Avon turned his head to speak to Léon, and smiled faintly at the look of astonishment on the page’s face.

“You have seen the King. Await me now over there.” He waved his hand towards an embrasure, and Léon started to retrace his steps, feeling very much as though his one support and guide in this vast place had deserted him.

The Duke paid homage to King Louis the Fifteenth, and to the pale Queen beside him, stayed for a few minutes to speak to the Dauphin, and proceeded in a leisurely fashion to where stood Armand de Saint-Vire, in attendance on the King.

Armand clasped his hands in warm welcome.

“Mon Dieu, but it is refreshing to see your face, Justin! I did not know even that you were in Paris. Since when have you returned, mon cher?”

“Nearly two months ago. Really, this is most fatiguing. I am thirsty already, but I suppose it is quite impossible to obtain any burgundy?”

Armand’s eyes sparkled in sympathy.

“In the Salle de Guerre!” he whispered. “We will go together. No, wait, mon ami, La Pompadour has seen you. Ah, she smiles! You have all the luck, Justin.”

“I could find another name for it,” said Avon, but he went to the King’s mistress, and bowed exceeding low as he kissed her hand. He remained at her side until the Comte de Stainville came to claim her attention, and then made good his escape to the Salle de Guerre. There he found Armand, with one or two others, partaking of light French wines, and sugared sweetmeats.

Someone handed the Duke a glass of burgundy; one of the footmen presented a plate of cakes, which he waved aside.

“A welcome interlude,” he remarked. “A ta santé, Joinlisse! Your servant, Tourdeville. A word in your ear, Armand.” He took Saint-Vire aside to where a couch stood. They sat down, and for a time talked of Paris, court-life, and the trials of a gentleman-in-waiting. Avon allowed his friend to ramble on, but at the first pause in Armand’s rather amusing discourse, he turned the subject.

“I must make my bow to your charming sister-in-law,” he said. “I trust she is present to-night?”

Armand’s round good-humoured face became marred all at once by a gloomy scowl.

“Oh yes. Seated behind the Queen, in an obscure corner. If you are épris in that direction, Justin, your taste has deteriorated.” He snorted disdainfully. “Curds and whey! How Henri could have chosen her passes my comprehension!”

“I never credited the worthy Henri with much sense,” answered the Duke. “Why is he in Paris and not here?”

“Is he in Paris? He was in Champagne. He fell into slight disfavour here.” Armand grinned. “That damnable temper, you understand. He left Madame, and that clod-hopping son.”

Avon put up his eyeglass.

“Clod-hopping?”

“What, have you not seen him, then? A boorish cub, Justin, with the soul of a farmer. And that is the boy who is to be Comte de Saint-Vire! Mon Dieu, but there must be bad blood in Marie! My beautiful nephew did not get his boorishness from us. Well, I never thought that Marie was of the real nobility.”

The Duke looked down at his wine.

“I must certainly see the young Henri,” he said. “They tell me that he is not very like his father or his mother.”

“Not a whit. He has black hair, a bad nose, and square hands. It is a judgment on Henri! First he weds a puling, sighing woman with no charm and less beauty, and then he produces—that!”

“One would almost infer that you are not enamoured of your nephew,” murmured his Grace.

“No, I am not! I tell you, Justin, if it had been a true Saint-Vire I could have borne it better. But this—this half-witted bumpkin! It would enrage a saint!” He set down his glass on a small table with a force that nearly smashed the frail vessel. “You may say that I am a fool to brood over it, Alastair, but I cannot forget! To spite me Henri marries this Marie de Lespinasse, who presents him with a son after three fruitless years! First it was a still-born child, and then, when I had begun to think myself safe, she astonishes us all with a boy! Heaven knows what I have done to deserve it!”

“She astonished you with a boy. I think he was born in Champagne, was he not?”

“Ay, at Saint-Vire. Plague take him. I never set eyes on the brat until three months later when they brought him to Paris. Then I was well-nigh sick with disgust at Henri’s fatuous triumph.”

“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 much 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 Lachčre.”

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 recognized 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.

“If m’sieur will be seated?”

The Vicomte looked him over in surprise. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder, the one slim and delicate, with eyes that matched the sapphires about his neck; and glowing curls swept back from a white brow beneath whose skin the veins showed faintly blue. The other was thickset and dark, with square hands and short neck; powdered, perfumed, and patched, dressed in rich silks and velvet, but in spite of all rather uncouth and awkward. Avon heard Madame draw in her breath swiftly, and his smile grew. Then Léon went back to his original place, and the Vicomte sat down.