These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?’

‘Here he comes,’ answered Hugh. ‘You had best ask him.’

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

‘My dear Comte!’ The hazel eyes mocked. ‘My very dear Comte!’

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.

‘M. le Duc!’

Justin drew forth his jewelled snuff-box, and presented it. Tall as he was Saint-Vire was made to look insignificant beside this man of splendid height and haughty bearing.

‘A little snuff, dear Comte? No?’ He shook the foaming ruffles back from his white hand, and very daintily took a pinch of snuff. His thin lips were smiling, but not pleasantly.

‘Saint-Vire was admiring your page, Justin,’ Davenant said. ‘He is exciting no little attention.’

‘No doubt.’ Avon snapped his fingers imperiously and Léon came forward. ‘He is almost unique, my dear Comte. Pray look your fill.’

‘Your page is of no interest to me, m’sieur,’ Saint-Vire answered shortly, and turned aside.

‘Behind me.’ The command was given coldly, and at once Léon stepped back. ‘The so worthy Comte! Comfort him, Hugh.’ Avon passed on again, and in a little while was seated at a card table, playing lansquenet.

Davenant was called to another table presently, and proceeded to play at faro, with Saint-Vire as his partner. A foppish gentleman sat opposite him, and started to deal.

‘Mon cher, your friend is always so amusing. Why the page?’ he glanced towards Avon’s table.

Hugh gathered up his cards.

‘How should I know, Lavoulère? Doubtless he has a reason. And – forgive me – I am weary of the subject.’

‘He is so – so arresting,’ apologised Lavoulère. ‘The page. Red hair – oh, but of a radiance! – and blue, blue eyes. Or are they purple-black? The little oval face, and the patrician nose – ! Justin is wonderful. You do not think so, Henri?’

‘Oh, without doubt!’ Saint-Vire answered. ‘He should have been an actor. Quant à moi, I would humbly suggest that enough notice has been taken of the Duc and his page. Your play, Marchérand.’

At Avon’s table one of the gamblers yawned, pushing back his chair.

‘Mille pardons, but I thirst! I go in search of refreshment.’

The game had come to an end, and Justin was toying with his dice-box. He glanced up now, and waved to Château-Mornay to keep his seat.

‘My page will fetch wine, Louis. He is not only to be gazed upon. Léon!’

Léon slipped from behind Avon’s chair, from where he had been an intent spectator of the game.

‘Monseigneur?’

‘Canary and burgundy, at once.’

Léon withdrew, and nervously threaded his way between the tables to the buffet. He returned presently with a tray, which he presented to Justin, on one knee. Justin pointed silently to where Château-Mornay sat, and blushing for his mistake, Léon went to him, and again presented the tray. When he had served each one in turn he looked inquiringly up at his master.

‘Go to M. Davenant, and ask him if he has commands for you,’ said Justin languidly. ‘Will you hazard a throw with me, Cornalle?’

‘Ay, what you will.’ Cornalle pulled a dice-box from his pocket. ‘Two ponies? Will you throw?’

Justin cast his dice carelessly on the table, and turned his head to watch Léon. The page was at Davenant’s elbow. Davenant looked up.

‘Well, Léon? What is it?’