These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘I have spoken naught but the truth, Monseigneur, I swear!’

‘Let us hope that it is so. One thing, however’ – he produced another louis – ‘you can tell me. Where shall I find the Curé at Bassincourt, and what is his name?’

‘M. de Beaupré, Monseigneur, but he may be dead now, for aught I know. He was an old man when we left Bassincourt. He used to live in a little house beside the church. You cannot mistake it.’

Avon threw the louis into his eager hand.

‘Very well.’ He went to the door. ‘Be advised by me, my friend, and strive to forget that you ever had a sister. For you had not, and it might be that if you remember a Léonie there would be a reckoning to be paid for your treatment of her. I shall not forget you, I assure you.’ He swept out, and through the taproom to his coach.

That afternoon, when Avon sat in the library of his house, writing to his sister, a footman came to him and announced that M. de Faugenac wished to see him.

The Duke raised his head.

‘M. de Faugenac? Admit him.’

In a few minutes’ time there entered a tubby little gentleman with whom his Grace was but slightly acquainted. Avon rose as he came in and bowed.

‘Monsieur!’

‘Monsieur!’ De Faugenac returned the bow. ‘Pardon the unseemly hour of this intrusion, I beg!’

‘Not at all,’ answered the Duke. ‘Fetch wine, Jules. Pray be seated, m’sieur.’

‘No wine for me, I thank you! The gout you understand. A sad affliction!’

‘Very,’ agreed his Grace. ‘Is there something I can do for you, I wonder?’

De Faugenac stretched his hands to the fire.

‘Yes, I come on business, m’sieur. Bah, the ugly word! M’sieur will pardon the interruption, I am sure! A splendid fire, Duc!’

Avon bowed. He had seated himself on the arm of a chair, and was looking at his visitor in mild surprise. He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to De Faugenac, who helped himself to a liberal pinch and sneezed violently.

‘Exquisite!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Ah, the business! M’sieur, you will think I come upon a strange errand, but I have a wife!’ He beamed at Avon, and nodded several times.

‘I felicitate you, m’sieur,’ said Avon gravely.

‘Yes, yes! A wife! It will explain all.’

‘It always does,’ answered his Grace.

‘Aha, the pleasantry!’ De Faugenac broke into delighted laughter. ‘We know, we husbands, we know!’

‘As I am not a husband I may be excused my ignorance. I am sure you are about to enlighten me.’ His Grace was becoming bored, for he had remembered that De Faugenac was an impoverished gentleman usually to be found at the heels of Saint-Vire.

‘Indeed yes. Yes, indeed. My wife. The explanation! She has seen your page, m’sieur!’

‘Wonderful!’ said the Duke. ‘We progress.’

‘We – ? You said progress? We? Progress?’

‘It seems I erred,’ Avon sighed. ‘We remain at the same place.’

De Faugenac was puzzled for a moment, but all at once his face broke into fresh smiles.

‘Another pleasantry! Yes, yes, I see!’

‘I doubt it,’ murmured Avon. ‘You were saying, m’sieur, that your wife had seen my page.’