These Old Shades (29 page)

“You do not find it so?” His Grace drew a fan of lavender silk mounted on silver sticks from his pocket, and waved it languidly. “One wonders what can have brought the Comte de Saint-Vire to this unsophisticated spot.”

“I came on business, M. le Duc. One also wonders what can have brought the Duc of Avon here.”

“But business, dear Comte, business!” said Avon, gently.

“I come to retrieve some—property—I lost at—Le Havre!” said the Comte wildly.

“How singular!” remarked Avon. “I came on precisely the same errand. Our paths seem fated to—er—cross, my dear Comte.”

Saint-Vire set his teeth.

“Yes, m’sieur? On—on the same errand, you say?” He forced a laugh. “Singular indeed!”

“Quite remarkable, is it not! But, unlike yours, my property was stolen from me. I hold it in—er—trust.”

“Indeed, m’sieur?” The Comte’s mouth was unpleasantly dry, and it was evident that he was at a loss to know what to say.

“I trust, dear Comte, that you have found your property?” Avon’s tone was silky.

“Not yet,” Saint-Vire answered slowly.

His Grace poured out the third glass of wine, and offered it to him. Mechanically the Comte accepted it.

“Let us hope that I may be able to restore it to you,” said his Grace, and sipped meditatively at his wine.

Saint-Vire choked.

“M’sieur?”

“I shall spare no pains,” continued his Grace. “The village is not a large hunting-ground, to be sure. You know that it is here, I suppose?”

“Yes—no—I do not know. It is not worth your trouble, m’sieur.”

“Oh, my dear Comte!” protested his Grace, “if it is worth so much endeavour—” his eyes flickered to those mud-caked boots—”so much endeavour on your part, I am sure it is also worth my attention.”

The Comte seemed to choose his words carefully.

“I have reason to think, m’sieur, that it is one of those jewels that contain—a flaw.”

“I trust not,” answered Avon. “So it was a jewel? Now that which was stolen from me is in the nature of a weapon.”

“I hope you have had the good fortune to find it,” said Saint-Vire, goaded, but holding fast to his self-control.

“Yes, my dear Comte, yes. Chance favours me nearly always. Strange. Let me assure you that I shall do my utmost to restore your—jewel, I think you said it was?— your jewel to you.”

“It—is not likely that you will find it,” said Saint-Vire, between his teeth.

“You forget the element of Chance, dear Comte. I am a great believer in my luck.”

“My property can hardly interest you, M. le Duc.”

“On the contrary,” sweetly replied his Grace, “it would afford me great pleasure to be able to assist you in the matter.” He glanced towards Léonie, who stood by the table, listening with a puzzled frown to the quick give and take of words. “I have quite a happy—shall we say, knack? —of finding lost—er—property.”

Saint-Vire turned livid. His hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips. Avon regarded him in exaggerated concern.

“My dear Comte, surely you are unwell?” Again his eyes went to Saint-Vire’s boots. “You must have come a long way, dear Comte,” he said solicitously. “No doubt you are sadly fatigued.”

The Comte spluttered and set down his glass with a snap.

“As you say. I—I am not entirely myself. I have been suffering from a—slight indisposition, which has confined me to my room for these last three days.”

“It is really most remarkable,” marvelled his Grace. “My brother—I think you know him? Yes, quite so,—is at this very moment above-stairs, also suffering from a slight indisposition. I fear there must be something unhealthy in the air of this place. You find it a trifle sultry, perhaps?”

“Not at all, m’sieur!” snarled Saint-Vire.

“No? These annoying disorders, I believe, have a way of overtaking one in any climate.”

“As my lord Rupert found,” said Saint-Vire harshly. “I trust his—indisposition has not given him a distaste for my country.”

“Quite the reverse,” said his Grace blandly. “He is agog to proceed to Paris. He and I, dear Comte, believe firmly in that old remedy: the hair of the dog.”

The veins stood out on Saint-Vire’s forehead.

“Indeed? It is to be hoped that my lord does not act rashly.”

