The Duke paid homage to King Louis the Fifteenth, and to the pale Queen beside him, stayed for a few minutes to speak to the Dauphin, and proceeded in a leisurely fashion to where stood Armand de Saint-Vire, in attendance on the King.
Armand clasped his hands in warm welcome.
‘Mon Dieu, but it is refreshing to see your face, Justin! I did not know even that you were in Paris. Since when have you returned, mon cher ?’
‘Nearly two months ago. Really, this is most fatiguing. I am thirsty already, but I suppose it is quite impossible to obtain any burgundy?’
Armand’s eyes sparkled in sympathy.
‘In the Salle de Guerre!’ he whispered. ‘We will go together. No, wait, mon ami, La Pompadour has seen you. Ah, she smiles! You have all the luck, Justin.’
‘I could find another name for it,’ said Avon, but he went to the King’s mistress, and bowed exceedingly low as he kissed her hand. He remained at her side until the Comte de Stainville came to claim her attention, and then made good his escape to the Salle de Guerre. There he found Armand, with one or two others, partaking of light French wines, and sugared sweetmeats.
Someone handed the Duke a glass of burgundy; one of the footmen presented a plate of cakes, which he waved aside.
‘A welcome interlude,’ he remarked. ‘A ta santé, Joinlisse! Your servant, Tourdeville. A word in your ear, Armand.’ He took Saint-Vire aside to where a couch stood. They sat down, and for a time talked of Paris, court-life, and the trials of a gentleman-in-waiting. Avon allowed his friend to ramble on, but at the first pause in Armand’s rather amusing discourse, he turned the subject.
‘I must make my bow to your charming sister-in-law,’ he said. ‘I trust she is present to-night?’
Armand’s round good-humoured face became marred all at once by a gloomy scowl.
‘Oh yes. Seated behind the Queen, in an obscure corner. If you are épris in that direction, Justin, your taste has deteriorated.’ He snorted disdainfully. ‘Curds and whey! How Henri could have chosen her passes my comprehension!’
‘I never credited the worthy Henri with much sense,’ answered the Duke. ‘Why is he in Paris and not here?’
‘Is he in Paris? He was in Champagne. He fell into slight disfavour here.’ Armand grinned. ‘That damnable temper, you understand. He left Madame, and that clodhopping son.’
Avon put up his eyeglass.
‘Clodhopping?’
‘What, have you not seen him, then? A boorish cub, Justin, with the soul of a farmer. And that is the boy who is to be Comte de Saint-Vire! Mon Dieu, but there must be bad blood in Marie! My beautiful nephew did not get his boorishness from us. Well, I never thought that Marie was of the real nobility.’
The Duke looked down at his wine.
‘I must certainly see the young Henri,’ he said. ‘They tell me that he is not very like his father or his mother.’
‘Not a whit. He has black hair, a bad nose, and square hands. It is a judgment on Henri! First he weds a puling, sighing woman with no charm and less beauty, and then he produces – that!’
‘One would almost infer that you are not enamoured of your nephew,’ murmured his Grace.
‘No, I am not! I tell you, Justin, if it had been a true Saint-Vire I could have borne it better. But this – this half-witted bumpkin! It would enrage a saint!’ He set down his glass on a small table with a force that nearly smashed the frail vessel. ‘You may say that I am a fool to brood over it, Alastair, but I cannot forget! To spite me Henri marries this Marie de Lespinasse, who presents him with a son after three fruitless years! First it was a still-born child, and then, when I had begun to think myself safe, she astonishes us all with a boy! Heaven knows what I have done to deserve it!’
‘She astonished you with a boy. I think he was born in Champagne, was he not?’
‘Ay, at Saint-Vire. Plague take him. I never set eyes on the brat until three months later when they brought him to Paris. Then I was well-nigh sick with disgust at Henri’s fatuous triumph.’
‘Well, I must see him,’ repeated the Duke. ‘How old is he?’
‘I neither know nor care. He is nineteen,’ snapped Armand. He watched the Duke rise, and smiled in spite of himself. ‘Where’s the good of growling, eh? It’s the fault of this damned life I lead, Justin. It’s all very well for you who come on a visit to this place. You think it very fine and splendid, but you’ve not seen the apartments they give to the gentlemen-in-waiting. Airless holes, Justin, I give you my word! Well, let’s go back into the gallery.’
