These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘Well, I must see him,’ repeated the Duke. ‘How old is he?’

‘I neither know nor care. He is nineteen,’ snapped Armand. He watched the Duke rise, and smiled in spite of himself. ‘Where’s the good of growling, eh? It’s the fault of this damned life I lead, Justin. It’s all very well for you who come on a visit to this place. You think it very fine and splendid, but you’ve not seen the apartments they give to the gentlemen-in-waiting. Airless holes, Justin, I give you my word! Well, let’s go back into the gallery.’

They went out, and paused for a moment just within the gallery.

‘Yes, there she is,’ said Armand. ‘With Julie de Cornalle over there. Why do you want her?’

Justin smiled.

‘You see, mon cher,’ he explained sweetly, ‘it will afford me such a satisfaction to be able to tell the dear Henri that I spent a pleasant half-hour with his fascinating wife.’

Armand chuckled.

‘Oh, if that is your will – ! You so love the dear Henri, do you not?’

‘But of course,’ smiled the Duke. He waited until Armand had melted into the crowd before he beckoned to Léon, who, in obedience to his commands, still stood in the embrasure. The page came to him, slipping between two groups of chattering ladies, and followed him across the gallery to the couch on which sat Madame de Saint-Vire.

Avon swept the lady a magnificent leg.

‘My dear Comtesse!’ He took her thin hand, and holding it with the tips of his fingers just brushed it with his lips. ‘I had hardly dared hope for this joy.’

She inclined her head, but out of the corner of her eye she was watching Léon. Mademoiselle de Cornalle had moved away, and Avon seated himself in her place. Léon went to stand behind him.

‘Believe me, Comtesse,’ continued the Duke, ‘I was desolated not to see you in Paris. How is your delightful son?’

She answered nervously, and under pretence of arranging her skirt changed her position on the couch, so that she almost faced Avon, and thus was able to see the page behind him. Her eyes fluttered up to the boy’s face, and widened for an instant before they fell. She became aware of Avon’s smiling scrutiny, and coloured deeply, unfurling her fan with fingers that trembled slightly.

‘My – my son? Oh, Henri is well, I thank you! You see him over there, m’sieur, with Mademoiselle de Lachère.’

Justin’s gaze followed the direction of her pointing fan. He beheld a short, rather stocky youth, dressed in the height of fashion and seated mumchance beside a sprightly lady who was with difficulty restraining a yawn. The Vicomte de Valmé was very dark, with brown eyes heavy lidded now from weariness and boredom. His mouth was a trifle wide, but well-curved; his nose, so far from following the Saint-Vire aquiline trend, showed a tendency to turn up.

‘Ah, yes!’ said Justin. ‘I should hardly have recognised him, madame. One looks usually for red hair and blue eyes in a Saint-Vire, does not one?’ He laughed gently.

‘My son wears a wig,’ answered Madame rather quickly. Again she sent a fleeting glance towards Léon. Her mouth twitched slightly, uncontrollably. ‘He – he has black hair. It often happens so, I believe.’

‘Ah, no doubt,’ agreed Justin. ‘You are looking at my page, madame? A curious combination, is it not? – his copper hair and black brows.’

‘I? No, why should I – ?’ With an effort she collected her wits. ‘It is an unusual combination, as you say. Who – who is the child?’

‘I have no idea,’ said his Grace blandly. ‘I found him one evening in Paris, and bought him for the sum of a jewel. Quite a pretty boy, is he not? He attracts no little attention, I assure you.’

‘Yes – I suppose so. It seems hard to believe that – that hair is– is natural.’ Her eyes challenged him, but again he laughed.

‘It must seem quite incredible,’ he said. ‘It is so seldom that one sees that – particular – combination.’ Then, as the Comtesse stirred restlessly, opening and shutting her

fan, he deftly turned the subject. ‘Ah, behold the Vicomte!’ he remarked. ‘His fair companion has deserted him.’

The Comtesse looked across at her son, who was standing irresolute a few paces away. He saw his mother’s eyes upon him, and came to her, heavy-footed and deliberate, glancing curiously at the Duke.

‘My – my son, m’sieur. Henri, the Duc of Avon.’

The Vicomte bowed, but although his bow was of just the required depth, and the wave of his hat in exact accordance with the decrees of fashion, the whole courtesy lacked spontaneity and grace. He bowed as one who had been laboriously coached in the art. Polish was lacking, and in its place was a faint suggestion of clumsiness.

‘Your servant, m’sieur.’ The voice was pleasant enough if not enthusiastic.

‘My dear Vicomte!’ Avon flourished his handkerchief. ‘I am charmed to make your acquaintance. I remember you when you were still with your tutor, but of late years I have been denied the pleasure of meeting you. Léon, a chair for m’sieur.’

The page slipped from his place behind the couch, and went to fetch a low chair which stood against the wall, some few paces away. He set it down for the Vicomte, bowing as he did so.