These Old Shades (9 page)

The man shrank.

“Ah, Monseigneur! Indeed, indeed I did it for the best! It was impossible to have a girl of that age here, and there was work to be done. It was better to dress her as a boy. My wife—Monseigneur will understand—women are jealous, milor’. She would not have a girl here. Indeed, indeed, if the boy—girl—has said aught against us, he lies! I could have turned him out into the streets, for he had no claim on me. Instead, I kept him, clothed him, fed him, and if he says he was ill-treated it is a lie! He is a wicked brat with a vicious temper. You could not blame me for hiding his sex, Monseigneur! It was for his sake, I swear!

He liked it well enough. Never did he demand to be a girl!”

“No doubt he had forgotten,” said Avon dryly. “Seven years a boy . . . Now——” He held up a louis. “Mayhap this will refresh your memory. What do you know of Léon?”

The man looked at him in a puzzled way.

“I—do not understand, Monseigneur. What do I know of him?”

Avon leaned forward slightly, and his voice became menacing.

“It will not serve you to feign ignorance, Bonnard. I am very powerful.”

Bonnard’s knees shook.

“Indeed, Monseigneur, I do not understand! I cannot tell you what I do not know! Is—is aught amiss with Léon?”

“You never thought that he was, perhaps, not your parents’ child?”

Bonnard’s jaw dropped.

“Not—Why, Monseigneur, what do you mean? Not my parents’ child. But——”

Avon sat back.

“Does the name Saint-Vire convey aught to you?”

“Saint-Vire . . . Saint-Vire ... no. Stay, the name has a familiar ring! But—Saint-Vire—I do not know.” He shook his head hopelessly. “It may be that I have heard my father speak the name, but I cannot remember.”

“A pity. And when your parents died was there no document found belonging to them which concerned Léon?”

“If there was, milor’, I never saw it. There were old accounts and letters—I cannot read, Monseigneur, but I have them all.” He looked at the louis, and licked his lips. “If Monseigneur would care to see for himself? They are here, in that chest.”

Avon nodded.

“Yes. All of them.”

Bonnard went to the chest and opened it. After some search he found a sheaf of papers, which he brought to the Duke. Avon went through them quickly. For the most part they were, as Bonnard had said, farm accounts, with one or two letters amongst them. But at the bottom of the pile was a folded slip of paper, addressed to Jean Bonnard, on the estate of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire, in Champagne. It was only a letter from some friend, or relation, and it held nothing of importance, save the address. The Duke held it up.

“This I will take.” He tossed the louis to Bonnard. “If you have lied to me, or deceived me, you will be sorry. At present I am willing to believe that you know nothing.”

“I have spoken naught but the truth, Monseigneur, I swear!”

“Let us hope that it is so. One thing, however—” he produced another louis— “you can tell me. Where shall I find the curé at Bassincourt, and what is his name?”

“M. de Beaupré, Monseigneur, but he may be dead now, for aught I know. He was an old man when we left Bassincourt. He used to live in a little house beside the church. You cannot mistake it.”

Avon threw the louis into his eager hand.

“Very well.” He went to the door. “Be advised by me, my friend, and strive to forget that you ever had a sister. For you had not, and it might be that if you remembered a Léonie there would be a reckoning to be paid for your treatment of her. I shall not forget you, I assure you.” He swept out, and through the taproom to his coach.

That afternoon, when Avon sat in the library of his house, writing to his sister, a footman came to him and announced that M. de Faugenac wished to see him.

The Duke raised his head.

“M. de Faugenac? Admit him.”

In a few minutes’ time there entered a tubby little gentleman with whom his Grace was but slightly acquainted. Avon rose as he came in and bowed.

“Monsieur!”

“Monsieur!” De Faugenac returned the bow. “Pardon the unseemly hour of this intrusion, I beg!”

“Not at all,” answered the Duke. “Fetch wine, Jules. Pray be seated, m’sieur.”

“No wine for me, I thank you! The gout, you understand. A sad affliction!”

“Very,” agreed his Grace. “Is there something I can do for you, I wonder?”

