Читать книгу These Old Shades - Georgette Heyer - Страница 7

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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 postiLéons, 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 to- night 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 riband 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 snuff-box, and scented handkerchief. He looked his page over in silence, and frowned at last, and turned to his valet.

“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 postiLéons 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 cobble-stones, 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! A s 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 apologize, 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. A gain 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 not appear to have profited unduly from his discourse,” replied Avon dryly.

“No, Monseigneur. But it is difficult, you understand. My temper is too quick for me. In a minute it is up, and I cannot stop it. But I am nearly always sorry afterwards. Shall I see the King to-night?”

“Quite possibly. You will follow me close. And do not stare.”

“No, Monseigneur, I will try not to. But that is difficult too.” He looked round confidingly as he spoke, but the Duke, to all outward appearance, was asleep. So Léon snuggled into one corner of the coach, and prepared to enjoy the drive in silence. Occasionally they passed other vehicles, all bound for Versailles, but not once did a coach pass them. The four English thoroughbreds swept by their French brethren time and again, and those within the coaches that were left behind leaned out to see who it was that drove at such a pace. The crest on the door of Avon’s coach, seen in the light of their own lanterns, told them surely enough, and the black and gold livery was unmistakable.

“One might have known,” said the Marquis de Chourvanne, drawing in his head. “Who else would drive at such a pace?”

“The English Duc?” asked his wife.

“Of course. Now I met him last night and he spoke no word of coming to the levée to-night.”

“Theodore de Ventour told me that no one knows from one moment to the next where the Duc will be.”

“Poseur!” snorted the Marquis, and put up the window.

The black and gold coach rolled on its way, scarcely checking till Versailles was reached. Then it slowed to enter the gates, and Léon sat forward to peer interestedly out into the gloom. Very little met his eyes, save when the coach passed under a lamp, until they entered the Cour Royale. Léon stared first this way and then that. The three-sided court was a blaze of light, shining from every unshuttered window that gave on to it, and further supplemented by great flambeaux. Coaches were streaming in a long line to the entrance, pausing there to allow their burdens to alight, then passing on to allow others to take their place.

Not until they finally drew up at the door did the Duke open his eyes. He looked out, dispassionately surveying the brilliant court, and yawned.

“I suppose I must alight,” he remarked, and waited for his footman to let down the steps. Léon climbed down first, and turned to assist his Grace. The Duke stepped slowly out, paused for a moment to look at the waiting coaches, and strolled past the palace lackeys with Léon at his heels, still holding the cloak and cane. Avon nodded to him to relinquish both to an expectant servant, and proceeded through the various antechambers to the Marble Court, where he was soon lost in the crowd. Léon followed as best he might while Avon greeted his friends. He had ample opportunity for taking stock of his surroundings, but the vast dimensions of the court, and its magnificence, dazzled him. After what seemed to be an interminable time, he found that they were no longer in the Marble Court, having moved slowly but surely to the left.

They stood now before a great marble staircase, heavily encrusted with gold, up which a stream of people were wending their way. Avon fell in with a very much painted lady, and offered his arm. Together they mounted the broad stairs, crossed the hall at the top, and traversed various chambers until they came to the old Œil de Bœuf. Restraining an impulse to clutch the whaleboned skirts of Avon’s coat, Léon followed him as closely as he dared into a room beside which all the others through which he had passed faded to nothingness. Some one had said downstairs that the levée was being held in the Galerie des Glaces; Léon realized that this was it. It seemed to him that the huge gallery was even double its real size, filled with a myriad candles in scintillating chandeliers, peopled by thousands of silk-clad ladies and gentlemen, until he discovered that one entire side was covered by gigantic mirrors. Opposite were as many windows; he tried to count them but ceased presently in despair, for groups of people from time to time obscured his view. The room was stuffy, yet cold, covered by two great A ubusson carpets. There were very few chairs, he thought, for this multitude of people. A gain the Duke was bowing to right and left, sometimes stopping to exchange a few words with a friend, but always working his way to one end of the gallery. A s they neared the fireplace the crowd became less dense, and Léon was able to see more than the shoulders of the man in front of him. A stout gentleman in full court dress and many orders sat in a gilded chair by the fire, with various gentlemen standing about him, and a fair lady in a chair by his side. The wig of this gentleman was almost grotesque, so large were the rolling curls that adorned it. He wore pink satin with gold lacing; he was bejewelled and painted, with black patches on his florid face, and a diamond-hilted sword at his side.

