Hugh gathered up his cards.
‘How should I know, Lavoulère? Doubtless he has a reason. And – forgive me – I am weary of the subject.’
‘He is so – so arresting,’ apologised Lavoulère. ‘The page. Red hair – oh, but of a radiance! – and blue, blue eyes. Or are they purple-black? The little oval face, and the patrician nose – ! Justin is wonderful. You do not think so, Henri?’
‘Oh, without doubt!’ Saint-Vire answered. ‘He should have been an actor. Quant à moi, I would humbly suggest that enough notice has been taken of the Duc and his page. Your play, Marchérand.’
At Avon’s table one of the gamblers yawned, pushing back his chair.
‘Mille pardons, but I thirst! I go in search of refreshment.’
The game had come to an end, and Justin was toying with his dice-box. He glanced up now, and waved to Château-Mornay to keep his seat.
‘My page will fetch wine, Louis. He is not only to be gazed upon. Léon!’
Léon slipped from behind Avon’s chair, from where he had been an intent spectator of the game.
‘Monseigneur?’
‘Canary and burgundy, at once.’
Léon withdrew, and nervously threaded his way between the tables to the buffet. He returned presently with a tray, which he presented to Justin, on one knee. Justin pointed silently to where Château-Mornay sat, and blushing for his mistake, Léon went to him, and again presented the tray. When he had served each one in turn he looked inquiringly up at his master.
‘Go to M. Davenant, and ask him if he has commands for you,’ said Justin languidly. ‘Will you hazard a throw with me, Cornalle?’
‘Ay, what you will.’ Cornalle pulled a dice-box from his pocket. ‘Two ponies? Will you throw?’
Justin cast his dice carelessly on the table, and turned his head to watch Léon. The page was at Davenant’s elbow. Davenant looked up.
‘Well, Léon? What is it?’
‘Monseigneur sent me, m’sieur, to see if you had commands for me.’
Saint-Vire shot him a quick look, leaning back in his chair, one hand lying lightly clenched on the table.
‘Thank you, no,’ Hugh replied. ‘Unless – Saint-Vire, will you drink with me? And you, messieurs?’
‘I thank you, Davenant,’ said the Comte. ‘You have no thirst, Lavoulère?’
‘At the moment, no. Oh, if you all must drink, then so will I!’
‘Léon, will you fetch burgundy, please?’
‘Yes, m’sieur,’ bowed Léon. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He walked away again, looking about him appreciatively. When he returned he made use of the lesson just learned at Avon’s table, and presented the silver tray first to Saint-Vire.
The Comte turned in his chair, and picking up the decanter, slowly poured out a glassful, and handed it to Davenant. He poured out another, his eyes on Léon’s face. Conscious of the steady regard, Léon looked up, and met Saint-Vire’s eyes frankly. The Comte held the decanter poised, but poured no more for a long minute.
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Léon, m’sieur.’
Saint-Vire smiled.
‘No more?’
The curly head was shaken.
‘Je ne sais plus rien, m’sieur.’
‘So ignorant?’ Saint-Vire went on with his work. As he picked up the last glass he spoke again. ‘Methinks you have not been long with M. le Duc?’
‘No, m’sieur. As m’sieur says.’ Léon rose, and looked across at Davenant. ‘M’sieur?’
‘That is all, Léon, thank you.’
‘So you have found a use for him, Hugh? Was I not wise to bring him? Your servant, Lavoulère.’
The soft voice startled Saint-Vire, and his hand shook, so that a little liquid was spilled from his glass. Avon stood at his side, quizzing-glass raised.
‘A very prince of pages,’ smiled Lavoulère. ‘How is your luck to-night, Justin?’
‘Wearisome,’ sighed the Duke. ‘For a week it has been impossible to lose. From the dreamy expression on Hugh’s face I infer that it is not so with him.’ He went to stand behind Hugh’s chair, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Belike, my dear Hugh, I shall bring you better luck.’
‘I have never known you do that yet,’ retorted Davenant. He set down his emptied glass. ‘Shall we play again?’
‘By all means,’ nodded Saint-Vire. ‘You and I are in a sad way, Davenant.’