They went out, and paused for a moment just within the gallery.
‘Yes, there she is,’ said Armand. ‘With Julie de Cornalle over there. Why do you want her?’
Justin smiled.
‘You see, mon cher,’ he explained sweetly, ‘it will afford me such a satisfaction to be able to tell the dear Henri that I spent a pleasant half-hour with his fascinating wife.’
Armand chuckled.
‘Oh, if that is your will – ! You so love the dear Henri, do you not?’
‘But of course,’ smiled the Duke. He waited until Armand had melted into the crowd before he beckoned to Léon, who, in obedience to his commands, still stood in the embrasure. The page came to him, slipping between two groups of chattering ladies, and followed him across the gallery to the couch on which sat Madame de Saint-Vire.
Avon swept the lady a magnificent leg.
‘My dear Comtesse!’ He took her thin hand, and holding it with the tips of his fingers just brushed it with his lips. ‘I had hardly dared hope for this joy.’
She inclined her head, but out of the corner of her eye she was watching Léon. Mademoiselle de Cornalle had moved away, and Avon seated himself in her place. Léon went to stand behind him.
‘Believe me, Comtesse,’ continued the Duke, ‘I was desolated not to see you in Paris. How is your delightful son?’
She answered nervously, and under pretence of arranging her skirt changed her position on the couch, so that she almost faced Avon, and thus was able to see the page behind him. Her eyes fluttered up to the boy’s face, and widened for an instant before they fell. She became aware of Avon’s smiling scrutiny, and coloured deeply, unfurling her fan with fingers that trembled slightly.
‘My – my son? Oh, Henri is well, I thank you! You see him over there, m’sieur, with Mademoiselle de Lachère.’
Justin’s gaze followed the direction of her pointing fan. He beheld a short, rather stocky youth, dressed in the height of fashion and seated mumchance beside a sprightly lady who was with difficulty restraining a yawn. The Vicomte de Valmé was very dark, with brown eyes heavy lidded now from weariness and boredom. His mouth was a trifle wide, but well-curved; his nose, so far from following the Saint-Vire aquiline trend, showed a tendency to turn up.
‘Ah, yes!’ said Justin. ‘I should hardly have recognised him, madame. One looks usually for red hair and blue eyes in a Saint-Vire, does not one?’ He laughed gently.
‘My son wears a wig,’ answered Madame rather quickly. Again she sent a fleeting glance towards Léon. Her mouth twitched slightly, uncontrollably. ‘He – he has black hair. It often happens so, I believe.’
‘Ah, no doubt,’ agreed Justin. ‘You are looking at my page, madame? A curious combination, is it not? – his copper hair and black brows.’
‘I? No, why should I – ?’ With an effort she collected her wits. ‘It is an unusual combination, as you say. Who – who is the child?’
‘I have no idea,’ said his Grace blandly. ‘I found him one evening in Paris, and bought him for the sum of a jewel. Quite a pretty boy, is he not? He attracts no little attention, I assure you.’
‘Yes – I suppose so. It seems hard to believe that – that hair is– is natural.’ Her eyes challenged him, but again he laughed.
‘It must seem quite incredible,’ he said. ‘It is so seldom that one sees that – particular – combination.’ Then, as the Comtesse stirred restlessly, opening and shutting her
fan, he deftly turned the subject. ‘Ah, behold the Vicomte!’ he remarked. ‘His fair companion has deserted him.’
The Comtesse looked across at her son, who was standing irresolute a few paces away. He saw his mother’s eyes upon him, and came to her, heavy-footed and deliberate, glancing curiously at the Duke.
‘My – my son, m’sieur. Henri, the Duc of Avon.’
The Vicomte bowed, but although his bow was of just the required depth, and the wave of his hat in exact accordance with the decrees of fashion, the whole courtesy lacked spontaneity and grace. He bowed as one who had been laboriously coached in the art. Polish was lacking, and in its place was a faint suggestion of clumsiness.
‘Your servant, m’sieur.’ The voice was pleasant enough if not enthusiastic.
‘My dear Vicomte!’ Avon flourished his handkerchief. ‘I am charmed to make your acquaintance. I remember you when you were still with your tutor, but of late years I have been denied the pleasure of meeting you. Léon, a chair for m’sieur.’
