“Fetch them.”

Gaston hurried away, presently to reappear with the required ornaments. Avon took the heavy sapphire chain and threw it over Léon’s head so that it lay across his breast, glowing with an inward fire, yet no brighter or more liquid than the boy’s eyes.

“Monseigneur!” gasped Léon. He put up his hand to feel the precious chain.

“Give me your hat. The clasp, Gaston.” Unhurriedly he fixed the diamond and sapphire circle on the upturned brim of the page’s hat. Then he gave it to Léon, and stepped back to observe the effect of his handiwork. “Yes, I wonder why I never thought of sapphires before? The door, my infant.”

Still dazed by his master’s unexpected action, Léon flew to open the door for him. Avon passed out, and climbed into the waiting coach. Léon looked up at him inquiringly, wondering whether he was to mount the box or enter with his master.

“Yes, you may come with me,” said Avon, answering the unspoken question. “Tell them to let go the horses.”

Léon delivered the order, and sprang hurriedly into the coach, for he knew the ways of Avon’s horses. The postilions mounted quickly, and in a trice the fretting horses leaped forward in their collars, and the coach swerved round towards the wrought-iron gates. Out they swept, and down the narrow street as swiftly as was possible. But the very narrowness of the street, the slippery cobble-stones, and the many twists and turns, made their progress necessarily slow, so that it was not until they came out on the road to Versailles that the speed and power of the horses could be demonstrated. Then they seemed to spring forward as one, and the coach bowled along at a furious pace, lurching a little over the worst bumps in the road, but so well sprung that for the most part the surface of the road might have been of glass for all the jolting or inconvenience that the occupants felt.

It was some time before Léon could find words to thank the Duke for his chain. He sat on the edge of the seat beside the Duke, fingering the polished stones in awe, and trying to squint down at his breast to see how the chain looked. At length he drew a deep breath and turned to gaze at his master, who lay back against the velvet cushions idly surveying the flying landscape.

“Monseigneur—this is—too precious for—me to wear,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Do you think so?” Avon regarded his page with an amused smile.

“I—I would rather not wear it, Monseigneur. Suppose—suppose I were to lose it?”

“I should then be compelled to buy you another. You may lose it an you will. It is yours.”

“Mine?” Léon twisted his fingers together. “Mine, Monseigneur? You cannot mean that! I—I have done nothing—I could do nothing to deserve such a present.”

“I suppose it had not occurred to you that I pay you no wage? Somewhere in the Bible—I don’t know where—it says that the labourer is worthy of his hire. A manifestly false observation for the most part, of course, but I choose to give you that chain as—er—hire.”

Léon pulled his hat off at that, and slipped the chain over his head, almost throwing it at the Duke. His eyes burned dark in a very pale face.

“I do not want payment! I would work myself to death for you, but payment—no! A thousand times no! You make me angry!”

“Evidently,” murmured his Grace. He picked up the chain, and began to play with it. “Now I had imagined you would be pleased.”

Léon brushed his hand across his eyes. His voice shook a little as he answered.

“How could you think that? I—I never looked for payment! I served you for love, and—and out of gratitude, and—you give me a chain! As if—as if you thought I should not continue to work well for you without payment!”

“If I had thought that I should not have given it to you,” yawned his Grace. “It may interest you to know that I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion by my pages.”

“I—I am sorry, Monseigneur,” whispered Léon. He turned his face away, biting his lips.

Avon watched him for a time in silence, but presently the mixture of forlornness and hurt dignity in his page drew a soft laugh from him, and he pulled one of the bright curls admonishingly.

“Do you expect me to apologize, my good child?”

Léon jerked his head away, and still stared out of the window.

“You are very haughty.” The mocking note in that gentle voice brought a wave of colour to Léon’s cheeks.

“I—you are not—kind!”

“So you have just discovered that? But I do not see why I should be called unkind for rewarding you.”

“You do not understand!” said Léon fiercely.

“I understand that you deem yourself insulted, infant. It is most entertaining.”

A tiny sniff, which was also a sob, answered him. Again he laughed, and this time laid a hand on Léon’s shoulder. Under the steely pressure Léon came to his knees, and stayed there, eyes downcast. The chain was flung over his head.

“My Léon, you will wear this because it is my pleasure.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Léon stiffly.

The Duke took the pointed chin in his hand, and forced it up.

“I wonder why I bear with you?” he said. “The chain is a gift. Are you satisfied?”

Léon pressed his chin down quickly to kiss the Duke’s wrist.

