These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘I have already told you that it is not so. Strive to have a little sense. And answer my question.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur. I – I am sorry. Jean – Jean lives in the Rue Sainte-Marie. There is only one inn – the Crossbow. Oh, what are you going to do, Monseigneur?’

‘Nothing at all alarming, I assure you. Dry your tears.’

Léon hunted through his various pockets.

‘I – I have lost my handkerchief,’ he apologised.

‘Yes, you are very young, are you not?’ commented his Grace. ‘I suppose I must give you mine.’

Léon took the fine lace handkerchief which the Duke held out, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and gave it back again. The Duke received it gingerly, and eyed the crumpled ball through his quizzing glass.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are nothing if not thorough. I think you had better keep it now.’

Léon pocketed it cheerfully.

‘Yes, Monseigneur,’ he said. ‘Now I am happy again.’

‘I am relieved,’ said the Duke, and rose. ‘I shall not want you this morning.’ He strolled out, and in half an hour’s time was in his coach, driving towards the Rue Sainte-Marie.

The street was very narrow, with refuse in the kennels on either side of the road; the houses were mostly tumbledown, projecting outward from the first storey. Hardly one had all its windows intact; there were cracked and missing panes on all sides, and where curtains hung they were ragged and dirty. Half a dozen partly clothed children were playing in the road, and scattered to right and left as the coach drove up, standing on the footway, and watched the progress of this fine equipage with astonished eyes, and many startled comments.

The tavern of the Crossbow was situated midway down the squalid street, and from its open door issued a smell of cooking, and of cabbage water, thrown carelessly out into the kennel. The coach drew up outside the inn, and one of the footmen sprang down to open the door for his Grace to alight. His countenance was quite impassive, and only by the lofty tilt of his chin did he betray his emotions.

His Grace came slowly down from the coach, his handkerchief held to his nose. He picked his way across the filth and garbage to the inn door, and entered what appeared to be the taproom and the kitchen. A greasy woman was bending over the fire at one end, a cooking-pot in her hand, and behind the counter opposite the door stood the man who had sold Léon to the Duke a month ago.

He gaped when he saw Avon enter, and for a moment did not recognise him. He came forward cringingly, rubbing his hands together, and desired to know Monseigneur’s pleasure.

‘I think you know me,’ said his Grace gently.

Bonnard stared, and suddenly his eyes dilated, and his full-blooded countenance turned a sickly grey.

‘Léon! Milor’ – I –’

‘Precisely. I want two words with you in private.’

The man looked at him fearfully, passing his tongue between his lips.

‘I swear by God –’

‘Thank you. In private I said.’

The woman, who had watched the encounter open-mouthed, came forward now, arms akimbo. Her soiled dress was in disorder, cut low across her scraggy bosom, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

‘Now, if the little viper has said aught against us,’ she began shrilly, but was cut short by Avon’s lifted hand.

‘My good woman, I have no desire to speak with you. You may return to your stew-pots. Bonnard, in private!’

Charlotte would have interrupted again, but her husband hustled her back to the stove, whispering to her to hold her tongue.

‘Yes, milor’, indeed yes! If milor’ will follow me?’ He pushed open the crazy, rat-eaten door at the other end of the room, and ushered his Grace into the parlour. The room was scantily furnished, but it was not so dirty as the taproom. Avon went to the table that stood by the window, flicked the dust from its surface with a corner of his cloak, and sat down on the edge of the rickety structure.

‘Now, my friend. That you may not misunderstand me, or seek to evade me, let me tell you that I am the Duke of Avon. Yes, I thought that you would be surprised. You realise, I am sure, that it would be very dangerous to play with me. I am going to ask you one or two questions about my page. I wish to know first where he was born.’

‘I – I think in the north, Monseigneur. In – Champagne, but I am not sure. Our – our parents never spoke of that time, and I can scarce remember – I –’

‘No? It seems strange that you do not know why your worthy parents went so suddenly to live in Anjou.’