Authors: Georgette Heyer
“Madame!” He bowed. “But where is
la petite
?”
Lady Fanny repeated Léonie’s excuses, and was requested to bear a graceful message to her charge. Then Condé moved away to join in a game of
bouts-rhymés
, and the wail of the violins died down to a murmur.
It was just as Madame du Deffand had called upon M. de la Douaye to read his latest poems that some slight stir arose by the door, and his Grace of Avon came in. He wore the dress he had once worn at Versailles, cloth of gold, shimmering in the candlelight. A great emerald in the lace at his throat gleamed balefully, another flashed on his finger. At his side was a light dress sword; in one hand he carried his scented handkerchief, and a snuff-box studded with tiny emeralds, and from one wrist hung a fan of painted chicken-skin mounted upon gold sticks.
Those who were near the door drew back to let him pass, and for a moment he stood alone, a tall, haughty figure, dwarfing the Frenchmen about him. He was completely at his ease, even a little disdainful. He raised his quizzing glass, and swept a glance round the room.
“By Gad, he’s a magnificent devil, ‘pon my soul he is!” said Rupert to Merivale. “Damme if I’ve ever seen him look more regal!”
“What a dress!” said Fanny, in her husband’s ear. “You cannot deny, Edward, that he is truly handsome.”
“He has a presence,” conceded Marling.
Avon went forward across the room, and bowed over his hostess’ hand.
“Late as usual!” she scolded him. “Oh, and you still have a fan, I see!
Poseur
! You are just in time to hear M. de la Douaye read to us his poems.”
“The luck always favours me, madame,” he said, and inclined his head to the young poet. “May we beg m’sieur to read us his lines addressed to the Flower in her Hair!”
La Douaye flushed with pleasure, and bowed.
“I am honoured that that so poor trifle should still be remembered,” he said, and went to stand before the fireplace with a roll of papers in his hand.
His Grace crossed slowly to the Duchesse de la Roque’s couch, and sat down beside her. His eyes flickered to Merivale’s face, and from thence to the door. Unostentatiously Merivale linked his arm in Davenant’s and moved with him to a sofa that stood by the door.
“Avon makes me feel nervous,” murmured Davenant. “An impressive entrance, a striking dress, and that in his manner that sends a chill down one’s back. You feel it?”
“I do. He means to hold the stage to-night.” Merivale spoke lower still, for La Douaye’s liquid voice sounded in the first line of his poem. “He sent me to sit here. If you can catch Rupert’s eye signal to him go to the other door.” He crossed his legs, and fixed his attention on La Douaye.
A storm of applause greeted the verses. Davenant craned his neck to see where Saint-Vire was, and caught a glimpse of him by the window. Madame de Saint-Vire was at some distance from him, and several times she looked across at him with wide apprehensive eyes.
“If Saint-Vire’s seen that Léonie’s not here he’ll be feeling that chill down his back too, methinks,” said Merivale. “I wish I knew what Avon means to do. Look at Fanny! Egad, Avon’s the only one of us who’s at his ease!”
La Douaye began to read again; followed praise, and elegant discussion. Avon complimented the poet, and moved away to the adjoining salon, where some were still playing at
bouts-rhymés.
In the doorway he met Rupert. Merivale saw him pause for an instant, and say something.
Rupert nodded, and lounged over to the two by the main door. He leaned over the back of the couch, and chuckled gleefully.
“Mysterious devil, an’t he?” he said. “I’ve orders to watch the other door. I’m agog with excitement, stap me if I’m not. Tony, I’ll lay you a monkey Justin wins this last round!”
Merivale shook his head.
“I’ll not bet against a certainty, Rupert,” he said. “Before he came I was assailed by doubts, but, faith, the sight of him is enough to end them! The sheer force of his personality should carry the day. Even I feel something nervous. Saint-Vire, with the knowledge of his own guilt, must feel a thousand times more so. Rupert, have you any idea what he means to do?”
