“I beg your pardon?” Avon was a little startled.

“I—I only said that I loved you, Monseigneur.”

“I thought that I could not have heard aright. It is, of course, gratifying, but I do not think you have chosen too wisely. I am sure they will seek to reform you, below-stairs.”

The big eyes flashed.

“They dare not!”

The quizzing-glass was raised.

“Indeed? Are you so formidable?”

“I have a very bad temper, Monseigneur.”

“And you use it in my defence. It is most amusing. Do you fly out upon—my valet, for instance?”

Léon gave a tiny sniff of scorn.

“Oh, he is just a fool, Monseigneur!”

“Lamentably a fool. I have often remarked it.”

They had come to Avon’s hôtel by now, and the waiting lackeys held the door for them to pass through. In the hall Avon paused, while Léon stood expectantly before him.

“You may bring wine to the library,” said the Duke, and went in.

When Léon appeared with a heavy silver tray Justin was seated by the fire, his feet upon the hearth. Beneath drooping lids he watched his page pour out a glass of burgundy. Léon brought it to him.

“Thank you.” Avon smiled at Léon’s evident surprise at the unusual courtesy. “No doubt you imagined that I was sadly lacking in manners? You may sit down. At my feet.”

Léon promptly curled up on the rug, cross-legged, and sat looking at the Duke, rather bewildered, but palpably pleased.

Justin drank a little wine, still watching the page, and then set the glass down on a small table at his elbow.

“You find me a trifle unexpected? I desire to be entertained.”

Léon looked at him seriously.

“What shall I do, Monseigneur?”

“You may talk,” Avon said. “Your youthful views on life are most amusing. Pray continue.”

Léon laughed suddenly.

“I do not know what to say, Monseigneur! I do not think I have anything interesting to talk about. I chatter and chatter, they tell me, but it is all nothing. Madame Dubois lets me talk, but Walker—ah, Walker is dull and strict!”

“Who is Madame—er—Dubois?”

Léon opened his eyes very wide.

“But she is your housekeeper, Monseigneur!”

“Really? I have never seen her. Is she a stimulating auditor?”

“Monseigneur?”

“No matter. Tell me of your life in Anjou. Before Jean brought you to Paris.”

Léon settled himself more comfortably, and as the arm of Avon’s chair was near enough to be an inviting prop, he leaned against it, unaware that he was committing a breach of etiquette. Avon said nothing, but picked up his glass and started to sip the wine it held.

“In Anjou—it is all so very far away,” sighed Léon. “We lived in a little house, and there were horses and cows and pigs—oh, many animals! And my father did not like it that I would not touch the cows or the pigs. They were dirty, you understand. Maman said I should not work on the farm, but she made me care for the fowls. I did not mind that so much. There was one speckled hen, all mine. Jean stole it to tease me. Jean is like that, you know. Then there was M. le Curé. He lived a little way from our farm, in a tiny house next the church. And he was very, very good and kind. He gave me sweetmeats when I learned my lessons well, and sometimes he told stories—oh, wonderful stories of fairies and knights! I was only a baby then, but I can still remember them. And my father said it was not seemly that a priest should tell of things that are not, like fairies. I was not very fond of my father. He was like Jean, a little. . . . Then there was the plague, and people died. I went to the Curé, and—but Monseigneur knows all this.”

“Tell me of your life in Paris, then,” said Justin.

Léon nested his head against the arm of the chair, looking dreamily into the fire. The cluster of candles at Avon’s elbow played softly over the copper curls so that they seemed alive and on fire in the golden light. Léon’s delicate profile was turned towards the Duke, and he watched it inscrutably; each quiver of the fine lips, each flicker of the dark lashes. And so Léon told his tale, haltingly at first, and shyly, hesitating over the more sordid parts, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion until he seemed to forget to whom he spoke, and lost himself in his narration. Avon listened in silence, sometimes smiling at the quaint philosophy the boy unfolded, but more often expressionless, always watching Léon’s face with narrowed keen eyes. The hardships and endurances of those years in Paris were revealed more by what was left unsaid than by any complaint or direct allusion to the petty tyrannies and cruelties of Jean and his wife. At times the recital was that of a child, but every now and then a note of age and experience crept into the little deep voice, lending a strange whimsicality to the story, which seemed to invest the teller with a Puck-like quality of old and young wisdom. When at last the rambling tale was finished Léon moved slightly, and put up a timid hand to touch the Duke’s sleeve.