“You must not be concerned for him, dear Comte. 1 stand—as it were—behind him, and I have a wonderfully cool head. So they tell me. But you—ah, that is another matter! You must have a care to yourself, Comte. Let me implore you to relinquish your—search—until you are more yourself.”

Saint-Vire’s hand clenched.

“You are too good, m’sieur. My health is not your concern.”

“You mistake, dear Comte. I take a most lively interest in your—er—health.”

“I believe I shall do very well, m’sieur. My complaint is not so serious, I am glad to say.”

“Nevertheless, my dear Comte, it is always well to proceed cautiously, is it not? One never knows when these trifling ailments may not grow suddenly to quite large proportions. I have known a mere chill creep to the lungs, and strike a man down in the very prime of life.” He smiled pleasantly upon the Comte, who sprang suddenly to his feet, overturning his chair.

“Curse you, you’ve no proof!” he cried.

Up went his Grace’s brows. His eyes mocked.

“I assure you, dear Comte, I have known such a case.”

Saint-Vire pulled himself together with an effort.

“It will not happen—to me, I think,” he said thickly.

“Why, we will hope not,” agreed the Duke. “I believe that no one is—struck down—before the appointed hour.”

The Comte groped for his whip, and stood wrenching the lash between his hands.

“With your permission, m’sieur, I will leave you. I have wasted enough time already. Mademoiselle, your servant!” He spat the words out, snatched up his gloves, and went blindly to the door.

“So soon?” mourned his Grace. “I shall hope to have the felicity of seeing you in Paris. I must present my ward to your so charming wife.”

Saint-Vire flung open the door, and twisted the handle viciously. He looked back with a sneer.

“You are full of plans, m’sieur. We will hope that none of them go awry.”

“Certainly,” bowed Avon. “Why should they?”

“There is sometimes—a flaw!” snapped Saint-Vire.

“You bewilder me,” said his Grace. “Are we speaking of your lost jewel, or my plans—or both? I should warn you that I am something of a judge of precious stones, dear Comte.”

“Yes, m’sieur?” The flush mounted to Saint-Vire’s face again. “It is possible that you are labouring under a delusion, M. le Duc. The game is not played out yet.”

“By no means,” said the Duke. “Which reminds me that I have not inquired after your so enchanting son. Pray how does he?”

The Comte showed his teeth.

“He is very well, m’sieur. I feel no anxiety on his behalf. Your servant!” The door shut with a slam.

“The so dear Comte!” murmured Avon.

“Monseigneur, you did not do anything to him!” cried Léonie. “I thought that you would punish him!”

“Ma fille
, the day comes when I shall punish him,” answered Avon, and threw down his fan. His voice had changed, and sounded harsh in Léonie’s ears. “And there will be no mercy for him at my hands.”

Léonie looked at him in awe and some admiration.

“You look quite angry, Monseigneur!”

His glance came to rest on her face. He went to her, and, taking her chin in his hand, looked deep into her eyes.

They smiled trustfully up at him. Abruptly he released her.

“I have reason, child. You have seen a villain to-day.”

“Yes, a pig-person,” she nodded. “You won’t let him take me again, will you, Monseigneur?”

“No, my infant. He shall never again have you in his clutches. That I swear.”

She frowned, watching him.

“You seem different, Monseigneur, I think. You are not angry with me?”

The grimness left his mouth, and he smiled.

“It would be impossible, my dear. We will go now and solace Rupert’s boredom.”

CHAPTER XXII

The Arrival of Another Player in the Game

Monday came and went with no sign of Gaston or his charges. His Grace frowned, but Léonie danced with delight, and offered the suggestion that Madam Field had died of agitation.

“It does not seem to worry you over-much,” said Avon dryly.

“No, Monseigneur. I think we are very happy without her. What shall we do to-day?”

But the Duke was not pleased. Rupert looked up at him with a grin.

“Never known you so mindful of the proprieties before, Justin, stap me if I have!”

