Authors: Georgette Heyer
Léon came to his feet, and bowed.
“Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you.”
“Pray, do not thank me again,” yawned the Duke. “It fatigues me.” He watched Léon go out, and turned to survey Davenant.
Hugh looked full into his eyes.
“What does this mean, Alastair?”
The Duke crossed his legs, and swung one foot.
“I wonder?” he said pleasantly. “I thought that you would be able to tell me. You are always so omniscient, my dear.”
“Some scheme you have in mind, I know,” Hugh said positively. “I have known you long enough to be sure of that. What do you want with that child?”
“You are sometimes most importunate,” complained Justin. “Never more so than when you become virtuously severe. Pray spare me a homily.”
“I have no intention of lecturing you. All I would say is that it is impossible for you to take that child as your page.”
“Dear me!” said Justin, and gazed pensively into the fire.
“For one thing, he is of gentle birth. One can tell that from his speech, and his delicate hands and face. For another—his innocence shines out of his eyes.”
“How very distressing!”
“It would be very distressing if that innocence left him—because of you,” Hugh said, a hint of grimness in his rather dreamy voice.
“Always so polite,” murmured the Duke.
“If you wish to be kind to him——”
“My dear Hugh! I thought you said you knew me?”
Davenant smiled at that.
“Well, Justin, as a favour to me, will you give me Léon, and seek a page elsewhere?”
“I am always sorry to disappoint you, Hugh. I desire to act up to your expectations on all possible occasions. So I shall keep Léon. Innocence shall walk behind Evil—you see, I forestall you—clad in sober black.”
“Why do you want him? At least tell me that?”
“He has Titian hair,” said Justin blandly. “Titian hair has ever been one of—my—ruling—passions.” The hazel eyes glinted for a moment, and were swiftly veiled. “I am sure you will sympathize with me.”
Hugh rose and walked to the table. He poured himself out a glass of burgundy, and sipped it for a time in silence.
“Where have you been this evening?” he asked at length.
“I really forget. I believe I went first to De Touronne’s house. Yes, I remember now. I won. Strange.”
“Why strange?” inquired Hugh.
Justin nicked a grain of snuff from his great cuff.
“Because, Hugh, in the days, not so long since, when it was—ah—common knowledge that the noble family of Alastair was on the verge of ruin—yes, Hugh, even when I was mad enough to contemplate marriage with the present—er—Lady Merivale—I could only lose.”
“I’ve seen you win thousands in a night, Justin.”
“And lose them the following night. Then, if you remember, I went away with you to—now, where did we go? Rome! Of course!”
“I remember.”
The thin lips sneered a little.
“Yes. I was the—ah—rejected and heart-broken suitor. I should have blown my brains out to be quite correct. But I was past the age of drama. Instead I proceeded—in due course—to Vienna. And I won. The reward, my dear Hugh, of vice.”
Hugh tilted his glass, watching the candle-light 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 some 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 door-knob.
“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. “A propos, 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.
CHAPTER 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 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. As 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?”