“Devil a bit!” answered Rupert cheerfully. He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you something, though. This is the last soirée I’ll attend. Did you hear that fellow mouthing out his rhymes?” He shook his head severely. “Y’know, it ought not to be allowed. An under-sized little worm like that!”
“You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?” smiled Hugh.
“Poet be damned!” said Rupert. “He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!” He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. “God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?” he demanded irreverently.
“Hush, child!” whispered Lavoulère, who was standing near by. “It is the great M. de Foquemalle!”
M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.
“What, Rupert?” The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. “Whither away,
mon vieux
?”
“Here, let me pass!” whispered Rupert. “Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off!” He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.
In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.
“Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?” She picked up her paper and read out her lines. “There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?”
Avon kissed her hand.
“My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.”
Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.
“Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love or some such nonsense.”
“De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!” cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. “Shall you brave it, Duc?”
M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marcherand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to where Merivale stood.
“More commands?” inquired my lord. “I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.”
His Grace waved his fan languidly to and fro.
“But one more command,” he sighed. “Just keep our amiable friend away from his wife, my dear.” He passed on to speak to Madame de Vauvallon, and was presently lost in the crowd.
Lady Fanny was complimenting Madame de Saint-Vire on her gown.
“I declare, that shade of blue is positively ravishing!” she said. “I searched the town for just such a taffeta not so long ago. La, there is that lady in puce again I Pray who may she be?”
“It is—I believe it is Mademoiselle de Cloué,” Madame replied. The Vicomte de Valmé came up. “Henri, you have seen your father?”
“Yes, madame, he is with de Châtelet and another, over there.” He bowed to Fanny. “It is Milor’ Merivale, I think. Madame, may I be permitted to fetch you a glass of ratafie?”
“No, I thank you,” said my lady. “Madame, my husband!”
Madame gave her hand to Marling. Up came Madame du Deffand.
“Now where is your brother, Lady Fanny? I have asked him to entertain us with some of his so amusing verses, and he says that he has another form of entertainment for us!” She rustled on, looking for Avon.
“Is Avon to read us his verses?” asked someone near by. “He is always so witty! Do you remember the one he read at Madame de Marcherand’s rout last year?”
A gentleman turned his head.
“No, not verse this time, d’Orlay. I heard d’Aiguillon say that it was to be some kind of story.”
“
Tiens
! What will he be at next, I wonder?”
Young de Chantourelle came up with Mademoiselle de Beaucour on his arm.
“What’s this I hear of Avon? Is it a fairy tale he means to tell us?”
“An allegory, perhaps,” suggested d’Anvau. “Though they are not now in fashion.”
Madame de la Roque gave him her wine-glass to take away.
“It is so strange to tell us a story,” she remarked. “If it were not Avon one would go away, but since it is he one stays, full of curiosity. Here he comes!”
His Grace made his way across the room with Madame du Deffand. People began to seat themselves, and those gentlemen who could find no chairs ranged themselves along the wall, or stood in small groups by the doors. Out of the tail of her eye Lady Fanny saw Saint-Vire seated in a small alcove near the window, with Merivale perched on the edge of a table beside him. Madame de Saint-Vire made a movement as though to get to him. Lady Fanny took her arm affectionately.
“My dear, do sit with me! Now where shall we go?” Avon was at her side.
“You lack a chair, Fanny? Madame, your most devoted servant!” He raised his eyeglass, and beckoned to a lackey. “Two chairs for mesdames.”
“There is not the need,” said Madame hurriedly. “My husband will give me his——”
“Oh no, madame, you must not leave me thus alone!” said Fanny gaily. “Ah, here are chairs! I vow we have the best place in the room!” She whisked Madame into a spindle-legged chair that had been brought by the lackey, so that she sat by the fireplace, to one side, able to see the room, and to be seen by nearly everyone. On the same side, but withdrawn a little into the alcove, her husband sat, and could only see her profile. She turned to look at him imploringly; he sent her a warning glance, and set his teeth. Merivale swung one leg gently, and smiled across at Davenant, leaning against the doorpost.