The page slipped from his place behind the couch, and went to fetch a low chair which stood against the wall, some few paces away. He set it down for the Vicomte, bowing as he did so.
‘If m’sieur will be seated?’
The Vicomte looked him over in surprise. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder, the one slim and delicate, with eyes that matched the sapphires about his neck; and glowing curls swept back from a white brow beneath whose skin the veins showed faintly blue. The other was thick-set and dark, with square hands and short neck; powdered, perfumed, and patched, dressed in rich silks and velvet, but in spite of all rather uncouth and awkward. Avon heard Madame draw in her breath swiftly, and his smile grew. Then Léon went back to his original place, and the Vicomte sat down.
‘Your page, m’sieur?’ he asked. ‘You were saying that you had not met me, I think? You see, I do not love Paris, and when my father permits I stay in Champagne, at Saint-Vire.’ He smiled, casting a rueful glance at his mother. ‘My parents do not like me to be in the country, m’sieur. I am a great trial to them.’
‘The country…’ The Duke unfobbed his snuff-box. ‘It is pleasing to the eye, no doubt, but it is irrevocably associated in my mind with cows and pigs – even sheep. Necessary but distressing evils.’
‘Evils, m’sieur? Why –’
‘Henri, the Duc is not interested in such matters!’ interposed the Comtesse. ‘One – does not talk of – of cows and pigs at a levée.’ She turned to Avon, smiling mechanically. ‘The boy has an absurd whim, m’sieur: he would like to be a farmer! I tell him that he would very soon tire of it.’ She started to fan herself, laughing.
‘Yet another necessary evil,’ drawled his Grace. ‘Farmers. You take snuff, Vicomte?’
The Vicomte helped himself to a pinch.
‘I thank you, m’sieur. You have come from Paris? Perhaps you have seen my father?’
‘I had that felicity yesterday,’ replied Avon. ‘At a ball. The Comte remains the same as ever, madame.’ The sneer was thinly veiled.
Madame flushed scarlet.
‘I trust you found my husband in good health, m’sieur?’
‘Excellent, I believe. May I be the bearer of any message you may wish to send, madame?’
‘I thank you, m’sieur, but I am writing to him – to-morrow,’ she answered. ‘Henri, will you fetch me some negus? Ah, madame!’ She beckoned to a lady who stood in a group before them.
The Duke rose.
‘I see my good Armand yonder. Pray give me leave, madame. The Comte will be overjoyed to hear that I found you well – and your son.’ He bowed, and left her, walking away into the dwindling crowd. He sent Léon to await him in the Œil de Bœuf, and remained for perhaps an hour in the gallery.
When he joined Léon in the Œil de Bœuf he found him almost asleep, but making valiant efforts to keep himself awake. He followed the Duke downstairs, and was sent to retrieve Avon’s cloak and cane. By the time he had succeeded in obtaining these articles the black and gold coach was at the door.
Avon swung the cloak over his shoulders and sauntered out. He and Léon entered the luxurious vehicle, and with a sigh of content Léon nestled back against the soft cushions.
‘It is all very wonderful,’ he remarked, ‘but very bewildering. Do you mind if I fall asleep, Monseigneur?’
‘Not at all,’ said his Grace politely. ‘I trust you were satisfied with the King’s appearance?’
‘Oh yes, he is just like the coins!’ said Léon drowsily. ‘Do you suppose he likes to live in such a great palace, Monseigneur?’
‘I have never asked him,’ replied the Duke. ‘Versailles does not please you?’
‘It is so very large,’ explained the page. ‘I feared I had lost you.’
‘What an alarming thought!’ remarked his Grace.
‘Yes, but you came after all.’ The deep little voice was getting sleepier and sleepier. ‘It was all glass and candles, and ladies, and – Bonne nuit, Monseigneur,’ he sighed. ‘I am sorry, but everything is muddled, and I am so very tired. I do not think I snore when I sleep, but if I do, then of course you must wake me. And I might slip, but I hope I shall not. I am right in the corner, so perhaps I shall remain here. But if I slip on to the floor –’
‘Then I suppose I am to pick you up?’ said Avon sweetly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Léon, already on the borderland of sleep. ‘I won’t talk any more now. Monseigneur does not mind?’
