“I thought it might be amusing to visit La Fournoise.”

Hugh made a grimace of distaste.

“I like actresses on the stage, Justin, but not off it. La Fournoise is too opulent.”

“So she is. You may go, Léon. Take my gloves.” He tossed them to the page, and his hat after them. “Come and play at piquet, Hugh.” He strolled away to the salon, yawning, and with a tiny shrug of his shoulders Hugh followed.

At the Comtesse de Marguéry’s ball that night Léon was left to await his master in the hall. He found a chair in a secluded corner, and settled down quite contentedly to watch the arrival of the guests. As it was the Duke’s custom to make his appearance as late as possible, he was not very hopeful of seeing many arrivals. He pulled a book out of his capacious pocket, and started to read.

For a while only the desultory conversation of the lackeys came to his ears, as they lounged against the stair-rail. Then suddenly they sprang to attention, and the idle chatter stopped. One flung open the door, while another stood ready to relieve this late-comer of his hat and cloak.

Léon raised his eyes from his book in time to see the Comte de Saint-Vire enter. He was becoming familiar with the notables of town, but even had this not been so Saint-Vire would have been hard to mistake. In these days of fastidiousness in all matters of dress the Comte was conspicuous for the carelessness with which he bore himself, and the slight disorder of his clothes. He was tall, and loose-limbed, with a heavy face, and beak-like nose. His mouth had a sullen curve, and his eyes a latent fierceness in their dark pupils. As usual his thick hair, rather grizzled now, was inadequately powdered, so that here and there a gleam of red showed. He wore many jewels, seemingly chosen at random, and with no regard to the colour of his coat.

His coat was revealed now, as he allowed the attendant lackey to take his long cloak. Purple velvet met Léon’s critical eye; a salmon-pink vest with embroidering in gold and silver; purple small clothes with white stockings loosely rolled above the knee, and red-heeled shoes with large jewelled buckles. The Comte shook out his ruffles, and put up one hand to straighten his tumbled cravat. As he did so he cast a quick glance about him, and saw the page. A frown came, and the heavy mouth pouted a little. The Comte gave the lace at his throat an impatient twist, and walked slowly towards the stairs. With his hand on the rail he paused and, half-turning, jerked his head as a sign that he wished to speak to Léon.

The page rose at once, and went to him.

“M’sieur?”

The spatulate fingers on the rail drummed methodically; Saint-Vire looked the page over broodingly, and for a moment did not speak.

“Your master is here?” he said at last, and the very lameness of the question seemed to indicate that it was but an excuse to call Léon to him.

“Yes, m’sieur.”

The Comte hesitated still, tapping his foot on the polished floor.

“You accompany him everywhere, I believe?”

“When Monseigneur wishes it, m’sieur.”

“From where do you come?” Then, as Léon looked puzzled, he changed the question, speaking sharply. “Where were you born?”

Léon let fall the long lashes over his eyes.

“In the country, m’sieur,” he said.

The Comte’s thick brows drew together.

“What part of the country?”

“I do not know, m’sieur.”

“You are strangely ignorant,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically.

“Yes, m’sieur.” Léon glanced up, chin firmly set. “I do not know why m’sieur should take so great an interest in me.”

“You are impertinent. I have no interest in peasant-children.” The Comte went on up the staircase, to the ballroom.

In a group by the door stood his Grace of Avon, clad in shades of blue, with his star on his breast, a cluster of blazing diamonds. Saint-Vire paused for a moment before he tapped that straight shoulder.

“If you please, m’sieur . . . !”

The Duke turned to see who accosted him, eyebrows raised. When his eyes alighted on Saint-Vire the haughty look faded, and he smiled, bowing with the exaggerated flourish that made a veiled insult of the courtesy.

“My dear Comte! I had almost begun to fear that I should not have the felicity of meeting you here to-night. I trust I see you well?”

“I thank you, yes.” Saint-Vire would have passed on, but again his Grace stood in the way.

“Strange to say, dear Comte, Florimond and I were but this instant speaking of you—your brother, rather. Where is the good Armand?”

“My brother, m’sieur, is this month in attendance at Versailles.”

“Ah? Quite a family gathering at Versailles,” smiled the Duke. “I trust the Vicomte, your so charming son, finds court life to his taste?”

The man who stood at the Duke’s elbow laughed a little at this, and addressed Saint-Vire.