Avon turned his head to speak to Léon, and smiled faintly at the look of astonishment on the page’s face.

“You have seen the King. A wait me now over there.” He waved his hand towards an embrasure, and Léon started to retrace his steps, feeling very much as though his one support and guide in this vast place had deserted him.

The Duke paid homage to King Louis the Fifteenth, and to the pale Queen beside him, stayed for a few minutes to speak to the Dauphin, and proceeded in a leisurely fashion to where stood Armand de Saint-Vire, in attendance on the King.

Armand clasped his hands in warm welcome.

“Mon Dieu, but it is refreshing to see your face, Justin! I did not know even that you were in Paris. Since when have you returned, mon cher?”

“Nearly two months ago. Really, this is most fatiguing. I am thirsty already, but I suppose it is quite impossible to obtain any burgundy?”

Armand’s eyes sparkled in sympathy.

“In the Salle de Guerre!” he whispered. “We will go together. No, wait, mon ami, La Pompadour has seen you. A h, she smiles! You have all the luck, Justin.”

“I could find another name for it,” said Avon, but he went to the King’s mistress, and bowed exceeding low as he kissed her hand. He remained at her side until the Comte de Stainville came to claim her attention, and then made good his escape to the Salle de Guerre. There he found Armand, with one or two others, partaking of light French wines, and sugared sweetmeats.

Someone handed the Duke a glass of burgundy; one of the footmen presented a plate of cakes, which he waved aside.

“A welcome interlude,” he remarked. “A ta santé, Joinlisse! Your servant, Tourdeville. A word in your ear, Armand.” He took Saint-Vire aside to where a couch stood. They sat down, and for a time talked of Paris, court-life, and the trials of a gentleman-in-waiting. Avon allowed his friend to ramble on, but at the first pause in Armand’s rather amusing discourse, he turned the subject.

“I must make my bow to your charming sister-in-law,” he said. “I trust she is present to-night?”

Armand’s round good-humoured face became marred all at once by a gloomy scowl.

“Oh yes. Seated behind the Queen, in an obscure corner. If you are épris in that direction, Justin, your taste has deteriorated.” He snorted disdainfully. “Curds and whey! How Henri could have chosen her passes my comprehension !”

“I never credited the worthy Henri with much sense,” answered the Duke. “Why is he in Paris and not here?”

“Is he in Paris? He was in Champagne. He fell into slight disfavour here.” Armand grinned. “That damnable temper, you understand. He left

Madame, and that clod-hopping son.”

Avon put up his eyeglass.

“Clodhopping?”

“What, have you not seen him, then? A boorish cub, Justin, with the soul of a farmer. And that is the boy who is to be Comte de Saint-Vire!

Mon Dieu, but there must be bad blood in Marie! My beautiful nephew did not get his boorishness from us. Well, I never thought that Marie was of the real nobility.”

The Duke looked down at his wine.

“I must certainly see the young Henri,” he said. “They tell me that he is not very like his father or his mother.”

“Not a whit. He has black hair, a bad nose, and square hands. It is a judgment on Henri! First he weds a puling, sighing woman with no charm and less beauty, and then he produces—that!”

“One would almost infer that you are not enamoured of your nephew,” murmured his Grace.

“No, I am not! I tell you, Justin, if it had been a true Saint-Vire I could have borne it better. But this—this halfwitted bumpkin! It would enrage a saint!” He set down his glass on a small table with a force that nearly smashed the frail vessel. “You may say that I am a fool to brood over it, Alastair, but I cannot forget! To spite me Henri marries this Marie de Lespinasse, who presents him with a son after three fruitless years!

First it was a still-born child, and then, when I had begun to think myself safe, she astonishes us all with a boy! Heaven knows what I have done to deserve it!”

“She astonished you with a boy. I think he was born in Champagne, was he not?”

“Ay, at Saint-Vire. Plague take him. I never set eyes on the brat until three months later when they brought him to Paris. Then I was well-nigh sick with disgust at Henri’s fatuous triumph.”

“Well, I must see him,” repeated the Duke. “How old is he?”

