Читать книгу These Old Shades - Georgette Heyer - Страница 8

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When Davenant met his Grace at breakfast next morning he found that the Duke was in excellent spirits. He was more than usually urbane, and whenever his eye alighted on Léon he smiled, as if at some pleasant thought.

“Was the levée well attended?” asked Hugh, attacking a red sirloin. Unlike the Duke, who never ate more than a roll for breakfast, he made a hearty meal of eggs and bacon, and cold meats, washed down by English ale, especially imported by the Duke for his delectation.

The Duke poured himself out a second cup of coffee.

“Crowded, my dear Hugh. It was in honour of some birthday, or saint’s day, or something of the sort.”

“Did you see Armand?” Hugh reached out his hand for the mustard.

“I saw Armand, and the Comtesse, and the Vicomte, and everybody I least wished to meet.”

“One always does. I suppose La Pompadour was delighted to see you?”

“Oppressively so. The King sat on his throne and smiled benignantly. Just like a coin.”

Hugh suspended his fork in mid-air.

“Just like a what?”

“A coin. Léon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.”

Hugh looked inquiringly at the page.

“What is the joke, Léon? Do you know?”

Léon shook his head.

“No, m’sieur.”

“Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,” said his Grace. “Léon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.”

Léon blushed.

“I—I am afraid I was asleep, Monseigneur.”

“Very nearly so. Do you always sleep as one dead?”

“N-no. That is—I do not know, Monseigneur. I was put to bed in all my clothes.”

“Yes, I did that. Having wasted ten minutes in endeavouring to rouse you, I thought that the simplest plan would be to carry you up to bed.

You are not all joy, my infant.”

“I am very sorry, Monseigneur; you should have made me wake up.”

“If you would tell me how that may be done I shall do so on the next occasion. Hugh, if you must eat beef, pray do not brandish it in my face at this hour.”

Davenant, whose fork was still suspended midway between his plate and mouth, laughed, and went on eating.

Justin began to sort the letters that lay beside his plate. Some he threw away, others he slipped into his pocket. One had come from England, and spread over several sheets. He opened them and started to decipher the scrawl.

“From Fanny,” he said. “Rupert is still at large, it seems. At Mistress Carsby’s feet. When I saw him last he was madly in love with Julia

Falkner. From one extreme to another.” He turned over the page. “Now, how interesting! Dear Edward has given Fanny a chocolate-coloured coach with pale blue cushions. The wheat is picked out in blue.” He held the sheet at arm’s length. “It seems strange, but no doubt Fanny is right. I have not been in England for such a time——A h, I beg her pardon! You will be relieved to hear, my dear Hugh, that the wheat in

England still grows as ever it did. The wheels are picked out in blue. Ballentor has fought another duel, and Fanny won fifty guineas at play the other night. John is in the country because town air does not suit him. Now, is John her lap-dog or her parrot?”

“Her son,” said Davenant.

“Is he? Yes, I believe you are right. What next? If I can find her a French cook she vows she will love me more than ever. Léon, tell Walker to find me a French cook.—She wishes she could visit me as I suggested some time ago—how rash of me!—but it is quite impossible as she cannot leave her darling Edward alone, and she fears he would not accompany her to my hovel. Hovel. Not very polite of Fanny. I must remember to speak to her about it.”

“Hôtel,” suggested Hugh.

“Once more you are right. Hôtel it is. The rest of this enthralling communication concerns Fanny’s toilettes. I will reserve it. Oh, have you finished?”

“Finished and gone,” answered Davenant, rising. “I am riding out with D’A nvau. I shall see you later.” He went out.

Avon leaned his arms on the table, resting his chin on the back of his clasped hands.

“Léon, where does your remarkable brother live?”

Léon started, and fell back a pace.

“Mon—Monseigneur?”

“Where is his inn?”

Suddenly Léon fell on his knees beside Avon’s chair, and clutched the Duke’s sleeve with desperate fingers. His face was upturned, pale and agonized, the great eyes swimming in tears.

