The Marquis took lodgings the following week in the little town that centred round the palace and park of Versailles, and there met his former colonel, M. de Biron.

The young Duke was amiable, if cynical, at Luc’s persistence in endeavouring to enter politics; he came to his rooms and attempted to enlighten him as to the state of the Court and the characters of the men who guided it. Luc smiled and forgot what he said as soon as the words were spoken; he knew M. de Biron was shallow, and he gave little weight to his impressions of men or affairs.

M. de Caumont had offered to present him to the King, but had not yet arrived at Versailles; and M. de Biron urged him not to wait, but to at once attend His Majesty.

Luc’s strict code of courtesy would not permit him to slight M. de Caumont by ignoring the introduction offered and accepted; but when M. de Biron brought him an invitation for one of the fÊte days on which the King would not be present, he decided to go, with some bold idea under his shy manner of meeting M. Amelot and speaking to him directly.

He was now corresponding regularly with M. de Voltaire, and though the subject of their letters was still the respective merits of Corneille and Racine, Luc drew from the great man’s words a far wider inspiration than mere enthusiasm for the famous poets. He had always—almost without knowing it—been fond of letters, and now, in his unavoidable leisure, he had begun writing down his thoughts, and hopes, and aspirations.

The very day that he went for the first time to the palace he had put the last sentence to a paper he had written on the glorious and beloved young King.

Since he had left Aix his desire for meditation had increased and emphasized his shyness, which was almost sufficient to render him awkward despite his native grace and breeding. Certainly his first experiences of the chÂteau were not pleasant to him; the gorgeous park was too vast, too full of people. He felt too utterly uncongenial to their obvious gaiety. Not that his temper or his mood was gloomy, or that he was incapable of the exquisite pleasures of youth and carelessness—there was probably no one there who could have brought a keener delight to the enjoyment of the fair things of life—but Luc had too fine a nature to be satisfied by sensation at second hand. Because every one else affected light-heartedness, because the coloured lamps were lit in the trees, because all were rich and presumably happy, his soul could not keep festival.

M. de Biron soon left him. He felt as lonely as he had done when standing on the Pont Neuf, and as serene. As soon as he could disengage himself from the crowd he made his way from the terraces, arbours, and fountains in front of the great chÂteau, and turned down one of the magnificent alleys that opened mysteriously and alluring into dusky vistas lit only by occasional beams from the young moon.

He walked rapidly, his spirits rising with the solitude. He had soon passed the garlands of rich lights swung from tree to tree, the couples walking slowly with swish of silk, soon completely lost sight of the wonderful palace raised up luminous against the spring sky, and distanced the fine strains of music from the violins and hautboys.

He reached a beautiful glade across which deer were wandering; the silence was so marvellous that he caught his breath. Regardless of where he was, of Ministers, of M. de Biron, he continued his way through the spring night. The trees were almost in full leaf, and not a tremble disturbed their dignity. Luc crossed the glade and came into a little grove of elms, beyond which a small lake lay argent and motionless.

A sudden gust of perfume made him shiver with pleasure. All round the water were planted thick rose bushes full in flower; the long trails of foliage and blossom fell over and touched the smooth surface of the lake. A little bridge of twisted rustic wood led to a pavilion that shone, shaded with delicate trees, from a tiny island on the bosom of the water.

A peach-coloured light issued from the windows and open door of this pavilion and fell in long, still reflections across the water.

In a thicket of white thorn beyond a nightingale was singing, and there were clouds of a pearl-blue colour lying softly about the moon.

Luc paused by the bridge; the exquisite enchantment of the place and hour captivated his senses. He drew a sigh and bent over the roses; their perfume came and went like the drawing of a breath. The nightingale halted in his importunate song and was still. Luc could not stay his feet; he softly crossed the little bridge and approached the door of the pavilion that seemed the centre of this magic spot.

The flood of tremulous pink-gold light showed more roses clustering close about the doorstep: white roses these, turned now to all hues of soft amber and ivory and shimmering away into the luminous shadow that concealed the walls of the pavilion.