De Faugenac stretched his hands to the fire.

“Yes, I come on business, m’sieur. Bah, the ugly word! M’sieur will pardon the interruption, I am sure! A splendid fire, Duc!”

Avon bowed. He had seated himself on the arm of a chair, and was looking at his visitor in mild surprise. He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to De Faugenac, who helped himself to a liberal pinch and sneezed violently.

“Exquisite!” he said enthusiastically. “Ah, the business! M’sieur, you will think I come upon a strange errand, but I have a wife!” He beamed at Avon, and nodded several times.

“I felicitate you, m’sieur,” said Avon gravely.

“Yes, yes! A wife! It will explain all.”

“It always does,” answered his Grace.

“Aha, the pleasantry!” De Faugenac broke into delighted laughter. “We know, we husbands, we know!”

“As I am not a husband I may be excused my ignorance. I am sure you are about to enlighten me.” His Grace was becoming bored, for he had remembered that De Faugenac was an impoverished gentleman usually to be found at the heels of Saint-Vire.

“Indeed yes. Yes indeed. My wife. The explanation! She has seen your page, m’sieur!”

“Wonderful!” said the Duke. “We progress.”

“We——? You said progress? We? Progress?”

“It seems I erred,” Avon sighed. “We remain at the same place.”

De Faugenac was puzzled for a moment, but all at once his face broke into fresh smiles.

“Another pleasantry! Yes, yes, I see!”

“I doubt it,” murmured Avon. “You were saying, m’sieur, that your wife had seen my page.”

De Faugenac clasped his hands to his breast.

“She is ravished! She is envious! She pines!”

“Dear me!”

“She gives me no peace!”

“They never do.”

“Aha! No, never, never! But you do not take my meaning, m’sieur, you do not take my meaning!”

“But then, that is hardly my fault,” said Avon wearily. “We have arrived at the point at which your wife gives you no peace.”

“That is the matter in a nutshell! She eats out her heart for your so lovely, your so enchanting, your so elegant——”

Avon held up his hand.

“M’sieur, my policy has ever been to eschew married women.”

De Faugenac stared.

“But—but—what do you mean, m’sieur? Is it another pleasantry? My wife pines for your page.”

“How very disappointing!”

“Your page, your so elegant page! She plagues me day and night to come to you. And I am here! Behold me!”

“I have beheld you for the past twenty minutes, m’sieur,” said Avon rather tartly.

“She begs me to come to you, to ask you if you would part with your page! She cannot rest until she has him to hold her train for her, to carry her gloves and fan. She cannot sleep at night until she knows that he is hers!”

“It seems that madame is destined to spend many sleepless nights,” said Avon.

“Ah no, m’sieur! Consider! It is said that you bought your page. Now, is it not truly said that what may be bought may be sold?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes, yes! Possibly! M’sieur, I am as a slave to my wife.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “I am as the dirt beneath her feet.” He clasped his hands. “I must bestow on her all that she desires, or die!”

“Pray make use of my sword,” invited his Grace. “It is in the corner behind you.”

“Ah no! M’sieur cannot mean that he refuses! It is impossible! M’sieur, you may name your own price and I will give it!”

Avon stood up. He picked up a silver hand-bell, and rang it.

“M’sieur,” he said silkily, “you may bear my compliments to the Comte de Saint-Vire, and tell him that Léon, my page, is not for sale. Jules, the door.”

De Faugenac rose, very crestfallen.

“M’sieur?”

Avon bowed.

“M’sieur. You mistake! You do not understand!”

“Believe me, I understand perfectly.”

“Ah, but you have no soul thus to thwart a lady’s wish!”

“My misfortune entirely, m’sieur. I am desolate that you are unable to stay longer. M’sieur, your very obedient!” So he bowed De Faugenac out.

No sooner had the door closed behind the little man than it opened again to admit Davenant.

“Who in the name of all that’s marvellous was that?” he asked.

“A creature of no account,” replied his Grace. “He wished to buy Léon. An impertinence. I am going into the country, Hugh.”