“Oh no, no, no, Monseigneur! You would not—Oh, please not that! I—I will never go to sleep again! Please, please forgive me! Monseigneur!

Monseigneur!”

Avon looked down at him with upraised brows. Léon had pressed his forehead against his master’s arm, and was shaking with suppressed sobs.

“You bewilder me,” complained the Duke. “What is it that I am not to do, and why will you never sleep again?”

“Don’t—don’t give me back to Jean!” implored Léon, clinging tighter still. “Promise, promise!”

Avon loosened the clasp on his sleeve.

“My dear Léon, I beg you will not weep over this coat. I have no intention of giving you to Jean, or to anyone else. Stand up, and do not be ridiculous.”

“You must promise! You shall promise!” Léon shook the arm he held almost fiercely.

The Duke sighed.

“Very well: I promise. Now tell me where I may find your brother, my child.”

“I won’t! I won’t! You—he—I won’t tell you!”

The hazel eyes became hard.

“I have borne much from you in patience, Léon, but I will not brook your defiance. A nswer me at once.”

“I dare not! Oh, please, please do not make me tell! I—I do not mean to be defiant! But perhaps Jean is sorry now that—that he let me go, and—and will try to m-make you give me back!” He was plucking at the Duke’s sleeve now, and again Avon removed the frenzied fingers.

“Do you think Jean could make me give you back?” he asked.

“N-no—I don’t know. I thought perhaps because I went to sleep you were angered, and—and “

“I have already told you that it is not so. Strive to have a little sense. And answer my question.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. I—I am sorry. Jean—Jean lives in the Rue Sainte-Marie. There is only one inn—the Crossbow. Oh, what are you going to do, Monseigneur?”

“Nothing at all alarming, I assure you. Dry your tears.”

Léon hunted through his various pockets.

“I—I have lost my handkerchief,” he apologized.

“Yes, you are very young, are you not?” commented his Grace. “I suppose I must give you mine.”

Léon took the fine lace handkerchief which the Duke held out, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and gave it back again. The Duke received it gingerly, and eyed the crumpled ball through his quizzing glass.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are nothing if not thorough. I think you had better keep it now.”

Léon pocketed it cheerfully.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said. “Now I am happy again.”

“I am relieved,” said the Duke, and rose. “I shall not want you this morning.” He strolled out, and in half an hour’s time was in his coach, driving towards the Rue Sainte-Marie.

The street was very narrow, with refuse in the kennels on either side of the road; the houses were mostly tumbledown, projecting outward from the first storey. Hardly one had all its windows intact; there were cracked and missing panes on all sides, and where curtains hung they were ragged and dirty. Half a dozen partly clothed children were playing in the road, and scattered to right and left as the coach drove up, standing on the footway, and watched the progress of this fine equipage with astonished eyes, and many startled comments.

The tavern of the Crossbow was situated midway down the squalid street, and from its open door issued a smell of cooking, and of cabbage water, thrown carelessly out into the kennel. The coach drew up outside the inn, and one of the footmen sprang down to open the door for his Grace to alight. His countenance was quite impassive, and only by the lofty tilt of his chin did he betray his emotions.

His Grace came slowly down from the coach, his handkerchief held to his nose. He picked his way across the filth and garbage to the inn door, and entered what appeared to be the taproom and the kitchen. A greasy woman was bending over the fire at one end, a cooking-pot in her hand, and behind the counter opposite the door stood the man who had sold Léon to the Duke a month ago.

He gaped when he saw Avon enter, and for a moment did not recognize him. He came forward cringingly, rubbing his hands together, and desired to know Monseigneur’s pleasure.

“I think you know me,” said his Grace gently.

Bonnard stared, and suddenly his eyes dilated, and his full-blooded countenance turned a sickly grey.

“Léon! Milor’—I——”

“Precisely. I want two words with you in private.”

The man looked at him fearfully, passing his tongue between his lips.

“I swear by God——”

“Thank you. In private I said.”

The woman, who had watched the encounter open-mouthed, came forward now, arms akimbo. Her soiled dress was in disorder, cut low across her scraggy bosom, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“Now, if the little viper has said aught against us,” she began shrilly, but was cut short by Avon’s lifted hand.

