pointed, I think?”
“And you came to Paris with a fortune.”
“Quite a considerable one. I bought this house.”
“Yes. I wonder how you reconcile it with your soul?”
“I haven’t one, Hugh. I thought you knew that.”
“When Jennifer Beauchamp married Anthony Merivale you had something approaching a soul.”
“Had I?” Justin regarded him with amusement.
Hugh met his look.
“And I wonder too what Jennifer Beauchamp is to you now?”
Justin held up one beautiful white hand.
“Jennifer Merivale, Hugh. She is the memory of a failure, and of a spell of madness.”
“And yet you have never been quite the same since.”
Justin rose, and now the sneer was marked.
“I told you half an hour ago, my dear, that it was my endeavour to act up to your expectations. Three years ago—in fact, when I heard from my sister Fanny of Jennifer’s marriage—you said with your customary simplicity that although she would not accept my suit, she had made me. Voilà tout.”
“No.” Hugh looked thoughtfully across at him. “I was wrong, but—”
“My dear Hugh, pray do not destroy my faith in you!”
“I was wrong, but not so much wrong. I should have said that Jennifer prepared the way for another woman to make you.”
Justin closed his eyes.
“When you become profound, Hugh, you cause me to regret the day that saw me admit you into the select ranks of my friends.”
“You have so many, have you not?” said Hugh, flushing.
“Parfaitement.” Justin walked to the door. “Where there is money there are also—friends.”
Davenant set down his glass.
“Is that meant for an insult?” he said quietly.
Justin paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“Strange to say it was not. But by all means call me out.”
Hugh laughed suddenly.
“Oh, go to bed, Justin! You are quite impossible!”
“So you have often told me. Good night, my dear.” He went out, but before he had shut the door bethought himself of something, and looked back, smiling. “Apropos, Hugh, I have got a soul. It has just had a bath, and is now asleep.”
“God help it!” Hugh said gravely.
“I am not sure of my cue. Do I say amen, or retire cursing?” His eyes mocked but the smile in them was not unpleasant. He did not wait for an answer, but shut the door, and went slowly up to bed.
II
Introducing the Comte de Saint-Vire
Shortly after noon on the following day Avon sent for his page. Léon came promptly, and knelt to kiss the Duke’s hand. Walker had obeyed his master’s commands implicitly, and in place of the shabby, grimy child of the evening before was a scrupulously neat boy, whose red curls had been swept severely back from his brow, and whose slim person was clad in plain black raiment, with a starched muslin cravat about his neck.
Avon surveyed him for a moment.
“Yes. You may rise, Léon. I am going to ask you some questions. I desire you will answer them truthfully. You understand?”
Léon put his hands behind him.
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“You may first tell me how you come to know my language.”
Léon shot him a surprised glance.
“Monseigneur?”
“Pray do not be guileless. I dislike fools.”
“Yes, Monseigneur. I was only surprised that you knew. It was at the inn, you see.”
“I do not think I am obtuse,” said Avon coldly, “but I see naught.”
“Pardon, Monseigneur. Jean keeps an inn, and very often English travellers come. Not—not noble English, of course.”
“I see. Now you may relate your history. Begin with your name.”
“I am Léon Bonnard, Monseigneur. My mother was the Mère Bonnard, and my father—”
“–was the Père Bonnard. It is not inconceivable. Where were you born, and when did your worthy parents die?”
“I—I do not know where I was born, Monseigneur. It was not in Anjou, I think.”
“That is of course interesting,” remarked the Duke. “Spare me a list of the places where you were not born, I beg of you.”
Léon coloured.
“You do not understand, Monseigneur. My parents went to live in Anjou when I was a baby. We had a farm at Bassincourt, auprès de Saumur. And—and we lived there until my parents died.”
“Did they die simultaneously?” inquired Justin.
Léon’s straight little nose wrinkled in perplexity.
“Monseigneur?”
“At one and the same time.”
“It was the plague,” explained Léon. “I was sent to Monsieur le Curé. I was twelve then, and Jean was twenty.”
“How came you to be so much younger than this Jean?” asked Justin, and opened his eyes rather wide, so that Léon looked full into them.
A mischievous chuckle escaped Léon; he returned the piercing stare frankly.
“Monseigneur, my parents are dead, so I cannot ask them.”
“My friend—” Justin spoke softly. “Do you know what I do to impertinent pages?”
Léon shook his head apprehensively.
“I have them whipped. I advise you to have a care.”
Léon paled, and the laugh died out of his eyes.
“Pardon, Monseigneur. I—I did not mean to be impertinent,” he said contritely. “My mother had once a daughter who died. Then—then I came.”
“Thank you. Where did you learn to speak as a gentleman?”
“With M. le Curé, Monseigneur. He taught me to read and to write and to know Latin a little, and—and many other things.”
Justin raised his eyebrows.
“And your father was a farmer? Why did you receive this extensive education?”
“I do not know, Monseigneur. I was the baby, you see, and the favourite. My mother would not have me work on the farm. That is why Jean hates me, I think.”
“Possibly. Give me your hand.”
Léon extended one slender hand for inspection.
