These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘What!’ Madame sank back in her chair. ‘It passes all bounds!’

‘Have you been there, Madame?’

‘I? Nom de Dieu, what next will you ask? Is it likely that I should go to such a place?’

‘No, Madame. It is for the nobles, is it not?’

Madame snorted.

‘And for every pretty slut who walks the streets!’ she retorted.

Léon tilted his head to one side.

‘Me, I did not think them pretty. Painted, and vulgar, with loud voices, and common tricks. But I did not see much.’ His brow wrinkled. ‘I do not know – I think perhaps I had offended Monseigneur, for of a sudden he swept round, and said “Await me below!” He said it as though he were angered.’

‘Tell us, Léon, what is it like, the Maison Chourval?’ asked Gaston, unable to conceal his curiosity.

‘Oh, it is a big hôtel, all gold and dirty white, and smelling of some scent that suffocates one. There is a card-room, and other rooms; I forget. There was much wine, and some were drunk. Others, like Monseigneur, were just bored. The women – ah, they are just nothing!’

Gaston was rather disappointed; he opened his mouth to question Léon further, but Madame’s eye was upon him, and he shut it again. A bell was heard in the distance, and at the sound of it Léon shut his book, and untucked his legs, waiting expectantly. A few minutes later a footman appeared with a summons for him. The page sprang up delightedly, and ran to where a cracked mirror hung. Madame Dubois watched him smooth his copper curls, and smiled indulgently.

‘Voyons, petit, you are as conceited as a girl,’ she remarked.

Léon flushed, and left the mirror.

‘Would you have me present myself to Monseigneur in disorder? I suppose he is going out. Where is my hat? Gaston, you have sat upon it!’ He snatched it from the valet, and hurriedly twitching it into shape, went out in the wake of the footman.

Avon was standing in the hall, talking to Hugh Davenant. He twirled a pair of soft gloves by their tassels, and his three-cornered hat was under one arm. Léon sank down on to one knee.

The hard eyes travelled over him indifferently.

‘Well?’

‘Monseigneur sent for me?’

‘Did I? Yes, I believe you are right. I am going out. Do you come with me, Hugh?’

‘Where?’ asked Davenant. He bent over the fire, warming his hands.

‘I thought it might be amusing to visit La Fournoise.’

Hugh made a grimace of distaste.

‘I like actresses on the stage, Justin, but not off it. La Fournoise is too opulent.’

‘So she is. You may go, Léon. Take my gloves.’ He tossed them to the page, and his hat after them. ‘Come and play at piquet, Hugh.’ He strolled away to the salon, yawning, and with a tiny shrug of his shoulders Hugh followed.

At the Comtesse de Marguéry’s ball that night Léon was left to await his master in the hall. He found a chair in a secluded corner, and settled down quite contentedly to watch the arrival of the guests. As it was the Duke’s custom to make his appearance as late as possible, he was not very hopeful of seeing many arrivals. He pulled a book out of his capacious pocket, and started to read.

For a while only the desultory conversation of the lackeys came to his ears, as they lounged against the stair-rail. Then suddenly they sprang to attention, and the idle chatter stopped. One flung open the door, while another stood ready to relieve this late-comer of his hat and cloak.

Léon raised his eyes from his book in time to see the Comte de Saint-Vire enter. He was becoming familiar with the notables of town, but even had this not been so Saint-Vire would have been hard to mistake. In these days of fastidiousness in all matters of dress the Comte was conspicuous for the carelessness with which he bore himself, and the slight disorder of his clothes. He was tall, and loose-limbed, with a heavy face, and beak-like nose. His mouth had a sullen curve, and his eyes a latent fierceness in their dark pupils. As usual his thick hair, rather grizzled now, was inadequately powdered, so that here and there a gleam of red showed. He wore many jewels, seemingly chosen at random, and with no regard to the colour of his coat.

His coat was revealed now, as he

allowed the attendant lackey to take his long cloak. Purple velvet met Léon’s critical eye; a salmon-pink vest with embroidering in gold and silver; purple small clothes with white stockings loosely rolled above the knee, and red-heeled shoes with large jewelled buckles. The Comte shook out his ruffles, and put up one hand to straighten his tumbled cravat. As he did so he cast a quick glance about him, and saw the page. A frown came, and the heavy mouth pouted a little. The Comte gave the lace at his throat an impatient twist and walked slowly towards the stairs. With his hand on the rail he paused, and half-turning, jerked his head as a sign that he wished to speak to Léon.

The page rose at once, and went to him.