He encountered a cold glance, and was instantly solemn.

“No offence, Avon, no offence! You can be as prudish as you like for aught I care. But she’s not.”

“Léonie,” said his Grace crushingly, “is as featherbrained as you, or nearly so.”

“Egad,” said Rupert irrepressibly, “I thought we’d not bask much longer in the sunshine of your approval.”

Léonie spoke aggrievedly.

“I am not as feather-brained as Rupert. You are very unkind to say so, Monseigneur.”

Rupert looked at her admiringly.

“That’s it, Léonie. Stand up to him, and hit out from the shoulder. It’s more than I ever did in my life!”

“I am not afraid of Monseigneur,” said Léonie, elevating her small nose. “You are just a coward, Rupert.”

“My child—” the Duke turned his head—”you forget yourself. You owe some gratitude to Rupert.”

“Hey, up I go, and down go you!” said Rupert. “Ecod, it’s a see-saw we’re on!”

“Monseigneur, I have been grateful to Rupert all the morning, and now I am not going to be grateful any longer. It makes me cross.”

“So I observe. Your manners leave much to be desired.”

“I think that you are very cross too,” Léonie ventured.
“Voyons,
what does it matter that Gaston does not come? He is silly, and fat, and Madame Field is like a hen. We do not want them.”

“Here’s a fine philosophic spirit!” cried Rupert. “You used to be much the same yourself, Justin. What’s come over you?”

Léonie turned to him in triumph.

“I told you he was different, Rupert, and you would only laugh! I never saw him so disagreeable before.”

“Lud, it’s easy to see you’ve not lived with him long!” said Rupert, audaciously.

His Grace came away from the window.

“You are an unseemly pair,” he said. “Léonie, you were wont to respect me more.”

She saw the smile in his eyes, and twinkled responsively.

“Monseigneur, I was a page then, and you would have punished me. Now I am a lady.”

“And do you think I cannot still punish you, my child?”

“Much she’d care!” chuckled Rupert.

“I should care!” Léonie shot at him. “I am sorry if Monseigneur only frowns!”

“The Lord preserve us!” Rupert closed his eyes.

“A little more,” said his Grace, “and you will not get up to-day, my son.”

“Oh, ay! You’ve the whip-hand!” sighed Rupert. “I’m silenced!” He shifted his position, and winced a little.

The Duke bent over him to rearrange the pillows.

“I am not sure that you will get up at all to-day, boy,” he said. “Is it easier?”

“Ay—I mean, I hardly feel it now,” lied his lordship. “Damme, I won’t stay abed any longer, Justin! At this rate we’ll never start for Paris!”

“We shall await your convenience,” said Avon.

“Mighty condescending of you,” smiled Rupert.

“You are not to be impertinent to Monseigneur, Rupert,” said Léonie sternly.

“I thank you, infant. It needs for someone to support my declining prestige. If you are to rise to-day you will rest now, Rupert. Léonie, an you wish to ride out I am at your disposal.”

She jumped up.

“I will go and put on my riding-dress at once. Merci, Monseigneur.”

“I’d give something to come with you,” said Rupert wistfully, when she had gone.

“Patience, child.” His Grace drew the curtains across the window. “Neither the doctor nor I keep you in bed for our amusement.”

“Oh, you’re a damned good nurse! I’ll say that for you,” grimaced Rupert. He smiled rather shyly up at his brother. “I’d not ask for a better.”

“In truth, I surprise myself sometimes,” said his Grace, and went out.

“Ay, and you surprise me, damme you do!” muttered Rupert. “I’d give something to know what’s come over you. Never was there such a change in anyone!”

And indeed his Grace was unusually kind during these irksome days and the biting sarcasm which had withered Rupert of yore was gone from his manner. Rupert puzzled over this inexplicable change for some time, and could find no solution to the mystery. But that evening when he reclined on the couch in the parlour, clad in his Grace’s clothes, he saw Avon’s eyes rest on Léonie for a moment, and was startled by their expression. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.