‘And shall soon be in a sadder,’ remarked Hugh, shuffling the pack. ‘Remind me, Lavoulère, that in future I only play with you as my partner.’ He dealt the cards round, and as he did so, spoke quietly to the Duke, in English. ‘Send the child downstairs, Alastair. You have no need of him.’
‘I am as wax in your hands,’ replied his Grace. ‘He has served his turn. Léon, you will await me in the hall.’ He stretched out his hand to pick up Hugh’s cards. ‘Dear me!’ He laid them down again, and watched the play in silence for a while.
At the end of the round Lavoulère spoke to him.
‘Where is your brother, Alastair? The so charming youth! He is quite, quite mad!’
‘Lamentably so. Rupert, for all I know, is either languishing in an English sponging house, or living upon my hapless brother-in-law’s bounty.’
‘That is Miladi Fanny’s husband, yes? Edward Marling, n’est-ce pas? You have only the one brother and sister?’
‘They more than suffice me,’ said his Grace.
Lavoulère laughed.
‘Voyons, it amuses me, your family! Is there no love between you at all?’
‘Very little.’
‘And yet I have heard that you reared them, those two!’
‘I have no recollection of it,’ said Justin.
‘Come now, Justin, when your mother died you kept a hand on the reins!’ expostulated Davenant.
‘But lightly, my dear. Enough only to make both a little afraid of me; no more.’
‘Lady Fanny is very fond of you.’
‘Yes, I believe she is occasionally,’ agreed Justin calmly.
‘Ah, Miladi Fanny!’ Lavoulère kissed his finger-tips. ‘Behold! How she is ravissante !’
‘Also behold that Hugh wins,’ drawled his Grace. ‘My compliments, Davenant.’ He shifted his position slightly, so that he faced Saint-Vire. ‘Pray how is Madame, your charming wife, dear Comte?’
‘Madame is well, I thank you, m’sieur.’
‘And the Vicomte, your so enchanting son?’
‘Also.’
‘Not here to-night, I think?’ Avon raised his glass, and through it surveyed the room. ‘I am desolated. No doubt you deem him too young for these delights? He is but nineteen, I believe?’
Saint-Vire laid his cards face downwards on the table, and looked angrily up at that handsome, enigmatic countenance.
‘You are most interested in my son, M. le Duc!’
The hazel eyes widened and narrowed again.
‘But how could it be otherwise?’ asked the Duke politely.
Saint-Vire picked up his cards again.
‘He is at Versailles, with his mother,’ he said curtly. ‘My play, Lavoulère?’
Three
Which Tells of a Debt Unpaid
When Davenant returned to the house in the Rue St-Honoré, he found that although Léon had long since come in, and was now in bed, his Grace was still out. Guessing that Avon had gone from Vassaud’s to visit his latest light o’ love, Hugh went into the library to await him. Soon the Duke sauntered in, poured himself out a glass of canary wine, and came to the fire.
‘A most instructive evening. I hope my very dear friend Saint-Vire recovered from the sorrow my early departure must have occasioned him?’
‘I think so,’ smiled Hugh. He rested his head back against the cushions of his chair, and looked at the Duke with rather a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Why do you so hate one another, Justin?’
The straight brows rose.
‘Hate? I? My dear Hugh!’
�
��Very well, if you like it better I will say why does Saint-Vire hate you?’
‘It is a very old tale, Hugh; almost a forgotten tale. The – er – contretemps between the amiable Comte and myself took place in the days before I had the advantage of possessing your friendship, you see.’
‘So there was a contretemps? I suppose you behaved abominably?’
‘What I admire in you, my dear, is your charming candour,’ remarked his Grace. ‘But in this instance I did not behave abominably. Amazing, is it not?’
‘What happened?’
‘Very little. It was really quite trivial. So trivial that nearly every one has forgotten it.’
‘It was a woman, of course?’
‘Even so. No less a personage than the present Duchesse de Belcour.’
‘Duchesse de Belcour?’ Hugh sat upright in surprise. ‘Saint-Vire’s sister. That red-haired shrew?’
‘Yes, that red-haired shrew. As far as I remember, I admired her – er – shrewishness – twenty years ago. She was really very lovely.’
