Читать книгу These Old Shades - Georgette Heyer - Страница 4

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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 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. Justin took it in his, and surveyed it through his eyeglass. It was small, and finely made, with tapering fingers roughened by toil.

“Yes,” said the Duke. “Quite a pretty member.”

Léon smiled engagingly.

“Quant à ça, you have very beautiful hands, Monseigneur, I think.”

The Duke’s lips quivered.

“You overwhelm me, my child. A s you were saying, your parents died. What then?”

“Oh, then Jean sold the farm! He said he was made for greater things. But I do not know.” Léon tilted his head to one side, considering the point. The irrepressible dimple appeared, and was swiftly banished. Léon eyed his master solemnly, and a little nervously withal.

“We will leave Jean’s capabilities out of the discussion,” said Justin smoothly. “Continue your story.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Jean sold the farm, and took me away from M. le Curé.” Léon’s face clouded over. “Monsieur wanted to keep me, but Jean would not have it so. He thought I should be useful. So of course monsieur could do naught. Jean brought me to Paris. That was when he made me——” Léon stopped.

“Go on!” said Justin sharply. “That was when he made you——?”

“Work for him,” said Léon lamely. He encountered a searching glance, and his big eyes fell before it.

“Very well,” said Justin at last. “We will leave it that. Et puis?”

“Then Jean bought the inn in the Rue Sainte-Marie, and—and after a time he met Charlotte, and—and married her. Then it was worse, because Charlotte hated me.” The blue eyes flashed. “I tried to kill her once,” said Léon naïvely. “With the big carving-knife.”

“Her hatred is not incomprehensible,” said Justin dryly.

“N-no,” replied Léon doubtfully. “I was only fifteen then. I remember I did not have anything to eat all day—besides the beating. And—and that is all, Monseigneur, till you came, and took me away.”

Justin picked up a quill and passed it through his fingers.

“May I ask why you tried to kill this Charlotte—er—with the carving-knife?”

Léon flushed, and looked away.

“There—there was a reason, Monseigneur.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“I—oh, I think she was very unkind and cruel and she— she made me angry. That was all.”

“I am both cruel and unkind, but I do not advise you to try and kill me. Or any of my servants. You see, I know what the colour of your hair denotes.”

The long dark lashes lifted again, and the dimple showed.

“Colère de diable,” Léon said.

“Precisely. You will do well to hide it with me, my child.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. I do not seek to kill those whom I love.”

Justin’s lip curled rather sardonically.

“I am relieved. Now listen to me. You will henceforth be my page; you will be clothed and fed, and well provided for, but in return I will have obedience from you. You understand?”

“But yes, Monseigneur.”

“You will learn that my word is law with my servants. And this is my first command: if anyone should question you as to who you are, or from where you come, you will answer only that are Avon’s page. You will forget your past until I give you leave to remember it. You see?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And you will obey Walker as you would myself.”

The firm chin was tilted at that; Léon looked speculatively at the Duke.

“If you do not”—the soft voice grew softer still—“you will find that I too know how to punish.”

“If it is your will that I obey this Walker,” said Léon with dignity, “I will do it, y-your-r-r Gr-r-race!”

Justin looked him over.

“Certainly you will do so. And I prefer that you call me Monseigneur.”

The blue eyes twinkled wickedly.

“This Walker, he has told me that when I speak to you, Monseigneur, I must say ‘your-r-r’ ah, bah! I cannot, enfin!”

For one moment Justin stared haughtily at his page. Instantly the twinkle disappeared. Léon stared back gravely.

“Be very careful,” Justin warned him.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” Léon said meekly.

“You may go now. This evening you will accompany me out.” The Duke dipped his quill in the inkhorn, and started to write.

“Where, Monseigneur?” inquired the page with great interest.

“Is that your affair? I dismissed you. Go.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Pardon!” Léon departed, carefully closing the door behind him. Outside he met Davenant, coming slowly down the stairs.

Hugh smiled.

“Well, Léon? Where have you been all the morning?”

“Dressing myself, in these new clothes, m’sieu’. I think I look nice, n’est-ce pas?”

“Very nice. Where are you going now?”