Madame du Deffand settled herself beside a small table, and laughed up at Avon.
“Now, my friend, let us hear your fairy tale! I hope it is exciting?”
“Of that, madame, I shall leave you to judge,” Avon replied. He took up his stand before the fire, and opened his snuff-box, and helped himself delicately to a pinch of snuff. The firelight and the candlelight played upon him; his face was inscrutable, except that the strange eyes held a mocking gleam.
“There’s something afoot, I’ll swear!” d’Anvau confided to his neighbour. “I mislike that look on our friend’s face.”
His Grace shut his snuff-box, and flicked a speck of snuff from one great cuff.
“My story, madame, begins as all good stories should,” he said, and though he spoke softly his voice carried through the room. “Once upon a time—there were two brothers. I have forgotten their names, but since they detested each other, I will call them Cain and—er—Abel. I have no idea whether the original Abel detested the original Cain, and I beg that no one will enlighten me. I like to think that he did. If you ask me whence sprang this hatred between the brothers I can only suggest that it may have originated in the heads of each. Their hair was so fiery that I fear some of the fire must have entered into the brain.” His Grace spread open his fan, and looked serenely down into Armand de Saint-Vire’s face of dawning wonderment. “Quite so. The hatred grew and flourished until I believe there was nothing one brother would not do to spite the other. It became a veritable obsession with Cain, a madness that recoiled on him in the most disastrous manner, as I shall show you. My tale is not without a moral, you will be relieved to hear.”
“What in the world does all this mean?” whispered Lavoulère to a friend. “Is it a fairy tale, or does something lie behind.”
“I don’t know. How does he manage to hold his audience so still, I wonder?”
His Grace went on, speaking very slowly and dispassionately.
“Cain, being the elder of these two brothers, succeeded in due course to his father, who was a Comte and went the way of all flesh. If you imagine that the enmity now subsided between him and Abel, I beg you will permit me to disabuse your minds of so commonplace a thought. Cain’s succession but added fuel to the fire of hatred, and whereas our friend Abel was consumed of a desire to stand in his brother’s shoes, Cain was consumed of a like desire to keep him out of them. A situation fraught with possibilities, you perceive.” He paused to survey his audience; they watched him in mingled bewilderment and curiosity. “With this life-ambition in view, then, our single-minded friend Cain took a wife unto himself and doubtless thought himself secure. But Fate, capricious jade, evidently disliked him, for the years went by, and still there came no son to gladden Cain’s heart. You conceive the chagrin of Cain? Abel, however, grew more and more jubilant, and I fear he did not hesitate to make—er—a jest of his brother’s ill-luck. It was perhaps unwise of him.” His Grace glanced at Madame de Saint-Vire, who sat rigid, and very pale, beside Lady Fanny. His Grace began to wave his fan rhythmically to and fro. “I believe Cain’s wife presented him once with a still-born child. It began to seem unlikely that Cain would realize his ambition, but, contrary to Abel’s expectations, Madame la Comtesse raised her husband’s hopes once more. This time Cain determined that there should be no mistake. Possibly he had learned to mistrust his luck. When madame’s time was upon her he carried her off to his estates, where she was delivered of—a daughter.” Again he paused, and looked across the room at Saint-Vire. He saw the Comte cast a furtive glance towards the door, and colour angrily at sight of Rupert lounging there. His Grace smiled, and swung his eyeglass on its riband. “Of a daughter. Now observe the cunning of Cain. On his estate, possibly in his employ, there dwelt a farm-labourer, as I judge, whose wife had just presented him with a second son. Fate, or Chance, thus set a trap for Cain, into which he walked. He bribed this peasant to give him his lusty son in exchange for his daughter.”