‘Pray do not consider me in the slightest,’ answered Avon. ‘I am here merely to accommodate you. If I disturb you I beg you will not hesitate to mention it. I will then ride on the box.’
A very sleepy chuckle greeted this sally, and a small hand tucked itself into the Duke’s.
‘I wanted to hold your coat because I thought I should lose you,’ murmured Léon.
‘I presume that is why you are holding my hand now?’ inquired his Grace. ‘You are perhaps afraid lest I should hide myself under the seat?’
‘That is silly,’ replied Léon. ‘Very silly. Bonne nuit, Monseigneur.’
‘Bonne nuit, mon enfant. You will not lose me – or I you – very easily, I think.’
There was no answer, but Léon’s head sank against his Grace’s shoulder, and remained there.
‘I am undoubtedly a fool,’ remarked the Duke. He pushed a cushion under Léon’s relaxed arm. ‘But if I wake him he will begin to talk again. What a pity Hugh is not here to see!… I beg your pardon, my infant?’ But Léon had muttered only in his sleep. ‘If you are going to converse in your sleep I shall be compelled to take strong measures of prevention,’ said his Grace. He leaned his head back against the padded seat, and smiling, closed his eyes.
Six
His Grace of Avon Refuses to Sell his Page
When Davenant met his Grace at breakfast next morning he found that the Duke was in excellent spirits. He was more than usually urbane, and whenever his eye alighted on Léon he smiled, as if at some pleasant thought.
‘Was the levée well attended?’ asked Hugh, attacking a red sirloin. Unlike the Duke, who never ate more than a roll for breakfast, he made a hearty meal of eggs and bacon, and cold meats, washed down by English ale, especially imported by the Duke for his delectation.
The Duke poured himself out a second cup of coffee.
‘Crowded, my dear Hugh. It was in honour of some birthday, or saint’s day, or something of the sort.’
‘Did you see Armand?’ Hugh reached out his hand for the mustard.
‘I saw Armand, and the Comtesse, and the Vicomte, and everybody I least wished to meet.’
‘One always does. I suppose La Pompadour was delighted to see you?’
‘Oppressively so. The King sat on his throne and smiled benignantly. Just like a coin.’
Hugh suspended his fork in mid-air.
‘Just like a what?’
‘A coin. Léon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.’
Hugh looked inquiringly at the p
age.
‘What is the joke, Léon? Do you know?’
Léon shook his head.
‘No, m’sieur.’
‘Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,’ said his Grace. ‘Léon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.’
Léon blushed.
‘I – I am afraid I was asleep, Monseigneur.’
‘Very nearly so. Do you always sleep as one dead?’
‘N-no. That is – I do not know, Monseigneur. I was put to bed in all my clothes.’
‘Yes, I did that. Having wasted ten minutes in endeavouring to rouse you, I thought that the simplest plan would be to carry you up to bed. You are not all joy, my infant.’
‘I am very sorry, Monseigneur; you should have made me wake up.’
‘If you would tell me how that may be done I shall do so on the next occasion. Hugh, if you must eat beef, pray do not brandish it in my face at this hour.’
Davenant, whose fork was still suspended midway between his plate and mouth, laughed, and went on eating.
Justin began to sort the letters that lay beside his plate. Some he threw away, others he slipped into his pocket. One had come from England, and spread over several sheets. He opened them and started to decipher the scrawl.
‘From Fanny,’ he said. ‘Rupert is still at large, it seems. At Mistress Carsby’s feet. When I saw him last he was madly in love with Julia Falkner. From one extreme to another.’ He turned over the page. ‘Now, how interesting! Dear Edward has given Fanny a chocolate-coloured coach with pale blue cushions. The wheels are picked out in blue.’ He held the sheet at arm’s length. ‘It seems strange, but no doubt Fanny is right. I have not been in England for such a time – Ah, I beg her pardon! You will be relieved to hear, my dear Hugh, that the wheat in England still grows as ever it did. Ballentor has fought another duel, and Fanny won fifty guineas at play the other night. John is in the country because town air does not suit him. Now, is John her lap-dog or her parrot?’
Georgette Heyer - [Alastair 01] Page 6