Luc supposed that this was but one of the lavish festal arrangements; he had seen several pavilions in the park, though none as remote as this. As there was not a sign of movement nor any whisper of voices he thought the place empty.

With his usual light step unconsciously still further subdued he entered the pavilion.

It was one room, oval shaped, with white walls and ceiling and four windows shaded with peach-tinted silk and open on the lake.

On the panels between the windows hung delicate drawings in pastel framed by gilt ribbons, and in front of one window was a small table of kingswood, which bore some tall Venetian wineglasses and a blue enamel dish of bonbons. The furniture consisted of a low couch covered with pale rich satin cushions all embroidered with garlands and coronals of flowers, several chairs of the most delicate shape and make, and a gold clavichord and harp, both wreathed with natural white roses.

The light came from a silver lamp shaded with silk that hung from the ceiling.

In one corner was a pink satin screen, and as Luc’s first glance was satisfying him that he was alone in this delicious apartment, a gentleman came round this screen and stepped to the nearest window, evidently without seeing the Marquis, who was, indeed, half in the shadow of the outer air. This gentleman was of an appearance befitting the occupier of such an exquisite place. He wore a white velvet coat so embroidered with gold and pearl that the skirts stood stiff about him; his waistcoat was pale violet silk glittering with crystal flowers; his sword-hilt was gold and diamond; and there were diamonds in the black cravat which fell over the gorgeous lace on his bosom. This much and the extreme grace of his tall person Luc noticed in an instant; in the next he was aware that he looked at the man whom he had seen a few days before in the Rue du Bac cowering before the black coffin. Even though he could only see a profile and the long grey curls that flowed beside it he was sure.

Almost immediately the gentleman turned and was looking at him with a pair of great dark blue eyes of a marvellous colour and lustre. The face proved as fascinatingly beautiful as Luc had believed from his brief glimpse. The expression was now reserved, haughty, and melancholy; the perfect mouth with the dark upper lip, that showed how deep-hued his hair was beneath the powder, was set firmly, the cleft chin slightly raised. Handsome as the face was in line of feature, the most noticeable thing about it was the superb colour of the eyes—literally a sapphire blue, soft and yet flashing and vivid as the tint of a summer sky at even. Luc had read of such eyes in poetry, but had never thought to see them looking at him from a human face. With one hand, half hidden in the delicate lace at his wrist, holding back the fine silk curtain that concealed the silver lake, the gentleman stood, very much at his ease, and addressed Luc.

“Do I know you?” he asked languidly.

It seemed to Luc an extraordinary question.

“No,” he answered on a smile. “I am, like yourself, one of His Majesty’s guests.”

The other seemed to consider that answer with a kind of cold reflection; his superb eyes travelled over Luc’s person with an open scrutiny which the Marquis resented.

“I break upon your leisure, Monsieur,” he said.

“Stay,” answered the handsome gentleman calmly; “I am tired of being alone. Perhaps you are amusing.”

Luc smiled again.

“Are you in want of amusement, Monsieur,” he asked, “on such a night—in such a spot?”

The blue eyes stared.

“Such a night?” their owner repeated blankly.

“Do you,” asked Luc, “see no difference ’twixt one night and another?”

The beautiful face smiled.

“Why, you are amusing.”

Luc laughed out loud.

“I never was thought to be so before,” he answered.

The gorgeous stranger moved the pink screen behind him and revealed a small gilt table covered with cards.

“Do you play?” he asked.

“I never had the time or the money,” said the Marquis simply. “You do?”

“I was the finest gambler in France, they say, before I was ten years old,” was the listless reply; as he spoke he took the white chair before the card table.

“Why, those who brought you up have something to answer for,” smiled Luc. He took off his hat and seated himself on the corner of the sofa, an elegant dark figure in his deep blue velvet against the light background.

The other man was silent a moment, then he said in an even voice—

“God judge them—I think they have.”