‘Twenty years ago! So long! Justin, surely you did not –’
‘I wanted to wed her,’ said Avon pensively. ‘Being young and foolish. It seems incredible now; yet so it was. I applied for permission to woo her – yes, is it not amusing? – to her worthy father.’ He paused, looking into the fire. ‘I was – let me see! Twenty – a little more; I forget. My father and her father had not been the best of friends. Again a woman; I believe my sire won the encounter. I suppose it rankled. And on my side there were, even at that age, my dear, some trifling intrigues.’ His shoulders shook. ‘There always are – in my family. The old Comte refused to give me leave to woo his daughter. Not altogether surprising, you think? No, I did not elope with her. Instead I received a visit from Saint-Vire. He was then Vicomte de Valmé. That visit was almost humiliating.’ The lines about Justin’s mouth were grim. ‘Al-most hu-miliating.’
‘For you?’
Avon smiled.
‘For me. The noble Henri came to my lodging with a large and heavy whip.’ He looked down as Hugh gasped, and the smile grew. ‘No, my dear, I was not thrashed. To resume: Henri was enraged; there was a something between us, maybe a woman – I forget. He was very much enraged. It should afford me some consolation, that. I had dared to raise my profligate eyes to the daughter of that most austere family of Saint-Vire. Have you ever noticed the austerity? It lies in the fact that the Saint-Vire amours are carried on in secrecy. Mine, as you know, are quite open. You perceive the nice distinction? Bon! ’ Avon had seated himself on the arm of a chair, legs crossed. He started to twirl his wine glass, holding the narrow stem between thumb and finger. ‘My licentious – I quote his very words, Hugh – behaviour; my entire lack of morals; my soiled reputation; my vicious mind; my – but I forget the rest. It was epic – all these made my perfectly honourable proposal an insult. I was to understand that I was as the dirt beneath the Saint-Vire feet. There was much more, but at length the noble Henri came to his peroration. For my impudence I was to receive a thrashing at his hands. I! Alastair of Avon!’
‘But Justin, he must have been mad! It was not as though you were low-born! The Alastairs –’
‘Precisely. He was mad. These red-haired people, my dear Hugh! And there was something between us. No doubt I had at some time or other behaved abominably to him. There followed, as you may imagine, a short argument. It did not take me long to come to my peroration. In short, I had the pleasure of cutting his face open with his own whip. Out came his sword.’ Avon stretched out his arm, and the muscles rippled beneath the satin of his coat sleeve. ‘I was young, but I knew a little of the art of the duello, even in those days. I pinked him so well that he had to be carried home in my coach, by my lackeys. When he had departed I gave myself up to thought. You see, my dear, I was, or fancied that I was, very much in love with that – er – red-haired shrew. The noble Henri had told me that his sister had deemed herself insulted by my court. It occurred to me that perhaps the lady had mistaken my suit for a casual intrigue. I visited the Hôtel Saint-Vire to make known mine intentions. I was received not by her father, but by the noble Henri, reclining upon a couch. There were also some friends of his. I forget. Before them, before his lackeys, he informed me that he stood in – er – loco parentis, and that his sister’s hand was denied me. Further that if I so much as dared to accost her his servants would whip me from her presence.’
‘Good God!’ cried Hugh.
‘So I thought. I retired. What would you? I could not touch the man; I had wellnigh killed him already. When next I appeared in public I found that my visit to the Hôtel Saint-Vire had become the talk of Paris. I was compelled to leave France for a time. Happily another scandal arose which cast mine into the shade, so Paris was once more open to me. It is an old, old story, Hugh, but I have not forgotten.’
‘And he?’
‘He has not forgotten either. He was half mad at the time, but he would not apologise when he came to his senses; I don’t think I expected him to do so. We meet now as distant acquaintances; we are polite – oh, scrupulously! – but he knows that I am still waiting.’
‘Waiting…?’
Justin walked to the table and set down his glass.
‘For an opportunity to pay that debt in full,’ he said softly.
‘Vengeance?’ Hugh leaned forward. ‘I thought you disliked melodrama, my friend?’
‘I do; but I have a veritable passion for – justice.’
‘You’ve nourished thoughts of – vengeance – for twenty years?’
