‘Yes, Monseigneur.’ Léon continued eating in silence for perhaps three minutes. Then he looked up again. ‘When do we begin to go to London, Monseigneur?’
‘What an original way of putting it!’ remarked his Grace. ‘We begin in about an hour’s time.’
‘Then when I have finished my déjeuner may I go for a walk?’
‘I am desolated to have to refuse my permission. I want to talk to you.’
‘To talk to me?’ echoed Léon.
‘Madness, you think? I have something of import to say. What is the matter now?’
Léon was examining a black pudding with an expression akin to loathing on his face.
‘Monseigneur, this’ – he pointed disdainfully at the pudding– ‘this is not for people to eat! Bah!’
‘Is aught amiss with it?’ inquired his Grace.
‘Everything!’ said Léon crushingly. ‘First I am made to feel sick upon that ship, and then I am made to feel sick again by an evil – pudding, you call it? Voyons, it is a good name! Pig-pudding! Monseigneur, you must not eat it! It will make you –’
‘Pray do not describe my probable symptoms as well as your own, infant. You have certainly been prodigiously ill-used, but endeavour to forget it! Eat one of those sweetmeats.’
Léon selected one of the little cakes, and started to nibble it.
‘Do you always eat these things in England, Monseigneur?’ he asked, pointing to the beef and the puddings.
‘Invariably, my infant.’
‘I think it would be better if we did not stay very long here,’ said Léon firmly. ‘I have finished now.’
‘Then come here.’ His Grace had moved to the fire, and was sitting on the oaken settle. Léon sat beside him obediently.
‘Yes, Monseigneur?’
Avon started to play with his fan, and his mouth was rather grim. He was frowning slightly, and Léon racked his brains to think how he could have offended his master. Suddenly Avon laid his hand on Léon’s and held it in a cool strong clasp.
‘My infant, it has become necessary for me to put an end to the little comedy you and I have been playing.’ He paused, and saw the big eyes grow apprehensive. ‘I am very fond of Léon, my child, but it is time he was Léonie.’
The little hand in his quivered.
‘Mon-seigneur!’
‘Yes, my child. You see, I have known from the very first.’
Léonie sat rigid, staring up into his face with the look of a stricken creature in her eyes. Avon put up his free hand to pat her white cheek.
‘It is no such great matter after all, infant,’ he said gently.
‘You – you won’t send me – away?’
‘I will not. Have I not bought you?’
‘I – I may still be your page?’
‘Not my page, child. I am sorry, but it is not possible.’
All the rigidity went out of the slight frame. Léonie gave one great sob, and buried her face in his coat sleeve.
‘Oh please! Oh please!’