“My good woman, I have no desire to speak with you. You may return to your stew-pots. Bonnard, in private!”

Charlotte would have interrupted again, but her husband hustled her back to the stove, whispering to her to hold her tongue.

“Yes, milor’, indeed yes! If milor’ will follow me?” He pushed open the crazy, rat-eaten door at the other end of the room, and ushered his

Grace into the parlour. The room was scantily furnished, but it was not so dirty as the taproom. Avon went to the table that stood by the window, flicked the dust from its surface with a corner of his cloak, and sat down on the edge of the rickety structure.

“Now, my friend. That you may not misunderstand me, or seek to evade me, let me tell you that I am the Duke of Avon. Yes, I thought that you would be surprised. You realize, I am sure, that it would be very dangerous to play with me. I am going to ask you one or two questions about my page. I wish to know first where he was born.”

“I—I think in the north, Monseigneur. In—Champagne, but I am not sure. Our—our parents never spoke of that time, and I can scarce remember—I——”

“No? It seems strange that you do not know why your worthy parents went so suddenly to live in Anjou.”

Bonnard looked at him helplessly.

“My—my father told me that he had come into money! Indeed, I know no more, Monseigneur! I would not lie. I swear I would not.

The fine lips curled sardonically.

“We will pass over that. How comes it that Léon is so unlike you in face and form?”

Bonnard rubbed his forehead. There was no mistaking the perplexity in his eyes.

“I do not know, Monseigneur. I have often wondered. He was ever a weakly child, petted and cosseted when I was made to work on the farm.

My mother cared nothing for me beside him. It was all Léon, Léon, Léon! Léon must learn to read and write, but I—the eldest—must tend the pigs! A sickly, pert lad he was ever, Monseigneur! A viper, a——”

Avon tapped the lid of his snuff-box with one very white finger.

“Do not let us misunderstand one another, my friend. There never was a Léon. A Léonie, perhaps. I want that explained.”

The man shrank.

“Ah, Monseigneur! Indeed, indeed I did it for the best! It was impossible to have a girl of that age here, and there was work to be done. It was better to dress her as a boy. My wife—Monseigneur will understand—women are jealous, milor’. She would not have a girl here. Indeed, indeed, if the boy—girl—has said aught against us, he lies! I could have turned him out into the streets, for he had no claim on me. Instead, I kept him, clothed him, fed him, and if he says he was ill-treated it is a lie! He is a wicked brat with a vicious temper. You could not blame me for hiding his sex, Monseigneur! It was for his sake, I swear!

He liked it well enough. Never did he demand to be a girl!”

“No doubt he had forgotten,” said Avon dryly. “Seven years a boy . . . Now——” He held up a louis. “Mayhap this will refresh your memory.

What do you know of Léon?”

The man looked at him in a puzzled way.

“I—do not understand, Monseigneur. What do I know of him?”

Avon leaned forward slightly, and his voice became menacing.

“It will not serve you to feign ignorance, Bonnard. I am very powerful.”

Bonnard’s knees shook.

“Indeed, Monseigneur, I do not understand! I cannot tell you what I do not know! Is—is aught amiss with Léon?”

“You never thought that he was, perhaps, not your parents’ child?”

Bonnard’s jaw dropped.

“Not—Why, Monseigneur, what do you mean? Not my parents’ child. But——”

Avon sat back.

“Does the name Saint-Vire convey aught to you?”

“Saint-Vire . . . Saint-Vire ... no. Stay, the name has a familiar ring! But—Saint-Vire—I do not know.” He shook his head hopelessly. “It may be that I have heard my father speak the name, but I cannot remember.”

“A pity. And when your parents died was there no document found belonging to them which concerned Léon?”

“If there was, milor’, I never saw it. There were old accounts and letters—I cannot read, Monseigneur, but I have them all.” He looked at the louis, and licked his lips. “If Monseigneur would care to see for himself? They are here, in that chest.”

Avon nodded.

“Yes. A ll of them.”

