“Your page, m’sieur?” he asked. “You were saying that you had not met me, I think? You see, I do not love Paris, and when my father permits I stay in Champagne, at Saint-Vire.” He smiled, casting a rueful glance at his mother. “My parents do not like me to be in the country, m’sieur. I am a great trial to them.”

“The country . . .” The Duke unfobbed his snuff-box. “It is pleasing to the eye, no doubt, but it is irrevocably associated in my mind with cows and pigs—even sheep. Necessary but distressing evils.”

“Evils, m’sieur? Why——”

“Henri, the Duc is not interested in such matters!” interposed the Comtesse. “One—does not talk of—of cows and pigs at a levée.” She turned to Avon, smiling mechanically. “The boy has an absurd whim, m’sieur: he would like to be a farmer! I tell him that he would very soon tire of it.” She started to fan herself, laughing.

“Yet another necessary evil,” drawled his Grace. “Farmers. You take snuff, Vicomte?”

The Vicomte helped himself to a pinch.

“I thank you, m’sieur. You have come from Paris? Perhaps you have seen my father?”

“I had that felicity yesterday,” replied Avon. “At a ball. The Comte remains the same as ever, madame.” The sneer was thinly veiled.

Madame flushed scarlet.

“I trust you found my husband in good health, m’sieur?”

“Excellent, I believe. May I be the bearer of any message you may wish to send, madame?”

“I thank you, m’sieur, but I am writing to him—tomorrow,” she answered. “Henri, will you fetch me some negus? Ah, madame!” She beckoned to a lady who stood in a group before them.

The Duke rose.

“I see my good Armand yonder. Pray give me leave, madame. The Comte will be overjoyed to hear that I found you well—and your son.” He bowed, and left her, walking away into the dwindling crowd. He sent Léon to await him in the Śil de Bśuf, and remained for perhaps an hour in the gallery.

When he joined Léon in the Śil de Bśuf he found him almost asleep, but making valiant efforts to keep himself awake. He followed the Duke downstairs, and was sent to retrieve Avon’s cloak and cane. By the time he had succeeded in obtaining these articles the black-and-gold coach was at the door.

Avon swung the cloak over his shoulders and sauntered out. He and Léon entered the luxurious vehicle and with a sigh of content Léon nestled back against the soft cushions.

“It is all very wonderful,” he remarked, “but very bewildering. Do you mind if I fall asleep, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” said his Grace politely. “I trust you were satisfied with the King’s appearance?”

“Oh yes, he is just like the coins!” said Léon drowsily. “Do you suppose he likes to live in such a great palace, Monseigneur?”

“I have never asked him,” replied the Duke. “Versailles does not please you?”

“It is so very large,” explained the page. “I feared I had lost you.”

“What an alarming thought!” remarked his Grace.

“Yes, but you came after all.” The deep little voice was getting sleepier and sleepier. “It was all glass and candles, and ladies, and—Bonne nuit, Monseigneur,” he sighed. “I am sorry, but everything is muddled, and I am so very tired. I do not think I snore when I sleep, but if I do, then of course you must wake me. And I might slip, but I hope I shall not. I am right in the corner, so perhaps I shall remain here. But if I slip on to the floor——”

“Then I suppose I am to pick you up?” said Avon sweetly.

“Yes,” agreed Léon, already on the borderland of sleep. “I won’t talk any more now. Monseigneur does not mind?”

“Pray do not consider me in the slightest,” answered Avon. “I am here merely to accommodate you. If I disturb you I beg you will not hesitate to mention it. I will then ride on the box.”

A very sleepy chuckle greeted this sally, and a small hand tucked itself into the Duke’s.

“I wanted to hold your coat because I thought I should lose you,” murmured Léon.

“I presume that is why you are holding my hand now?” inquired his Grace. “You are perhaps afraid lest I should hide myself under the seat?”

“That is silly,” replied Léon. “Very silly. Bonne nuit, Monseigneur.”

“Bonne nuit, mon enfant. You will not lose me—or I you—very easily, I think.”

There was no answer, but Léon’s head sank against his Grace’s shoulder, and remained there.

“I am undoubtedly a fool,” remarked the Duke. He pushed a cushion under Léon’s relaxed arm. “But if I wake him he will begin to talk again. What a pity Hugh is not here to see! . . . I beg your pardon, my infant?”