“The Vicomte is quite an original, is he not, Henri?”

“Oh, the boy is young yet!” Saint-Vire answered. “He likes court well enough.”

Florimond de Chantourelle tittered amiably.

“He so amused me with his megrims and his sighs! He told me once that he liked best to be in the country, and that ’twas his ambition to have a farm under his own management at Saint-Vire!”

A shadow crossed the Comte’s face.

“A boy’s fancy. When at Saint-Vire he pines for Paris. Your pardon, messieurs—I see Madame de Marguéry.” He brushed past Avon as he spoke, making his way towards his hostess.

“Our friend is always so delightfully brusque,” remarked the Duke. “One wonders why he is tolerated.”

“He has moods,” answered Chantourelle. “Sometimes he is very agreeable, but he is not much liked. Now Armand is another matter. Of a gaiety——! You know that there is enmity between them?” He lowered his voice mysteriously, agog to relate the tale.

“The dear Comte is at pains to show us that it is so,” said Avon. “My esteemed friend!” He waved one languid hand to a lavishly powdered and painted individual. “Did I see you with Mademoiselle de Sonnebrune? Now that is a taste I find hard to cultivate.”

The painted gentleman paused, simpering.

“Oh, my dear Duc, she is the dernier cri! One must worship at her feet; it is de rigueur, I assure you.”

Avon put up his glass the better to observe Mademoiselle.

“H’m! Is Paris so devoid of beauties, then?”

“You do not admire her, no? It is a stately beauty, of course.” He was silent for a while, watching the dancers; then he turned again to Avon. “A propos, Duc, is it true that you have acquired a most striking page? I have been out of Paris this fortnight, but I hear now that a red-haired boy goes everywhere in your wake.”

“Quite true,” said Justin. “I thought that the violent but fleeting interest of the world had died?”

“No, oh no! It was Saint-Vire who spoke of the boy. It seems there is some mystery attached to him, is it not so? A nameless page!”

Justin turned his rings round, smiling faintly.

“You may tell Saint-Vire, my friend, that there is no mystery. The page has a very good name.”

“I may tell him?” The Vicomte was puzzled. “But why, Duc? ’Twas but an idle conversation.”

“Naturally.” The enigmatical smile grew. “I should have said that you may tell him if he asks again.”

“Certainly, but I do not suppose—Ah, there is Davenant! Mille pardons, Duc!” He minced away to meet Davenant.

Avon smothered a yawn in his scented handkerchief, and proceeded in his leisurely fashion to the card-room, where he remained for perhaps an hour. Then he sought out his hostess, complimented her in his soft voice, and departed.

Léon was half asleep downstairs, but he opened his eyes as the Duke’s footfall sounded, and jumped up. He assisted the Duke into his cloak, handed him his hat and gloves, and asked whether he was to summon a chair. But the Duke elected to walk, and further commanded his page to keep step beside him. They walked slowly down the street and had turned the corner before Avon spoke.

“My child, when the Comte de Saint-Vire questioned you this evening, what did you answer?”

Léon gave a little skip of surprise, looking up at his master in frank wonderment.

“How did you know, Monseigneur? I did not see you.”

“Possibly not. No doubt you will answer my question in your own good time.”

“Pardon, Monseigneur! M. le Comte asked me where I was born. I do not understand why he should wish to know.”

“I suppose you told him so?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” nodded Léon. He looked up, twinkling. “I thought you would not be angered if I spoke just a little rudely to that one?” He saw Avon’s lips curl, and flushed in triumph at having made the Duke smile.

“Very shrewd,” remarked Justin. “And then you said——?”

“I said I did not know, Monseigneur. It is true.”

“A comforting thought.”

“Yes,” agreed the page. “I do not like to tell lies.”

“No?” For once Avon seemed disposed to encourage his page to talk. Nothing loth, Léon continued.

“No, Monseigneur. Of course it is sometimes necessary, but I do not like it. Once or twice I lied to Jean because I was afraid to tell the truth, but that is cowardly, n’est-ce pas? I think it is not so wicked to lie to your enemy, but one could not lie—to a friend, or—or to somebody one loved. That would be a black sin, would it not?”

“As I cannot remember ever having loved anyone, I am hardly fitted to answer that question, my child.”

Léon considered him gravely.

“No one?” he asked. “Me, I do not love often, but when I do it is for ever. I loved my mother, and the Curé, and—and I love you, Monseigneur.”