‘My dear Hugh, if you imagine that the lust for vengeance has been my dominating emotion for twenty years, permit me to correct the illusion.’
‘Has it not grown cold?’ Hugh asked, disregarding.
‘Very cold, my dear, but none the less dangerous.’
‘And all this time not one opportunity has presented itself ?’
‘You see, I wish it to be thorough,’ apologised the Duke.
‘Are you nearer success now than you were – twenty years ago?’
A soundless laugh shook Justin.
‘We shall see. Rest assured that when it comes it will be – so!’ Very slowly he clenched his hand on his snuff-box, and opened his fingers to show the thin gold crushed.
Hugh gave a little shiver.
‘My God, Justin, do you know just how vile you can be?’
‘Naturally: Do they not call me – Satanas?’ The mocking smile came; the eyes glittered.
‘I hope to heaven Saint-Vire never puts himself in your power! It seems they were right who named you Satanas!’
‘Quite right, my poor Hugh.’
‘Does Saint-Vire’s brother know?’
‘Armand? No one knows save you, and I, and Saint-Vire. Armand may guess, of course.’
‘And yet you and he are friends!’
‘Oh, Armand’s hatred for the noble Henri is more violent than ever mine could be.’
In spite of himself Hugh smiled.
‘It is a race betwixt you, then?’
‘Not a whit. I should have said that Armand’s is a sullen detestation. Unlike me, he is content to hate.’
‘He, I suppose, would sell his soul for Saint-Vire’s shoes.’
‘And Saint-Vire,’ said Avon gently, ‘would sell his soul to keep those shoes from Armand.’
‘Yes, one knows that. It was common gossip at the time that that was his reason for marrying. One could not accuse him of loving his wife!’
‘No,’ said Justin, and chuckled as though at some secret thought.
‘Well,’ Hugh went on, ‘Armand’s hopes of the title were very surely dashed when Madame presented Saint-Vire with a son!’
‘Precisely,’ said Justin.
‘A triumph for Saint-Vire, that!’
‘A triumph indeed,’ suavely agreed his Grace.
Four
His Grace of Avon Becomes Further Acquainted with his Page
For Léon the days passed
swiftly, each one teeming with some new excitement. Never in his life had he seen such sights as now met his eyes. He was dazzled by the new life spread before him; from living in a humble, dirty tavern, he was transported suddenly into gorgeous surroundings, fed with strange foods, clad in fine clothes, and taken into the midst of aristocratic Paris. All at once life seemed to consist of silks and diamonds, bright lights, and awe-inspiring figures. Ladies, whose fingers were covered with rings, and whose costly brocades held an elusive perfume, would stop to smile at him sometimes; great gentlemen with powdered wigs and high heels would flip his head with careless fingers as they passed. Even Monseigneur sometimes spoke to him.
Fashionable Paris grew accustomed to see him long before he became accustomed to his new existence. After a while people ceased to stare at him when he came in Avon’s wake, but it was some time before he ceased to gaze on all that met his eyes, in wondering appreciation.
To the amazement of Avon’s household, he still persisted in his worship of the Duke. Nothing could shake him from his standpoint, and if one of the lackeys vented his outraged feelings below-stairs in a tirade against Avon, Léon was up in arms at once, blind rage taking possession of him. Since the Duke had ordained that none should lay violent hands on his page, save at his express command, the lackeys curbed their tongues in Léon’s presence, for he was over-ready with his dagger, and they dare not disobey the Duke’s orders. Gaston, the valet, felt that this hot partisanship was sadly wrong; that any should defend the Duke struck forcibly at his sense of propriety, and more than once he tried to convince the page that it was the duty of any self-respecting menial to loathe the Duke.
‘Mon petit,’ he said firmly, ‘it is ridiculous. It is unthinkable. Même, it is outrageous. It is against all custom. The Duke, he is not human. Some call him Satanas, and mon Dieu, they have reason!’
‘I have never seen Satan,’ answered Léon, from a large chair where he sat with his feet tucked under him. ‘But I do not think that Monseigneur is like him.’ He reflected. ‘But if he is like the devil no doubt I should like the devil very much. My brother says I am a child of the devil.’
Georgette Heyer - [Alastair 01] Page 3