Bonnard went to the chest and opened it. After some search he found a sheaf of papers, which he brought to the Duke. Avon went through

them quickly. For the most part they were, as Bonnard had said, farm accounts, with one or two letters amongst them. But at the bottom of the pile was a folded slip of paper, addressed to Jean Bonnard, on the estate of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire, in Champagne. It was only a letter from some friend, or relation, and it held nothing of importance, save the address. The Duke held it up.

“This I will take.” He tossed the louis to Bonnard. “If you have lied to me, or deceived me, you will be sorry. At present I am willing to believe that you know nothing.”

“I have spoken naught but the truth, Monseigneur, I swear!”

“Let us hope that it is so. One thing, however—” he produced another louis— “you can tell me. Where shall I find the curé at Bassincourt, and what is his name?”

“M. de Beaupré, Monseigneur, but he may be dead now, for aught I know. He was an old man when we left Bassincourt. He used to live in a little house beside the church. You cannot mistake it.”

Avon threw the louis into his eager hand.

“Very well.” He went to the door. “Be advised by me, my friend, and strive to forget that you ever had a sister. For you had not, and it might be that if you remembered a Léonie there would be a reckoning to be paid for your treatment of her. I shall not forget you, I assure you.” He swept out, and through the taproom to his coach.

That afternoon, when Avon sat in the library of his house, writing to his sister, a footman came to him and announced that M. de Faugenac wished to see him.

The Duke raised his head.

“M. de Faugenac? A dmit him.”

In a few minutes’ time there entered a tubby little gentleman with whom his Grace was but slightly acquainted. Avon rose as he came in and bowed.

“Monsieur!”

“Monsieur!” De Faugenac returned the bow. “Pardon the unseemly hour of this intrusion, I beg!”

“Not at all,” answered the Duke. “Fetch wine, Jules. Pray be seated, m’sieur.”

“No wine for me, I thank you! The gout, you understand. A sad affliction!”

“Very,” agreed his Grace. “Is there something I can do for you, I wonder?”

De Faugenac stretched his hands to the fire.

“Yes, I come on business, m’sieur. Bah, the ugly word! M’sieur will pardon the interruption, I am sure! A splendid fire, Duc!”

Avon bowed. He had seated himself on the arm of a chair, and was looking at his visitor in mild surprise. He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to De Faugenac, who helped himself to a liberal pinch and sneezed violently.

“Exquisite!” he said enthusiastically. “A h, the business! M’sieur, you will think I come upon a strange errand, but I have a wife!” He beamed at Avon, and nodded several times.

“I felicitate you, m’sieur,” said Avon gravely.

“Yes, yes! A wife! It will explain all.”

“It always does,” answered his Grace.

“Aha, the pleasantry!” De Faugenac broke into delighted laughter. “We know, we husbands, we know!”

“As I am not a husband I may be excused my ignorance. I am sure you are about to enlighten me.” His Grace was becoming bored, for he had remembered that De Faugenac was an impoverished gentleman usually to be found at the heels of Saint-Vire.

“Indeed yes. Yes indeed. My wife. The explanation! She has seen your page, m’sieur!”

“Wonderful!” said the Duke. “We progress.”

“We——? You said progress? We? Progress?”

“It seems I erred,” Avon sighed. “We remain at the same place.”

De Faugenac was puzzled for a moment, but all at once his face broke into fresh smiles.

“A nother pleasantry! Yes, yes, I see!”

“I doubt it,” murmured Avon. “You were saying, m’sieur, that your wife had seen my page.”

De Faugenac clasped his hands to his breast.

“She is ravished! She is envious! She pines!”

“Dear me!”

“She gives me no peace!”

“They never do.”

“A ha! No, never, never! But you do not take my meaning, m’sieur, you do not take my meaning!”

“But then, that is hardly my fault,” said Avon wearily. “We have arrived at the point at which your wife gives you no peace.”

“That is the matter in a nutshell! She eats out her heart for your so lovely, your so enchanting, your so elegant——”

Avon held up his hand.

“M’sieur, my policy has ever been to eschew married women.”

De Faugenac stared.