“Into the country? Why?”

“I forget. No doubt I shall call the reason to mind some time. Bear with me, my dear; I am still moderately sane.”

Hugh sat down.

“You never were sane. ‘Pon rep, you’re a casual host!”

“Ah, Hugh, I crave your pardon on my knees! I encroach on your good nature.”

“Damme, you’re very polite! Is Léon to accompany you?”

“No, I leave him in your charge, Hugh, and I counsel you to have a care for him. While I am away he will not leave the house.”

“I thought there was some mystery. Is he in danger?”

“N-no. I can hardly say. But keep him close, and say naught, my dear. I should not be pleased if harm came to him. Incredible as it may seem, I am becoming fond of the child. I must be entering upon my dotage.”

“We are all fond of him,” said Hugh. “But he is an imp.”

“Undoubtedly. Do not allow him to tease you; he is an impertinent child. Unhappily he cannot be brought to realize that fact. And here he is.”

Léon came in and smiled confidingly as he met the Duke’s eyes.

“Monseigneur, you told me to be ready to accompany you out at three, and it is now half-past the hour,” he said.

Hugh’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter; he turned away, coughing.

“It would appear that I owe you an apology,” said his Grace. “Pray hold me excused for once. I am not going out after all. Come here.”

Léon approached.

“Yes, Monseigneur?”

“I am going into the country for a few days, my infant, from to-morrow. Oblige me by looking on M. Davenant as master in mine absence, and do not, on any account, leave the house until I return.”

“Oh!” Léon’s face fell. “Am I not to come with you?”

“I am denying myself that honour. Please do not argue with me. That is all that I wished to say.”

Léon turned away and went with lagging steps to the door. A small sniff escaped him, and at the sound of it Avon smiled.

“Infant, the end of the world has not come. I shall return, I hope, within the week.”

“I wish—oh, I wish that you would take me!”

“That is hardly polite to M. Davenant. I do not think he is likely to ill-use you. I am not going out to-night, by the way.”

Léon came back.

“You—you won’t go to-morrow without saying goodbye, will you, Monseigneur?”

“You shall hand me into my coach,” promised the Duke, and gave him his hand to kiss.

CHAPTER VII

Satan and Priest at One

The village of Bassincourt, which lay some six or seven miles to the west of Saumur, in Anjou, was a neat and compact place whose white houses were for the most part gathered about its hub, a square market-place paved by cobblestones as large as a man’s fist. On the north the square was flanked by various houses of the more well-to-do inhabitants; on the west by smaller cottages, and by a lane that led into the square at right-angles to this side, and which stretched out into the open country, winding this way and that to touch each of the three farms that lay to the west of Bassincourt. On the south side was the small grey church, within whose square tower a cracked bell was wont to ring out its summons to the villagers. The church stood back from the market-place with its burial ground all about it and beyond, on one side, the Curb’s modest house, squatting in its own garden, and seeming to smile across the square in gentle rulership.

The east side of the square was close-packed by shops, a blacksmith’s yard, and a white inn, over whose open door hung a gay green shield, with a painting of the Rising Sun thereon. The sign swung to and fro with every wind that blew, creaking a little if the gale were fierce, but more often sighing only on its rusted chains.

On this particular day of November the square was a-hum with voices, and echoing occasionally to a child’s shrill laugh, or to the stamp of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Old Farmer Mauvoisin had driven into Bassincourt with three pigs for sale in his cart, and had drawn up at the inn to exchange the time of day with the landlord, and to quaff a tankard of thin French ale while his pigs grunted and snuffled behind him. Close by, gathered about a stall where La Mère Gognard was selling vegetables, was a group of women, alternately haggling and conversing. Several girls in stuff gowns kilted high above their ankles, their feet in clumsy wooden sabots, stood chattering beside the ancient porch which led into the graveyard; in the centre of the square, near to the fountain, some sheep were herded, while a party of possible buyers picked their way amongst them, prodding and inspecting at will. From the blacksmith’s yard came the ring of hammer on anvil, mingled with spasmodic snatches of song.