Luc was no more moved from his way by M. de Voltaire’s impetuous entry into his life than he had been by the unveiling of Carola or by the glimpse he had of the frivolous, cynical Court.

M. de Voltaire was alive, vivid, great. Luc admired him almost to adoration for his intellect and his courage, but he did not in the least waver from the plain path he had set himself, nor did the words of the fiery philosopher affect his scheme of life.

He was going along the way prescribed by tradition, by his instinct, by his birth. He was a noble, a soldier; he owed allegiance to the King, respect to his father, reverence to his name and blazon. That he could not believe in the dogma of the Church was no reason for him to disbelieve in loyalty and honour.

Certainly he had wished to be free, but had always rejected the thought as a temptation; and to give up his rank, his family, his noble ambitions to devote himself to literature seemed to him pure sacrilege. He did not even dwell on the suggestion long, but dismissed it as an impossibility.

If the King were nothing in himself—well, he was a symbol, and Luc, with the obstinacy of the idealist, refused to believe that the world was what the caustic vision of M. de Voltaire saw it.

When the first excitement of the great man’s visit was over, Luc returned to his old serenity, went to his desk, and wrote another letter to M. Amelot. Whatever the Court was, it was a vehicle. He had never supposed that he could attain his goal without stepping through some mud; there were only two ways open to a man of rank—the army and the Court.

“Unless,” thought Luc, “the heavens open to direct me I will tread the way my father trod.”

He had parted from M. de Voltaire with friendly courteousness on each side, based on real liking and admiration. Luc had been inspired and the older man piqued by the interview; it had ended on a mutual laugh and a promise of future intercourse. The Marquis in no way abated his homage of M. de Voltaire, who, on his side, had taken a sudden liking for the young soldier.

That evening a letter arrived from Aix. The old Marquis spoke out at last: Would Luc return home and marry ClÉmence de SÉguy? Her father was more than willing, she was a good girl of rank and qualities, a match for the honour of the house, in every way suitable. Might not he formally request her hand?

Luc put the letter down and set his lips. He had just decided to hug his chains, to be loyal to every tie, to fulfil every duty, to take up the life his ancestors had led—therefore he had no excuse to refuse this match, and ClÉmence shone brightly beside the tarnished image of Carola. He wrote immediately saying that if he obtained an appointment, or the sure promise of one, he would return to Aix to marry Mlle de SÉguy, and as he sealed the letter he felt like a man who has made his own decision irrevocable. The suggestion was not unexpected; but even yesterday he would not have been sure of his answer. Now M. de Voltaire’s bold speech had shown him clearly enough his own mind.

Later that day, when his letters were dispatched, he left the house and walked up and down the pleasant quays by the river, possessed by a great sense of peace and exaltation. It had been a day overbrimming with sunshine, and now, in the hour of twilight, there was a soft glow left over water, trees, buildings, and sky—a reflection of light; rosy, clear, tender, and melancholy.

Luc passed by M. de Voltaire’s house near the Rue BrÉa, and walked slowly on towards the island of the city and the great church of Notre-Dame de Paris with her two mighty towers. Here the houses began to get poorer and meaner, there were more beggars and fewer sedan-chairs, the shops were more frequent and dirty, the churches looked neglected. Luc paused to lean over the narrow wall of the embankment and look at the great river that widened here to divide into the arms that clasped the island and the church. The water swirled, deep and ruddy coloured from the last glow of the sun, round the piles of the bridge that led to the splendid porch of Notre-Dame; beyond the darkening pile of the church it rolled in a silver-grey flood between flat banks and isolated groups of buildings now beginning to show black against the paling sky.

Luc was lost in deep, sweet, and nameless thoughts when he was roused by the practised whine of beggary loud and insistent in his ear.

He turned to see a creature in the most miserable attire thrusting out a trembling, grasping hand for charity.

Luc started, for the face of this being was so broken, tortured, disfigured (almost beyond likeness to humanity) by the most violent ravages of smallpox that it seemed more some kind of sad-beaten ape than a man.

The monotonous demand for money continued to issue from the bloodless lips; the half-blind eyes winked and peered at Luc with a stifled appeal. The Marquis pulled out his purse and gave the fellow a silver coin in silence, his delicate senses revolted beyond expression at the nearness of the wretched creature. When the beggar, seeing silver for the first time for many months, snatched at Luc’s coat in gratitude it was more than he could endure; he drew back sharply against the wall.

“Eh, Monseigneur,” mumbled the fellow, crouching away, “pardon me, and may the good saints bless you.”

Luc’s tender heart was instantly moved; he regretted that he had been betrayed into an act of pride which had further humbled one so unfortunate.

“God pity you and release you,” he said; then he noticed that the beggar had only one leg and dragged himself awkwardly by means of a rude crutch. The fellow saw his benefactor’s glance, and with a sudden odd animation in his voice said—

“I lost that in Bohemia, Monseigneur.”

“You were a soldier!” exclaimed Luc.

“Yes, Monseigneur—was wounded; then the cold and the smallpox.” He dropped into his mumble again; his senses seemed clouded. “There were not many came home at all,” he muttered, and hopped off with the coin between his teeth.

Luc stood gazing after him. That pitiful object had perhaps been a gay soldier a couple of years ago. He did not care to follow out his reflections, but abruptly drew his cloak about him and returned to his lodgings.

He found awaiting him a letter from M. Amelot, requesting his attendance at the Louvre on the following day.