“But—but—what do you mean, m’sieur? Is it another pleasantry? My wife pines for your page.”

“How very disappointing!”

“Your page, your so elegant page! She plagues me day and night to come to you. And I am here! Behold me!”

“I have beheld you for the past twenty minutes, m’sieur,” said Avon rather tartly.

“She begs me to come to you, to ask you if you would part with your page! She cannot rest until she has him to hold her train for her, to carry her gloves and fan. She cannot sleep at night until she knows that he is hers!”

“It seems that madame is destined to spend many sleepless nights,” said Avon.

“A h no, m’sieur! Consider! It is said that you bought your page. Now, is it not truly said that what may be bought may be sold?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes, yes! Possibly! M’sieur, I am as a slave to my wife.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “I am as the dirt beneath her feet.” He clasped his hands. “I must bestow on her all that she desires, or die!”

“Pray make use of my sword,” invited his Grace. “It is in the corner behind you.”

“A h no! M’sieur cannot mean that he refuses! It is impossible! M’sieur, you may name your own price and I will give it!”

Avon stood up. He picked up a silver hand-bell, and rang it.

“M’sieur,” he said silkily, “you may bear my compliments to the Comte de Saint-Vire, and tell him that Léon, my page, is not for sale. Jules, the door.”

De Faugenac rose, very crestfallen.

“M’sieur?”

Avon bowed.

“M’sieur. You mistake! You do not understand!”

“Believe me, I understand perfectly.”

“Ah, but you have no soul thus to thwart a lady’s wish!”

“My misfortune entirely, m’sieur. I am desolate that you are unable to stay longer. M’sieur, your very obedient!” So he bowed De Faugenac out.

No sooner had the door closed behind the little man than it opened again to admit Davenant.

“Who in the name of all that’s marvellous was that?” he asked.

“A creature of no account,” replied his Grace. “He wished to buy Léon. A n impertinence. I am going into the country, Hugh.”

“Into the country? Why?”

“I forget. No doubt I shall call the reason to mind some time. Bear with me, my dear; I am still moderately sane.”

Hugh sat down.

“You never were sane. ‘Pon rep, you’re a casual host!”

“Ah, Hugh, I crave your pardon on my knees! I encroach on your good nature.”

“Damme, you’re very polite! Is Léon to accompany you?”

“No, I leave him in your charge, Hugh, and I counsel you to have a care for him. While I am away he will not leave the house.”

“I thought there was some mystery. Is he in danger?”

“N-no. I can hardly say. But keep him close, and say naught, my dear. I should not be pleased if harm came to him. Incredible as it may seem, I am becoming fond of the child. I must be entering upon my dotage.”

“We are all fond of him,” said Hugh. “But he is an imp.”

“Undoubtedly. Do not allow him to tease you; he is an impertinent child. Unhappily he cannot be brought to realize that fact. And here he is.”

Léon came in and smiled confidingly as he met the Duke’s eyes.

“Monseigneur, you told me to be ready to accompany you out at three, and it is now half-past the hour,” he said.

Hugh’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter; he turned away, coughing.

“It would appear that I owe you an apology,” said his Grace. “Pray hold me excused for once. I am not going out after all. Come here.”

Léon approached.

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

“I am going into the country for a few days, my infant, from to-morrow. Oblige me by looking on M. Davenant as master in mine absence, and do not, on any account, leave the house until I return.”

“Oh!” Léon’s face fell. “A m I not to come with you?”

“I am denying myself that honour. Please do not argue with me. That is all that I wished to say.”

Léon turned away and went with lagging steps to the door. A small sniff escaped him, and at the sound of it Avon smiled.

“Infant, the end of the world has not come. I shall return, I hope, within the week.”

“I wish—oh, I wish that you would take me!”

“That is hardly polite to M. Davenant. I do not think he is likely to ill-use you. I am not going out to-night, by the way.”

Léon came back.

“You—you won’t go to-morrow without saying goodbye, will you, Monseigneur?”

“You shall hand me into my coach,” promised the Duke, and gave him his hand to kiss.