“I neither know nor care. He is nineteen,” snapped Armand. He watched the Duke rise, and smiled in spite of himself. “Where’s the good of growling, eh? It’s the fault of this damned life I lead, Justin. It’s all very well for you who come on a visit to this place. You think it very fine and splendid, but you’ve not seen the apartments they give to the gentlemen-in-waiting. A irless holes, Justin, I give you my word! Well, let’s go back into the gallery.”

They went out, and paused for a moment just within the gallery.

“Yes, there she is,” said Armand. “With Julie de Cornalle over there. Why do you want her?”

Justin smiled.

“You see, mon cher,” he explained sweetly, “it will afford me much satisfaction to be able to tell the dear Henri that I spent a pleasant half-hour with his fascinating wife.”

Armand chuckled.

“Oh, if that is your will——! You so love the dear Henri, do you not?”

“But of course,” smiled the Duke. He waited until Armand had melted into the crowd before he beckoned to Léon, who, in obedience to his commands, still stood in the embrasure. The page came to him slipping between two groups of chattering ladies, and followed him across the gallery to the couch on which sat Madame de Saint-Vire.

Avon swept the lady a magnificent leg.

“My dear Comtesse!” He took her thin hand, and holding it with the tips of his fingers just brushed it with his lips. “I had hardly dared hope for this joy.”

She inclined her head, but out of the corner of her eye she was watching Léon. Mademoiselle de Cornalle had moved away, and Avon seated himself in her place. Léon went to stand behind him.

“Believe me, Comtesse,” continued the Duke, “I was desolated not to see you in Paris. How is your delightful son?”

She answered nervously, and under pretence of arranging her skirt changed her position on the couch, so that she almost faced Avon, and thus was able to see the page behind him. Her eyes fluttered up to the boy’s face, and widened for an instant before they fell. She became aware of Avon’s smiling scrutiny, and coloured deeply, unfurling her fan with fingers that trembled slightly.

“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 Ayawn. 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 recognized 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. A gain 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 snuff-box. “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? A h, 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 Bœufhe 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 a sigh of content Léon nestled back against the soft cushions.

“It is all very wonderful,” he remarked, “but very bewildering. Do you mind if I fall asleep, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” said his Grace politely. “I trust you were satisfied with the King’s appearance?”

“Oh yes, he is just like the coins!” said Léon drowsily. “Do you suppose he likes to live in such a great palace, Monseigneur?”

“I have never asked him,” replied the Duke. “Versailles does not please you?”

“It is so very large,” explained the page. “I feared I had lost you.”

“What an alarming thought!” remarked his Grace.

“Yes, but you came after all.” The deep little voice was getting sleepier and sleepier. “It was all glass and candles, and ladies, and—Bonne nuit, Monseigneur,” he sighed.” I am sorry, but everything is muddled, and I am so very tired. I do not think I snore when I sleep, but if I do, then of course you must wake me. And I might slip, but I hope I shall not. I am right in the corner, so perhaps I shall remain here. But if I slip on to the floor——”

“Then I suppose I am to pick you up?” said Avon sweetly.

“Yes,” agreed Léon, already on the borderland of sleep. “I won’t talk any more now. Monseigneur does not mind?”

“Pray do not consider me in the slightest,” answered Avon. “I am here merely to accommodate you. If I disturb you I beg you will not hesitate to mention it. I will then ride on the box.”

A very sleepy chuckle greeted this sally, and a small hand tucked itself into the Duke’s.

“I wanted to hold your coat because I thought I should lose you,” murmured Léon.

“I presume that is why you are holding my hand now?” inquired his Grace. “You are perhaps afraid lest I should hide myself under the seat?”

“That is silly,” replied Léon. “Very silly. Bonne nuit, Monseigneur.”

“Bonne nuit, mon enfant. You will not lose me—or I you—very easily, I think.”

There was no answer, but Léon’s head sank against his Grace’s shoulder, and remained there.

“I am undoubtedly a fool,” remarked the Duke. He pushed a cushion under Léon’s relaxed arm. “But if I wake him he will begin to talk again.

What a pity Hugh is not here to see! ... I beg your pardon, my infant?”

But Léon had muttered only in his sleep. “If you are going to converse in your sleep I shall be compelled to take strong measures of prevention,” said his Grace. He leaned his head back against the padded seat, and, smiling, closed his eyes.