“And then you came, Monseigneur, and you brought me here, giving me everything. I shall never forget that.”

“You have not seen the worst of me yet, my friend,” answered Justin. “I am really not the hero you think me. When I bought you from your estimable brother it was not, believe me, from any desire to save you from bondage. I had a use for you. If it should chance that you are after all of no use to me I am quite likely to cast you forth. I say this that you may be warned.”

“If you send me away I will drown myself!” said Léon passionately. “When you are tired of me, Monseigneur, I will serve in your kitchen. But I will never leave you.”

“Oh, when I am tired of you I shall give you to Mr. Davenant!” Avon chuckled a little. “It should be amusing—Dear me, speak of angels——!”

Hugh came quietly in, but paused on the threshold, staring at the two by the fire.

“Quite a touching picture, eh, Hugh? Satanas in a new rôle.” He flicked Léon’s head with one careless finger. “Bed, my child.”

Léon rose at once, and reverently kissed the Duke’s hand. With a little bow to Davenant he went out.

Hugh waited until he had closed the door; then he strode forward to the fire, frowning. Resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, his other hand thrust deep into his pocket, he stood looking down at his friend with a good deal of severity in his glance.

“When are you going to end this folly?” he demanded.

Justin tilted his head back, returning the angry stare with one of amused cynicism.

“What ails you now, my good Hugh?”

“Seeing that child at your feet fills me with—disgust!”

“Yes, I thought that you seemed perturbed. It must tickle your sense of the ridiculous to observe me upon a pinnacle of heroism.”

“It sickens me! The child worshipping at your feet! I hope his admiration stings you! If it could make you realize your own unworthiness it were to some purpose!”

“Unhappily it does not. May I ask, my dear Hugh, why you take so great an interest in—a page?”

“It is his youth and innocence that command my pity.”

“Curiously enough he is by no means as innocent as you imagine.”

Davenant turned impatiently on his heel. He walked to the door, but as he opened it Avon spoke again.

“By the way, my dear, I am relieving you of my company to-morrow. Pray hold me excused from going with you to Lourdonne’s card-party.”

Hugh looked back.

“Oh? Where are you going?”

“I am going to Versailles. I feel that it is time I again paid homage to King Louis. I suppose it is useless to ask your company?”

“Quite, I thank you. I’ve no love for Versailles. Is Léon to go with you?”

“I have really not given the matter a thought. It seems probable. Unless you wish to take him to Lourdonne’s?”

Hugh left the room without a word.


CHAPTER V

His Grace of Avon Visits Versailles

The Duke’s light town coach, with its four grey horses, stood at the door of his house shortly before six on the following evening. The horses champed at their bits and tossed their beautiful heads in impatience, and the paved courtyard rang with the sound of their stamping. The postilions, liveried in black and gold, stood to their heads, for the Duke’s horses were not chosen for their docility.

In the hall Léon awaited his master, aglow with excitement. His Grace had issued certain orders earlier in the day; in accordance with them the page was dressed in black velvet, with real lace at his throat and wrists. He carried his tricorne beneath his arm, and in his other hand he held his master’s beribboned cane.

Avon came slowly down the stairs, and seeing him Léon drew in a quick breath of wonderment. The Duke was always magnificent, but to-night he had surpassed himself. His coat was made of cloth-of-gold, and on it the blue ribbon of the Garter lay, and three orders blazed in the light of the candles. Diamonds nestled in the lace of his cravat, and formed a solid bar above the riband that tied back his powdered hair. His shoes had jewelled heels and buckles, and below his knee he wore the Garter. Over his arm he carried a long black cloak, lined with gold, which he handed to Léon; and in his hand was his snuff-box, and scented handkerchief. He looked his page over in silence, and frowned at last, and turned to his valet.

“You may perhaps call to mind, my good Gaston, a golden chain studded with sapphires, presented to me by I forget whom. Also a sapphire clasp in the shape of a circle.”

“Y-yes, Monseigneur?”