These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘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.

Two

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.