These Old Shades Read Online Free PDF Page A

politely.
    Saint-Vire picked up his cards again.
    “He is at Versailles, with his mother,” he said curtly. “My play, Lavoulère?”
     
    CHAPTER III
    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 that 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