“Yes, Monseigneur. Thank you. Indeed I am sorry.”

“Then you may sit down again.”

Léon picked up his hat, gave a shaky laugh, and settled himself on the wide seat beside the Duke.

“I think I have a very bad temper,” he remarked naively. “M. le Curé would have made me do penance for it. He used to say that temper is a black sin. He talked to me about it—oh, often!”

“You do not appear to have profited unduly from his discourse,” replied Avon dryly.

“No, Monseigneur. But it is difficult, you understand. My temper is too quick for me. In a minute it is up, and I cannot stop it. But I am nearly always sorry afterwards. Shall I see the King to-night?”

“Quite possibly. You will follow me close. And do not stare.”

“No, Monseigneur, I will try not to. But that is difficult too.” He looked round confidingly as he spoke, but the Duke, to all outward appearance, was asleep. So Léon snuggled into one corner of the coach, and prepared to enjoy the drive in silence. Occasionally they passed other vehicles, all bound for Versailles, but not once did a coach pass them. The four English thoroughbreds swept by their French brethren time and again, and those within the coaches that were left behind leaned out to see who it was that drove at such a pace. The crest on the door of Avon’s coach, seen in the light of their own lanterns, told them surely enough, and the black and gold livery was unmistakable.

“One might have known,” said the Marquis de Chourvanne, drawing in his head. “Who else would drive at such a pace?”

“The English Duc?” asked his wife.

“Of course. Now I met him last night and he spoke no word of coming to the levée to-night.”

“Theodore de Ventour told me that no one knows from one moment to the next where the Duc will be.”

“Poseur!” snorted the Marquis, and put up the window.

The black and gold coach rolled on its way, scarcely checking till Versailles was reached. Then it slowed to enter the gates, and Léon sat forward to peer interestedly out into the gloom. Very little met his eyes, save when the coach passed under a lamp, until they entered the Cour Royale. Léon stared first this way and then that. The three-sided court was a blaze of light, shining from every unshuttered window that gave on to it, and further supplemented by great flambeaux. Coaches were streaming in a long line to the entrance, pausing there to allow their burdens to alight, then passing on to allow others to take their place.

Not until they finally drew up at the door did the Duke open his eyes. He looked out, dispassionately surveying the brilliant court, and yawned.

“I suppose I must alight,” he remarked, and waited for his footman to let down the steps. Léon climbed down first, and turned to assist his Grace. The Duke stepped slowly out, paused for a moment to look at the waiting coaches, and strolled past the palace lackeys with Léon at his heels, still holding the cloak and cane. Avon nodded to him to relinquish both to an expectant servant, and proceeded through the various antechambers to the Marble Court, where he was soon lost in the crowd. Léon followed as best he might while Avon greeted his friends. He had ample opportunity for taking stock of his surroundings, but the vast dimensions of the court, and its magnificence, dazzled him. After what seemed to be an interminable time, he found that they were no longer in the Marble Court, having moved slowly but surely to the left. They stood now before a great marble staircase, heavily encrusted with gold, up which a stream of people were wending their way. Avon fell in with a very much painted lady, and offered his arm. Together they mounted the broad stairs, crossed the hall at the top, and traversed various chambers until they came to the old Śil de Bśuf. Restraining an impulse to clutch the whaleboned skirts of Avon’s coat, Léon followed him as closely as he dared into a room beside which all the others through which he had passed faded to nothingness. Some one had said downstairs that the levée was being held in the Galerie des Glaces; Léon realized that this was it. It seemed to him that the huge gallery was even double its real size, filled with a myriad candles in scintillating chandeliers, peopled by thousands of silk-clad ladies and gentlemen, until he discovered that one entire side was covered by gigantic mirrors. Opposite were as many windows; he tried to count them but ceased presently in despair, for groups of people from time to time obscured his view. The room was stuffy, yet cold, covered by two great Aubusson carpets. There were very few chairs, he thought, for this multitude of people. Again the Duke was bowing to right and left, sometimes stopping to exchange a few words with a friend, but always working his way to one end of the gallery. As they neared the fireplace the crowd became less dense, and Léon was able to see more than the shoulders of the man in front of him. A stout gentleman in full court dress and many orders sat in a gilded chair by the fire, with various gentlemen standing about him, and a fair lady in a chair by his side. The wig of this gentleman was almost grotesque, so large were the rolling curls that adorned it. He wore pink satin with gold lacing; he was bejewelled and painted, with black patches on his florid face, and a diamond-hilted sword at his side.