“I do not know, m’sieu’. Perhaps there is something I may do for Monseigneur?”

“If he gave you no orders there is nothing. Can you read?”

“But yes! I was taught. A h, I have forgotten, m’sieu’!”

“Have you?” Hugh was amused. “If you come with me, child, I’ll find you a book.”

Twenty minutes later Hugh entered the library to find the Duke still writing, as Léon had left him.

“Justin, who and what is Léon? He is a delightful child; certainly no peasant!”

“He is a very impertinent child,” said Justin, with the ghost of a smile. “He is the first page I have had who ever dared to laugh at me.”

“Did he laugh at you? A very wholesome experience for you, Alastair. How old is the child?”

“I have reason to believe that he is nineteen,” said Justin placidly.

“Nineteen! Faith, it’s not possible! He is a babe!”

“Not entirely. Do you come with me to Vassaud’s tonight?”

“I suppose so. I’ve no money to lose, but what matter?”

“You need not play,” said Justin.

“If one does not play, why visit a gaming-house?”

“To talk to the monde. I go to Vassaud’s to see Paris.” He resumed his writing, and presently Hugh strolled away.

At dinner that evening Léon stood behind the Duke’s chair, and waited upon him. Justin seemed hardly to notice him, but Hugh could not take his eyes from that piquant little face. Indeed, he stared so hard that at last Léon stared back, with great dignity, and some reproach.

Observing his friend’s fixed regard, Justin turned, and put up his glass to look at Léon.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Monseigneur, only looking at M. Davenant.”

“Then do not.”

“But he looks at me, Monseigneur 1”

“That is another matter.”

“I do not see that that is fair,” remarked Léon, sotto voce.

Some time after dinner the two men set out for Vassaud’s. When Hugh realized that Léon was to accompany them he frowned, and took Avon aside.

“Justin, have done with this affectation! You can have no need of a page at Vassaud’s, and it’s no place for such a child!”

“My very dear Hugh, I do wish you would allow me to know my own mind,” answered Justin sweetly. “The page goes with me. Another whim.”

“But why? The child should be in bed!”

Justin flicked a speck of snuff from his coat.

“You force me to remind you, Hugh, that the page is mine.”

Davenant compressed his lips, and swung out of the door. Nonchalantly his Grace followed.

Vassaud’s was crowded, early in the evening though it was. The two men left their cloaks with the lackey in the vestibule, and proceeded, with Léon in their wake, across the hall to the broad stairway which led to the gaming-rooms on the first floor. Hugh saw a friend, standing at the foot of the stairs, and paused to exchange a greeting, but Avon swept on, bowing slightly to right and left as some chance acquaintance hailed him. He did not stop to speak to anyone, although several called to him as he passed, but went on his regal way with just a faint smile in his lips.

Léon followed him close, his blue eyes wide with interest. He attracted some attention, and many were the curious glances cast from him to the Duke. He flushed delicately when he encountered such a glance, but his Grace appeared to be quite unaware of the surprise he had created.

“What ails Alastair now?” inquired the Chevalier d’A nvau, who was standing with one De Salmy in a recess on the staircase.

“Who knows?” De Salmy shrugged elegantly. “He must ever be unusual. Good evening, Alastair.”

The Duke nodded to him.

“I rejoice to see you, De Salmy. A hand of piquet later?”

De Salmy bowed.

“I shall be delighted.” He watched Avon pass on, and shrugged again. “He bears himself as though he were the king of France. I mislike those strange eyes. A h, Davenant, well met!”

Davenant smiled pleasantly.

“You here? A crowd, is it not?”

“A ll Paris,” agreed the Chevalier. “Why has Alastair brought his page?”

“I have no idea, Justin is never communicative. I see Destourville is back.”

“A h yes, he arrived last night. You have no doubt heard the scandal?”

“Oh, my dear Chevalier, I never listen to scandal!” Hugh laughed, and went on up the stairs.

“Je me demande,” remarked the Chevalier, watching Hugh’s progress through his eyeglass, “why it is that the good Davenant is a friend of the bad Alastair?”