But Léon had muttered only in his sleep. “If you are going to converse in your sleep I shall be compelled to take strong measures of prevention,” said his Grace. He leaned his head back against the padded seat, and, smiling, closed his eyes.

CHAPTER VI

His Grace of Avon Refuses to Sell his Page

When Davenant met his Grace at breakfast next morning he found that the Duke was in excellent spirits. He was more than usually urbane, and whenever his eye alighted on Léon he smiled, as if at some pleasant thought.

“Was the levée well attended?” asked Hugh, attacking a red sirloin. Unlike the Duke, who never ate more than a roll for breakfast, he made a hearty meal of eggs and bacon, and cold meats, washed down by English ale, especially imported by the Duke for his delectation.

The Duke poured himself out a second cup of coffee.

“Crowded, my dear Hugh. It was in honour of some birthday, or saint’s day, or something of the sort.”

“Did you see Armand?” Hugh reached out his hand for the mustard.

“I saw Armand, and the Comtesse, and the Vicomte, and everybody I least wished to meet.”

“One always does. I suppose La Pompadour was delighted to see you?”

“Oppressively so. The King sat on his throne and smiled benignantly. Just like a coin.”

Hugh suspended his fork in mid-air.

“Just like a what?”

“A coin. Léon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.”

Hugh looked inquiringly at the page.

“What is the joke, Léon? Do you know?”

Léon shook his head.

“No, m’sieur.”

“Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,” said his Grace. “Léon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.”

Léon blushed.

“I—I am afraid I was asleep, Monseigneur.”

“Very nearly so. Do you always sleep as one dead?”

“N-no. That is—I do not know, Monseigneur. I was put to bed in all my clothes.”

“Yes, I did that. Having wasted ten minutes in endeavouring to rouse you, I thought that the simplest plan would be to carry you up to bed. You are not all joy, my infant.”

“I am very sorry, Monseigneur; you should have made me wake up.”

“If you would tell me how that may be done I shall do so on the next occasion. Hugh, if you must eat beef, pray do not brandish it in my face at this hour.”

Davenant, whose fork was still suspended midway between his plate and mouth, laughed, and went on eating.

Justin began to sort the letters that lay beside his plate. Some he threw away, others he slipped into his pocket. One had come from England, and spread over several sheets. He opened them and started to decipher the scrawl.

“From Fanny,” he said. “Rupert is still at large, it seems. At Mistress Carsby’s feet. When I saw him last he was madly in love with Julia Falkner. From one extreme to another.” He turned over the page. “Now, how interesting! Dear Edward has given Fanny a chocolate-coloured coach with pale blue cushions. The wheat is picked out in blue.” He held the sheet at arm’s length. “It seems strange, but no doubt Fanny is right. I have not been in England for such a time——Ah, I beg her pardon! You will be relieved to hear, my dear Hugh, that the wheat in England still grows as ever it did. The wheels are picked out in blue. Ballentor has fought another duel, and Fanny won fifty guineas at play the other night. John is in the country because town air does not suit him. Now, is John her lap-dog or her parrot?”

“Her son,” said Davenant.

“Is he? Yes, I believe you are right. What next? If I can find her a French cook she vows she will love me more than ever. Léon, tell Walker to find me a French cook.—She wishes she could visit me as I suggested some time ago—how rash of me!—but it is quite impossible as she cannot leave her darling Edward alone, and she fears he would not accompany her to my hovel. Hovel. Not very polite of Fanny. I must remember to speak to her about it.”

“Hôtel,” suggested Hugh.

“Once more you are right. Hôtel it is. The rest of this enthralling communication concerns Fanny’s toilettes. I will reserve it. Oh, have you finished?”

“Finished and gone,” answered Davenant, rising. “I am riding out with D’Anvau. I shall see you later.” He went out.

Avon leaned his arms on the table, resting his chin on the back of his clasped hands.

“Léon, where does your remarkable brother live?”

Léon started, and fell back a pace.

“Mon—Monseigneur?”

“Where is his inn?”

Suddenly Léon fell on his knees beside Avon’s chair, and clutched the Duke’s sleeve with desperate fingers. His face was upturned, pale and agonized, the great eyes swimming in tears.

“Oh no, no, no, Monseigneur! You would not—Oh, please not that! I—I will never go to sleep again! Please, please forgive me! Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

Avon looked down at him with upraised brows. Léon had pressed his forehead against his master’s arm, and was shaking with suppressed sobs.