These Old Shades

A gentleman was strolling down a side street in Paris, on his way back from the house of one Madame de Verchoureux. He walked mincingly, for the red heels of his shoes were very high. A long purple cloak, rose-lined, hung from his shoulders and was allowed to fall carelessly back from his dress, revealing a full-skirted coat of purple satin, heavily laced with gold; a waistcoat of flowered silk; faultless small clothes; and a lavish sprinkling of jewels on his cravat and breast. A three-cornered hat, point-edged, was set upon his powdered wig, and in his hand he carried a long beribboned cane. It was little enough protection against footpads, and although a light dress sword hung at the gentleman’s side its hilt was lost in the folds of his cloak, not quickly to be found. At this late hour, and in this deserted street, it was the height of foolhardiness to walk unattended and flaunting jewels, but the gentleman seemed unaware of his recklessness. He proceeded languidly on his way, glancing neither to left nor to right, apparently heedless of possible danger.

But as he walked down the street, idly twirling his cane, a body hurled itself upon him, shot like a cannonball from a dark alley that yawned to the right of the magnificent gentleman. The figure clutched at the elegant cloak, cried out in a startled voice, and tried to regain his balance.

“I will relieve you of the curse,” said his Grace calmly.

The man stared, uncomprehending.

“Milor’⁠—?”

“I suppose he is for sale?”

A cold hand stole into the Duke’s, and clutched it.

“Sale, milor’? You⁠—?”

“I believe I will buy him to be my page. What is his worth? A louis? Or are curses worthless? An interesting problem.”

The man’s eyes gleamed suddenly with avaricious cunning.

“He is a good boy, noble sir. He can work. Indeed, he is worth much to me. And I have an affection for him. I⁠—”

“I will give a guinea for your curse.”

“Ah, but no, milor’! He is worth more! Much, much more!”

“Then keep him,” said Avon, and moved on.

The boy ran to him, clinging to his arm.

“Milor’, take me! Oh, please take me! I will work well for you! I swear it! Oh, I beg of you, take me!”

His Grace paused.

“I wonder if I am a fool?” he said in English. He drew the diamond pin from his cravat, and held it so that it winked and sparkled in the light of the lamp. “Well, fellow? Will this suffice?”

The man gazed at the jewel as though he could hardly believe his eyes. He rubbed them, and drew nearer, staring.

“For this,” Avon said, “I purchase your brother, body and soul. Well?”

“Give it me!” whispered the man, and stretched out his hand. “The boy is yours, milor’.”

Avon tossed the pin to him.

A muttered exclamation near him made him turn his head. A tall, rather carelessly dressed man was standing beside him, looking across the room at Léon. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth was shut hard. Through the powder his hair glinted red, but his arched brows were black, and very thick.

“Saint-Vire?” Hugh bowed to him. “You are wondering at Alastair’s page? A freak, is it not?”

“Your servant, Davenant. A freak, yes. Who is the boy?”

“I do not know. Alastair found him yesterday. He is called Léon. I trust Madame your wife is well?”

“I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?”

“Here he comes,” answered Hugh. “You had best ask him.”

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

“My dear Comte!” The hazel eyes mocked. “My very dear Comte!”

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.

“M. le Duc!”

Justin drew forth his jewelled snuffbox, and presented it. Tall as he was Saint-Vire was made to look insignificant beside this man of splendid height and haughty bearing.

“A little snuff, dear Comte? No?” He shook the foaming ruffles back from his white hand, and very daintily took a pinch of snuff. His thin lips were smiling, but not pleasantly.

“Saint-Vire was admiring your page, Justin,” Davenant said. “He is exciting no little attention.”

“No doubt.” Avon snapped his fingers imperiously and Léon came forward. “He is almost unique, my dear Comte. Pray look your fill.”

“Your page is of no interest to me, m’sieur,” Saint-Vire answered shortly, and turned aside.

Suddenly Léon fell on his knees beside Avon’s chair, and clutched the Duke’s sleeve with desperate fingers. His face was upturned, pale and agonised, the great eyes swimming in tears.

“Oh no, no, no, Monseigneur! You would not⁠—Oh, please not that! I⁠—I will never go to sleep again! Please, please forgive me! Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

Avon looked down at him with upraised brows. Léon had pressed his forehead against his master’s arm, and was shaking with suppressed sobs.

“You bewilder me,” complained the Duke. “What is it that I am not to do, and why will you never sleep again?”

“Don’t⁠—don’t give me back to Jean!” implored Léon, clinging tighter still. “Promise, promise!”

Avon loosened the clasp on his sleeve.

“My dear Léon, I beg you will not weep over this coat. I have no intention of giving you to Jean, or to anyone else. Stand up, and do not be ridiculous.”

“You must promise! You shall promise!” Léon shook the arm he held almost fiercely.

The Duke sighed.

“Very well: I promise. Now tell me where I may find your brother, my child.”

“I won’t! I won’t! You⁠—he⁠—I won’t tell you!”

The hazel eyes became hard.

“I have borne much from you in patience, Léon, but I will not brook your defiance. Answer me at once.”

“I dare not! Oh, please, please do not make me tell! I⁠—I do not mean to be defiant! But perhaps Jean is sorry now that⁠—that he let me go, and⁠—and will try to m-make you give me back!”

“I give you good morrow, Léon the Page,” he said, and the words bit. “I had hardly hoped that I should find you thus soon. The luck is with me this round, I think.”

Léonie retreated a little. Avon’s warning was in her mind.

“Bon jour, m’sieur,” she said, and wondered what he was doing in the Duke’s grounds, or why he was in England at all. “Did you go to see Monseigneur?” she asked, with wrinkled brow. “He is not here.”

“I am desolated,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically, and came right up to her. She shrank, and in a fit of inexplicable panic, called to Rupert.

“Rupert, Rupert, à moi!”

Even as she cried Saint-Vire’s hand was over her mouth and his other arm about her waist. Struggling madly she was swept from the ground and borne at a run to where the coach stood waiting. Without compunction she bit deeply into the hand over her mouth. There was a muttered oath, the hand flinched a little, and she jerked her head away to shriek again.

“Rupert, Rupert, on m’enporte! À moi, à moi, à moi!”

His voice came to her, nearer at hand.

“Who⁠—what⁠—? What the devil⁠—?”

She was flung then into the coach, sprang up like a small fury, but was thrust roughly back again. She heard Saint-Vire give an order to the coachman; then he jumped in beside her, and the coach lurched forward.