The salon on the first floor was brilliantly lighted, and humming with gay, inconsequent conversation. Some were already at play, others were gathered about the buffet, sipping their wine. Hugh saw Avon through the folding doors that led into a smaller salon, the centre of a group, his page standing at a discreet distance behind him.

A muttered exclamation near him made him turn his head. A tall, rather carelessly dressed man was standing beside him, looking across the room at Léon. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth was shut hard. Through the powder his hair glinted red, but his arched brows were black, and very thick.

“Saint-Vire?” Hugh bowed to him. “You are wondering at Alastair’s page? A freak, is it not?”

“Your servant, Davenant. A freak, yes. Who is the boy?”

“I do not know. Alastair found him yesterday. He is called Léon. I trust Madame your wife is well?”

“I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?”

“Here he comes,” answered Hugh. “You had best ask him.”

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

“My dear Comte!” The hazel eyes mocked. “My very dear Comte!”

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.

“M. le Duc!”

Justin drew forth his jewelled snuff-box, and presented it. Tall as he was, Saint-Vire was made to look insignificant beside this man of splendid height, and haughty bearing.

“A little snuff, dear Comte? No?” He shook the foaming ruffles back from his white hand, and very daintily took a pinch of snuff. His thin lips were smiling, butnot pleasantly.

“Saint-Vire was admiring your page, Justin,” Davenant said. “He is exciting no little attention.”

“No doubt.” Avon snapped his fingers imperiously, and Léon came forward. “He is almost unique, my dear Comte. Pray look your fill.”

“Your page is of no interest to me, m’sieur,” Saint-Vire answered shortly, and turned aside.

“Behind me.” The command was given coldly, and at once Léon stepped back. “The so worthy Comte! Comfort him, Hugh.” Avon passed on again, and in a little while was seated at a card table, playing lansquenet.

Davenant was called to another table presently, and proceeded to play at faro, with Saint-Vire as his partner. A foppish gentleman sat opposite him, and started to deal.

“Mon cher, your friend is always so amusing. Why the page?” He glanced towards Avon’s table.

Hugh gathered up his cards.

“How should I know, Lavoulère? Doubtless he has a reason. And—forgive me—I am weary of the subject.”

“He is so—so arresting,” apologized Lavoulère. “The page. Red hair—oh, but of a radiance!—and blue, blue eyes. Or are they purple-black?

The little oval face, and the patrician nose——! Justin is wonderful. You do not think so, Henri?”

“Oh, without doubt!” Saint-Vire answered. “He should have been an actor. Quant à moi, I would humbly suggest that enough notice has been taken of the Duc and his page. Your play, Marchérand.”

At Avon’s table one of the gamblers yawned, pushing back his chair.

“Mille pardons, but I thirst! I go in search of refreshment.”

The game had come to an end, and Justin was toying with his dice-box. He glanced up now, and waved to Château-Mornay to keep his seat.

“My page will fetch wine, Louis. He is not only to be gazed upon. Léon!”

Léon slipped from behind Avon’s chair, from where he had been an intent spectator of the game.

“Monseigneur?”

“Canary and burgundy, at once.”

Léon withdrew, and nervously threaded his way between the tables to the buffet. He returned presently with a tray, which he presented to

Justin, on one knee. Justin pointed silently to where Château-Mornay sat, and, blushing for his mistake, Léon went to him, and again

presented the tray. When he had served each one in turn he looked inquiringly up at his master.

“Go to M. Davenant, and ask him if he has commands for you,” said Justin languidly. “Will you hazard a throw with me, Cornalle?”

“Ay, what you will.” Cornalle pulled a dice-box from his pocket. “Two ponies? Will you throw?”

Justin cast his dice carelessly on the table, and turned his head to watch Léon. The page was at Davenant’s elbow. Davenant looked up.

“Well, Léon? What is it?”

“Monseigneur sent me, m’sieur, to see if you had commands for me.”

Saint-Vire shot him a quick look, leaning back in his chair, one hand lying lightly clenched on the table.

“Thank you, no,” Hugh replied. “Unless—Saint-Vire, will you drink with me? And you, messieurs?”

“I thank you, Davenant,” said the Comte. “You have no thirst, Lavoulère?”

“At the moment, no. Oh, if you all must drink, then so will I!”