He interested Luc intensely, by reason of his great beauty, his tragic melancholy, and something indefinable in his manner that Luc could not place. He was obviously a noble—possibly a great noble—but his air was the air of some class Luc had never met. He was as much puzzled by it as if he had suddenly found himself talking to some shopkeeper of the Rue St. HonorÉ in disguise as a gentleman, or some foreigner passing as a Frenchman; yet he could not have named what this man did or said that was out of the ordinary.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you seem to me very melancholy, and yet, methinks, you appear one of fortune’s favourites.”

“In what way?” was the almost wondering answer.

Luc was near moved to laughter again, then to a great pity.

“You have youth and health, I know, Monsieur, and, I think, money and leisure—probably a great name and power. Am I right?”

“I have all those,” answered the other wearily. “But what have those things to do with content?”

“There are men,” smiled Luc, “who have neither money nor health nor power, only great ambitions—unsatisfied.”

“Ambitions!” The blue eyes widened.

“If you have power you can gratify your ambitions, doubtless, Monsieur,” remarked the Marquis dryly; “but you seem to me one who hath known nothing but ease.”

The other leant forward a little; his gaze was fixed on Luc in an interested fashion.

“Who are you?”

Luc’s shyness returned.

“I was a soldier,” he said briefly; “I am now merely M. de Vauvenargues, who has still his use to find.”

“What do you wish to do?”

“To serve the King,” answered Luc without affectation.

“The King! I suppose it is a profitable employment to serve the King.”

The sneer was so manifest that Luc replied with some warmth—

“No, Monsieur; but it is honourable, and I look for honour.”

“Then,” returned the gentleman with even deeper scorn, “you are unique in France.”

Luc flushed to his brow and his reserve vanished again.

“If you think that,” he replied earnestly, “it is clear that you have never been with the army.”

“The army!” repeated the other with an air of cynical haughtiness, and Luc began to be impatient with the gloomy voluptuary who appeared to be sunk in such a sloth of mind that he was incapable even of appreciation.

“Had you been with us during the retreat from Prague, Monsieur, you would know how real heroism can be; there was neither profit nor glory for many thousands there who lay down to die in the snow—content to serve the King.”

The stranger gazed at him without a change of expression.

“What do you hope for at Court?” he asked.

“I have nothing to offer but my zeal,” replied Luc, “and I expect nothing but some scope in which to serve His Majesty.”

He was answered by a short laugh.

“I repeat that you are quite unique, Monsieur.”

“There are more men in France than you or I could count, Monsieur, who feel as I,” returned Luc proudly, “and you are unfortunate that you have spent your life in such a fashion as never to have met them.”

The other narrowed his eyes with that superb insolence that seemed to Luc at variance with his obvious high breeding.

“I can assure you,” he said, “you are unique—at least in my experience,” he added, with no softening in his voice, which was as beautiful as his person, but marred with an inflexion of gloom and scorn.

Luc rose; he longed to be out in the night again, alone with his own aspirations.

“We waste time very foolishly,” he said. “Pardon me that I intruded on you, Monsieur.” He turned towards the door and looked with joy on the moonlit lake.

“Waste time!” repeated the other; “you use extraordinary words. How can one waste what is so endless, so wearisome?”

Luc paused, with his hand on the pale, glimmering door. His impulse was to leave without more words, but as he looked at the other man the circumstances of his first knowledge of him, and the sumptuous beauty of this spoilt favourite of fortune, moved him to further speech; curiosity and a certain almost passionate contempt stirred him. For this man was not like M. de Richelieu; he redeemed himself with no gaiety or wit or energy, but seemed too proud or too supine to make the least effort to please or even to comprehend others.

“How old are you?” asked Luc abruptly.

“Twenty-seven,” was the answer, given in a kind of haughty surprise.

“And tired of life!” smiled the Marquis. “Is there anything in the world you have not enjoyed to satiety? is there anything under heaven you are not weary of?”

The other answered with deep melancholy.

“You are quite right, Monsieur, there is nothing that can give me the least pleasure; I find everything very miserable and stale.”

