These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer Read Free Book Online Page A

paused, while Léon stood expectantly before him.
    “You may bring wine to the library,” said the Duke, and went in.
    When Léon appeared with a heavy silver tray Justin was seated by the fire, his feet upon the hearth. Beneath drooping lids he watched his page pour out a glass of burgundy. Léon brought it to him.
    “Thank you.” Avon smiled at Léon’s evident surprise at the unusual courtesy. “No doubt you imagined that I was sadly lacking in manners? You may sit down. At my feet.”
    Léon promptly curled up on the rug, cross-legged, and sat looking at the Duke, rather bewildered, but palpably pleased.
    Justin drank a little wine, still watching the page, and then set the glass down on a small table at his elbow.
    “You find me a trifle unexpected? I desire to be entertained.”
    Léon looked at him seriously.
    “What shall I do, Monseigneur?”
    “You may talk,” Avon said. “Your youthful views on life are most amusing. Pray continue.”
    Léon laughed suddenly.
    “I do not know what to say, Monseigneur! I do not think I have anything interesting to talk about. I chatter and chatter, they tell me, but it is all nothing. Madame Dubois lets me talk, but Walker—ah, Walker is dull and strict!”
    “Who is Madame—er—Dubois?”
    Léon opened his eyes very wide.
    “But she is your housekeeper, Monseigneur!”
    “Really? I have never seen her. Is she a stimulating auditor?”
    “Monseigneur?”
    “No matter. Tell me of your life in Anjou. Before Jean brought you to Paris.”
    Léon settled himself more comfortably, and as the arm of Avon’s chair was near enough to be an inviting prop, he leaned against it, unaware that he was committing a breach of etiquette. Avon said nothing, but picked up his glass and started to sip the wine it held.
    “In Anjou—it is all so very far away,” sighed Léon. “We lived in a little house, and there were horses and cows and pigs—oh, many animals! And my father did not like it that I would not touch the cows or the pigs. They were dirty, you understand. Maman said I should not work on the farm, but she made me care for the fowls. I did not mind that so much. There was one speckled hen, all mine. Jean stole it to tease me. Jean is like that, you know. Then there was M. le Curé. He lived a little way from our farm, in a tiny house next the church. And he was very, very good and kind. He gave me sweetmeats when I learned my lessons well, and sometimes he told stories—oh, wonderful stories of fairies and knights! I was only a baby then, but I can still remember them. And my father said it was not seemly that a priest should tell of things that are not, like fairies. I was not very fond of my father. He was like Jean, a little. . . . Then there was the plague, and people died. I went to the Curé, and—but Monseigneur knows all this.”
    “Tell me of your life in Paris, then,” said Justin.
    Léon nested his head against the arm of the chair, looking dreamily into the fire. The cluster of candles at Avon’s elbow played softly over the copper curls so that they seemed alive and on fire in the golden light. Léon’s delicate profile was turned towards the Duke, and he watched it inscrutably; each quiver of the fine lips, each flicker of the dark lashes. And so Léon told his tale, haltingly at first, and shyly, hesitating over the more sordid parts, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion until he seemed to forget to whom he spoke, and lost himself in his narration. Avon listened in silence, sometimes smiling at the quaint philosophy the boy unfolded, but more often expressionless, always watching Léon’s face with narrowed keen eyes. The hardships and endurances of those years in Paris were revealed more by what was left unsaid than by any complaint or direct allusion to the petty tyrannies and cruelties of Jean and his wife. At times the recital was that of a child, but every now and then a note of age and experience crept into the little deep