These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

Léon opened his eyes very wide.

‘But she is your housekeeper, Monseigneur!’

‘Really? I have never seen her. Is she a stimulating auditor?’

‘Monseigneur?’

‘No matter. Tell me of your life in Anjou. Before Jean brought you to Paris.’

Léon settled himself more comfortably, and as the arm of Avon’s chair was near enough to be an inviting prop, he leaned against it, unaware that he was committing a breach of etiquette. Avon said nothing, but picked up his glass and started to sip the wine it held.

‘In Anjou – it is all so very far away,’ sighed Léon. ‘We lived in a little house, and there were horses and cows and pigs – oh, many animals! And my father did not like it that I would not touch the cows or the pigs. They were dirty, you understand. Maman said I should not work on the farm, but she made me care for the fowls. I did not mind that so much. There was one speckled hen, all mine. Jean stole it to tease me. Jean is like that, you know. Then there was M. le Curé. He lived a little way from our farm, in a tiny house next the church. And he was very, very good and kind. He gave me sweetmeats when I learned my lessons well, and sometimes he told stories – oh, wonderful stories of fairies and knights! I was only a baby then, but I can still remember them. And my father said it was not seemly that a priest should tell of things that are not, like fairies. I was not very fond of my father. He was like Jean, a little… Then there was the plague, and people died. I went to the Curé, and – but Monseigneur knows all this.’

‘Tell me of your life in Paris, then,’ said Justin.

Léon nested his head against the arm of the chair, looking dreamily into the fire. The cluster of candles at Avon’s elbow played softly over the copper curls so that they seemed alive and on fire in the golden light. Léon’s delicate profile was turned towards the Duke, and he watched it inscrutably; each quiver of the fine lips, each flicker of the dark lashes. And so Léon told his tale, haltingly at first, and shyly, hesitating over the more sordid parts, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion until he seemed to forget to whom he spoke, and lost himself in his narration. Avon listened in silence, sometimes smiling at the quaint philosophy the boy unfolded, but more often expressionless, always watching Léon’s face with narrowed keen eyes. The hardships and endurances of those years in Paris were revealed more by what was left unsaid than by any complaint or direct allusion to the petty tyrannies and cruelties of Jean and his wife. At times the recital was that of a child, but every now and then a note of age and experience crept into the little deep voice, lending a strange whimsicality to the story, which seemed to invest the teller with a Puck-like quality of old and young wisdom. When at last the rambling tale was finished Léon moved slightly, and put up a timid hand to touch the Duke’s sleeve.

‘And then you came, Monseigneur, and you brought me here, giving me everything. I shall never forget that.’

‘You have not seen the worst of me yet, my friend,’ answered Justin. ‘I am really not the hero you think of me. When I bought you from your estimable brother it was not, believe me, from any desire to save you from bondage. I had a use for you. If it should chance that you are after all of no use to me I am quite likely to cast you forth. I say this that you may be warned.’

‘If you send me away I will drown myself !’ said Léon passionately. ‘When you are tired of me, Monseigneur, I will serve in your kitchen. But I will never leave you.’

‘Oh, when I am tired of you I shall give you to M. Davenant!’ Avon chuckled a little. ‘It should be amusing – Dear me, speak of angels – !’

Hugh came quietly in, but paused on the threshold, staring at the two by the fire.

‘Quite a touching picture, eh, Hugh? Satanas in a new role.’ He flicked Léon’s head with one careless finger. ‘Bed, my child.’

Léon rose at once, and reverently kissed the Duke’s hand. With a little bow to Davenant he went out.

Hugh waited until he had closed the door; then he strode forward to the fire, frowning. Resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, his other hand thrust deep into his pocket, he stood looking down at his friend with a good deal of severity in his glance.

‘When are you going to end this folly?’ he demanded.

Justin tilted his head back, returning the angry stare with one of amused cynicism.

‘What ails you now, my good Hugh?’

‘Seeing that child at your feet fills me with – disgust!’

‘Yes, I thought that you seemed perturbed. It must tickle your sense of the ridiculous to observe me upon a pinnacle of heroism.’

‘It sickens me! That child worshipping at your feet! I hope his admiration stings you! If it could make you realise your own unworthiness it were to some purpose!’

‘Unhappily it does not. May I ask, my dear Hugh, why you take so great an interest in – a page?’

‘It is his youth and innocence that command my pity.’

‘Curiously enough he is by no means as innocent as you imagine.’

Davenant turned impatiently on his heel. He walked to the door, but as he opened it Avon spoke again.

‘By the way, my dear, I am relieving you of my company to-morrow. Pray hold me excused from going with you to Lourdonne’s card-party.’

Hugh looked back.

‘Oh? Where are you going?’