“Léon, will you fetch burgundy, please?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” bowed Léon. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He walked away again, looking about him appreciatively. When he returned he made use of the lesson just learned at Avon’s table, and presented the silver tray first to Saint-Vire.

The Comte turned in his chair and, picking up the decanter, slowly poured out a glassful, and handed it to Davenant. He poured out another, his eyes on Léon’s face. Conscious of the steady regard Léon looked up, and met Saint-Vire’s eyes frankly. The Comte held the decanter poised, but poured no more for a long minute.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Léon, m’sieur.”

Saint-Vire smiled.

“No more?”

The curly head was shaken.

“Je ne sais plus rien, m’sieur.”

“So ignorant?” Saint-Vire went on with his work. A s he picked up the last glass he spoke again. “Methinks you have not been long with M. le Duc?”

“No, m’sieur. A s m’sieur says.” Léon rose, and looked across at Davenant. “M’sieur?”

“That is all, Léon, thank you.”

“So you have found a use for him, Hugh? Was I not wise to bring him? Your servant, Lavoulère.”

The soft voice startled Saint-Vire, and his hand shook, so that a little liquid was spilled from his glass. Avon stood at his side, quizzing-glass raised.

“A very prince of pages,” smiled Lavoulère. “How is your luck to-night, Justin?”

“Wearisome,” sighed the Duke. “For a week it has been impossible to lose. From the dreamy expression on Hugh’s face I infer that it is not so with him.” He went to stand behind Hugh’s chair, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Belike, my dear Hugh, I shall bring you better luck.”

“I have never known you do that yet,” retorted Davenant. He set down his emptied glass. “Shall we play again?”

“By all means,” nodded Saint-Vire. “You and I are in a sad way, Davenant.”

“And shall soon be in a sadder,” remarked Hugh, shuffling the pack. “Remind me, Lavoulère, that in future I only play with you as my partner.” He dealt the cards round, and, as he did so, spoke quietly to the Duke, in English. “Send the child downstairs, Alastair. You have no need of him.”

“I am as wax in your hands,” replied his Grace. “He has served his turn. Léon, you will await me in the hall.” He stretched out his hand to pick up Hugh’s cards. “Dear me!” He laid them down again, and watched the play in silence for a while.

At the end of the round Lavoulère spoke to him.

“Where is your brother, Alastair? The so charming youth! He is quite, quite mad!”

“Lamentably so. Rupert, for all I know, is either languishing in an English sponging house, or living upon my hapless brother-in-law’s bounty.”

“That is Miladi Fanny’s husband, yes? Edward Marling, n’esr-ce pas? You have only one brother and sister?”

“They more than suffice me,” said his Grace.

Lavoulère laughed.

“Voyons, it amuses me, your family! Is there no love between you at all?”

“Very little.”

“And yet I have heard that you reared them, those two!”

“I have no recollection of it,” said Justin.

“Come now, Justin, when your mother died you kept a hand on the reins!” expostulated Davenant.

“But lightly, my dear. Enough only to make both a little afraid of me; no more.”

“Lady Fanny is very fond of you.”

“Yes, I believe she is occasionally,” agreed Justin calmly.

“Ah, Miladi Fanny!” Lavoulère kissed his finger-tips. “Behold! how she is ravissante!”

“Also behold that Hugh wins,” drawled his Grace. “My compliments, Davenant.” He shifted his position slightly, so that he faced Saint-Vire.

“Pray how is Madame, your charming wife, dear Comte?”

“Madame is well, I thank you, m’sieur.”

“And the Vicomte, your so enchanting son?”

“Also.”

“Not here to-night, I think?” Avon raised his glass, and through it surveyed the room. “I am desolated. No doubt you deem him too young for these delights? He is but nineteen, I believe?”

Saint-Vire laid his cards face downwards on the table, and looked angrily up at that handsome, enigmatic countenance.

“You are most interested in my son, M. le Duc!”

The hazel eyes widened and narrowed again.

“But how could it be otherwise?” asked the Duke politely.

Saint-Vire picked up his cards again.

“He is at Versailles, with his mother,” he said curtly. “My play, Lavoulère?”