These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘A boy’s fancy. When at Saint-Vire he pines for Paris. Your pardon, messieurs – I see Madame de Marguéry.’ He brushed past Avon as he spoke, making his way towards his hostess.

‘Our friend is always so delightfully brusque,’ remarked the Duke. ‘One wonders why he is tolerated.’

‘He has moods,’ answered Chantourelle. ‘Sometimes he is very agreeable, but he is not much liked. Now Armand is another matter. Of a gaiety – ! You know that there is enmity between them?’ He lowered his voice mysteriously, agog to relate the tale.

‘The dear Comte is at pains to show us that it is so,’ said Avon. ‘My esteemed friend!’ He waved one languid hand to a lavishly powdered and painted individual. ‘Did I see you with Mademoiselle de Sonnebrune? Now that is a taste I find hard to cultivate.’

The painted gentleman paused, simpering.

‘Oh, my dear Duc, she is the dernier cri ! One must worship at her feet; it is de rigueur, I assure you.’

Avon put up his glass the better to observe Mademoiselle.

‘H’m! Is Paris so devoid of beauties, then?’

‘You do not admire her, no? It is a stately beauty, of course.’ He was silent for a while, watching the dancers; then he turned again to Avon. ‘A propos, Duc, is it true that you have acquired a most striking page? I have been out of Paris this fortnight, but I hear now that a red-haired boy goes everywhere in your wake.’

‘Quite true,’ said Justin. ‘I thought that the violent but fleeting interest of the world had died?’

‘No, oh no! It was Saint-Vire who spoke of the boy. It seems there is some mystery attached to him, is it not so? A nameless page!’

Justin turned his rings round, smiling faintly.

‘You may tell Saint-Vire, my friend, that there is no mystery. The page has a very good name.’

‘I may tell him?’ The Vicomte was puzzled. ‘But why, Duc? ’Twas but an idle conversation.’

‘Naturally.’ The enigmatical smile grew. ‘I should have said that you may tell him if he asks again.’

‘Certainly, but I do not suppose – Ah, there is Davenant! Mille pardons, Duc! ’ He minced away to meet Davenant.

Avon smothered a yawn in his scented handkerchief, and proceeded in his leisurely fashion to the card-room, where he remained for perhaps an hour. Then he sought out his hostess, complimented her in his soft voice, and departed.

Léon was half asleep downstairs, but he opened his eyes as the Duke’s footfall sounded, and jumped up. He assisted the Duke into his cloak, handed him his hat and gloves, and asked whether he was to summon a chair. But the Duke elected to walk, and further commanded his page to keep step beside him. They walked slowly down the street and had turned the corner before Avon spoke.

‘My child, when the Comte de Saint-Vire questioned you this evening, what did you answer?’

Léon gave a little skip of surprise, looking up at his master in frank wonderment.

‘How did you know, Monseigneur? I did not see you.’

‘Possibly not. No doubt you will answer my question in your own good time.’

‘Pardon, Monseigneur! M. le Comte asked me where I was born. I do not understand why he should wish to know.’

‘I suppose you told him so?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur,’ nodded Léon. He looked up, twinkling. ‘I thought you would not be angered if I spoke just a little rudely to that one?’ He saw Avon’s lips curl, and flushed in triumph at having made the Duke smile.

‘Very shrewd,’ remarked Justin. ‘And then you said – ?’

‘I said I did not know, Monseigneur. It is true.’

‘A comforting thought.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the page. ‘I do not like to tell lies.’

‘No?’ For once Avon seemed disposed to encourage his page to talk. Nothing loth, Léon continued.