“Yet,” said Luc, thinking of the black coffin, “probably you are afraid of death.”

The cynic crossed himself with a trembling hand and paled perceptibly.

“How dare you use that word?” he cried. “Have I not said that I will not hear it? But those who believe are saved,” he added, with more animation than he had yet shown, “and I am saved, for I believe. No one can say that I am not a religious man.”

“You hang between loathing of life and fear of damnation, then,” returned Luc, marvelling. “Monsieur, I very greatly pity you that your superstitions bring you no greater comfort.”

“Superstitions?”

“I take it you are a Christian,” said the Marquis calmly.

The other shrank back from him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I follow a creed that enables me to smile at death and hell-fire,” said Luc simply.

“An atheist!” murmured the stranger. “Well, you are damned, ” he added with a sullen satisfaction. He crossed himself again and muttered a few words of a prayer. “There are too many of you in France,” he continued, “and now I think you begin to creep into the Court.”

“We speak of matters too deep, Monsieur, for our acquaintance,” answered the Marquis.

“An atheist!” repeated the other. “How can God’s blessing be upon us with such corrupting France?”

The grossness and superstition of this man’s slavish religion fired Luc to a sudden fine wrath.

“It is such as you, Monsieur, who corrupt Court and city and nation,” he said quietly; “such as you, dulled by luxury, enervated by ease, afraid of death, afraid of life, staled by amusement and frivolity, cynical of any good in others, contemptuous of honour and glory—it is such as you who cause the people to curse the nobility—yea, even to shake them in their loyalty; it is such as you who have no right to serve the King with your weary flatteries; it is such as you who are not needed in this our splendid France.”

“I—not needed?”

“I speak as a soldier and plainly. I am no older than you, Monsieur, and not of your doubtless great position, but I have seen things—seen men live and die with no hope or reward save the glory of serving the King of France.”

Luc’s grey eyes lost their dreaminess as he thought of the young monarch who was his lodestar.

“Little can I offer His Majesty but an unstained sword; but that is more worthy of his acceptance than anything your wealth could bring.”

The wonderful blue eyes darkened with a sneer.

“You have a high conception of the King!”

“Yes,” smiled Luc proudly. “I know what real loyalty is—no courtier can teach me. I have walked among the dying, who eased their torments by murmuring the name of King Louis. I have beheld men spurred to great achievement by the thought of him; his name is a power that you perhaps cannot conceive of. I believe with thousands that he will, in the splendid ardour of his youth, lead France to greater glories that she has yet attained. Louis the Great will be overshadowed by Louis the Well Beloved!”

His thin cheek flushed with enthusiasm; he looked beyond the gorgeous pavilion to the exquisite night.

“His Majesty is to be envied,” said the other coldly.

Luc drew a deep breath.

“To be envied! Imagine, on such a night as this, to stand beneath the heavens, young, a king—and King of France! The whole world waiting to give you her best—the power, the scope, the ardent love and devotion at your feet. Ah, Monsieur, to be such a man is to almost pass humanity.”

He turned impetuously to find his listener watching him curiously with the same expression of cold melancholy, and a certain chill came over his own ardour.

“I do not know why I speak so,” he said with a flush, “nor why I have been drawn to talk at all.”

“Because,” replied the other wearily, “you are a fool.” He yawned and then gave a little sigh.

Luc’s instant anger as instantly died, for there was something tragic in the beautiful face so utterly hopeless, so blind to the spiritual, so weary of the senses.

“Good night, Monsieur,” said the Marquis gravely.

The other made no answer. His blue eyes fluttered lazily from Luc and rested on the floor; his chin sunk on the jewelled laces on his breast. The absolute indifference of his manner was a marked discourtesy. The Marquis gave him a narrowed glance and left him.

As Luc saw the water, the sky, the roses, and the moonlight, the image of the jaded, sad, and sneering young man went from his mind; he could not think melancholy thoughts on such a night of gold and pearl, dark trees and fragrant flowers.