‘How could you think that? I – I never looked for payment! I served you for love, and – and out of gratitude, and – you give me a chain! As if – as if you thought I should not continue to work well for you without payment!’
‘If I had thought that I should not have given it to you,’ yawned his Grace. ‘It may interest you to know that I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion by my pages.’
‘I – I am sorry, Monseigneur,’ whispered Léon. He turned his face away, biting his lips.
Avon watched him for a time in silence, but presently the mixture of forlornness and hurt dignity in his page drew a soft laugh from him, and he pulled one of the bright curls admonishingly.
‘Do you expect me to apologise, my good child?’
Léon jerked his head away, and still stared out of the window.
‘You are very haughty.’ The mocking note in that gentle voice brought a wave of colour to Léon’s cheeks.
‘I – you are not – kind!’
‘So you have just discovered that? But I do not see why I should be called unkind for rewarding you.’
‘You do not understand!’ said Léon fiercely.
‘I understand that you deem yourself insulted, infant. It is most entertaining.’
A tiny sniff, which was also a sob, answered him. Again he laughed, and this time laid a hand on Léon’s shoulder. Under the steely pressure Léon came to his knees, and stayed there, eyes downcast. The chain was flung over his head.
‘My Léon, you will wear this because it is my pleasure.’
‘Yes, Monseigneur,’ said Léon stiffly.
The Duke took the pointed chin in his hand, and forced it up.
‘I wonder why I bear with you?’ he said. ‘The chain is a gift. Are you satisfied?’
Léon pressed his chin down quickly to kiss the Duke’s wrist.
‘Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you. Indeed I am sorry.’
‘Then you may sit down again.’
Léon picked up his hat, gave a shaky laugh, and settled himself on the wide seat beside the Duke.
‘I think I have a very bad temper,’ he remarked naïvely. ‘M. le Curé would have made me do penance for it. He used to say that temper is a black sin. He talked to me about it – oh, often!’
‘You do not appear to have profited unduly from his discourse,’ replied Avon dryly.
‘No, Monseigneur. But it is difficult, you understand. My temper is too quick for me. In a minute it is up, and I cannot stop it. But I am nearly always sorry afterwards. Shall I see the King to-night?’
‘Quite possibly. You will follow me close. And do not stare.’
‘No, Monseigneur. I will try not to. But that is difficult too.’ He looked round confidently as he spoke, but the Duke, to all outward appearance, was asleep. So Léon snuggled into one corner of the coach, and prepared to enjoy the drive in silence. Occasionally they passed other vehicles, all bound for Versailles, but not once did a coach pass them. The four English thoroughbreds swept by their French brethren time and again, and those within the coaches that were left behind leaned out to see who it was that drove at such a pace. The crest on the door of Avon’s coach, seen in the light of their own lanterns, told them surely enough, and the black-and-gold livery was unmistakable.
‘One might have known,’ said the Marquis de Chourvanne, drawing in his head. ‘Who else would drive at such a pace?’
‘The English Duc?’ asked his wife.
‘Of course. Now I met him last night and he spoke no word of coming to the levée to-night.’
‘Theodore de Ventour told me that no one knows from one moment to the next where the Duc will be.’
‘Poseur! ’ snorted the Marquis, and put up the window.