Luc stood in the Rue Deauville before a flat, narrow door in the high wall behind which rose the tall poplars of Carola’s garden.

He took the knocker in his hand and looked at it; it was, as the Countess had described, a woman’s head, smoothly cast in bronze, and the face had a reserved yet wild expression, a look of terror and bitterness.

A soft little wind was blowing, and the sun was extraordinarily bright. Luc looked up and down the street with an idle, unexplainable reluctance to knock. He did not care for the rendezvous—he did not even greatly wish to see Carola; he felt to the full the desire that had more or less possessed him of late—the desire to be alone and free—even from those things he loved and admired.

When he at length did knock, the door was opened instantly, and the Countess stood the other side of the portal. He saluted her gravely, and passed into the queer, lonely garden.

They stood for a moment side by side between the trunks of the poplar trees. She wore a light cloak like a man’s riding mantle, and her black hair was unpowdered.

“I am glad you have come, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said.

“I have come wondering why you asked me, Madame,” he answered.

She led the way to the one seat beneath the wallflowers, and when they reached it turned and replied—

“I always liked you, I always wanted to serve you. Ambition is so splendid! You have the makings of a great man.”

Luc coloured and looked at her gravely.

“I too have always been ambitious,” she continued, with a slight nervousness; “but women tire—and they cannot achieve what men achieve.” She paused a second, then added hastily, “I can put you on the path to obtain what you desire.”

Luc had the impression that she was not saying what she really wished, but was confused by some agitation into, contrary to her wont, using evasive words.

“You leave me at a loss, Madame,” he answered, with a gentle dignity. “I only understand that you condescend towards me, and for that I am proudly grateful.”

Carola glanced quickly at the firm yet sensitive and delicate lines of his profile—for he did not look towards her as he spoke. She seated herself, but he remained standing.

“Since I was a young girl I have moved among Courts,—France, Austria, Russia,”—she said, “and I have made the acquaintance of some powerful people.” She pressed to her lips a little handkerchief embroidered with gold thread. “One is in the house now—I want you to meet him. He has, I know, a post for you, if you will accept it.”

The Marquis answered earnestly—

“I only wish for some scope in which to work, Madame—the humblest position, if it will but allow me the bare chance of—some achievement.”

Carola suddenly held out her hand.

“I wish I knew you a little better!” she cried, with sudden passion. “I may be making a blunder, Monsieur!”

Luc glanced at her in surprise.

“I think you know all there is to know of me,” he replied, with a slight smile. Indeed, his life had been so simple, so open in outward action, that she might, by the simplest inquiries from M. de Biron, have elicited all of it and his character too.

“We none of us know each other.” Her outstretched hand rested on his plain basket sword-hilt. “You might surprise me a hundred ways, and I you. When you are absent from me, so many things I should like to say rise in my mind; when you come, you bring a barrier with you that makes speech impossible.”

Luc’s hazel eyes darkened; with his ungloved right hand he raised hers from the steel shell of his sword.

“You see, Monsieur,” she added proudly, “that I admit to thinking of you.”

She rose, leaving her hand in his. They were of a height, and he looked straight into her face, which was fully illuminated by the strong beams of the sun. He could see the fine lines round her large, misty eyes, the red powder rubbed into her cheeks, and the veins showing under the dark skin of the hollow temples and thin throat. Her thick lashes and slender brows were artificially darkened; the sun showed the bluish look of the pencil round the heavy lids. He noticed that her hand was very cold in his.

“You are different indeed!” she exclaimed, with a certain bitterness.

“Different?” he asked.

She withdrew her hand.

“From all of them!” She appeared to be struggling with some excitement or agitation. “What is in your mind? Where are you going? What do you mean to do? You will have to use the world as you find it—like every one else.”

Luc smiled.

“I am so exactly the same as every one else, Madame,” he said, in a deprecating tone. “I am just struggling for some little sphere in which I can let my soul spread its wings—I have that restlessness to achieve something which many better men lack,” he added, thinking of his father and Joseph; “yet I dare not profane it, for it is the highest thing I know.” He fixed his eyes on her gravely, and she moved towards the wallflowers, away from him.

“I wish I had left you alone,” she said.

Luc flushed swiftly.

“Have you found me so ungrateful?”

“You have nothing to be grateful for,” she replied, narrowing her eyes on him, “I only fear that some day you may come to dislike me.”

She had not said or done anything to destroy the mental image he cherished of a slightly mysterious creature, fiery and pure, disdainful of the world and at heart tender and a little sad; he therefore smiled at her words, which he thought showed her ignorance of his conception of her, and looked at her with his serene, enthusiastic glance, before which her dark eyes fell.

“You are very sure of your own creeds,” she said irrelevantly, “and narrow too, at the best—I think.”

He admitted to not following her thought, and she answered his admission by a half-scornful, half-terrified little laugh.

“Do you really not understand me?” she asked.

Luc felt a sudden beat at his heart, as if his life was about to fulfil its most splendid promise; his eyes were dazzled by her face, which seemed to him to be suddenly illuminated from within and transfigured. Her actual presence and his cherished vision of her were for that moment fused in one; he saw her robe edged with flame, and her head crowned with points of light, and her eyes of a steady and immortal brilliance.

“Is it possible?” he said. “Is it possible?”

“You know if it is or no,” she answered, and took a sudden step towards him with her head high.

To his unfaltering gaze she was as unsubstantial as the sunbeams about her and as mysterious as the living flowers growing in the dusty old wall.

“I cannot believe it,” said Luc—“that this is going to happen to me!”

“Hush!” she whispered, “hush!”

If he had put out his hand he could have touched her, but he made no movement, and she paused when there was a foot between them.

“Won’t you speak to me?” he said. “Tell me how much I may dare?”

She never ceased to gaze at him.

“You know—everything,” she answered. “Why need we speak?”

“I know nothing,” murmured Luc, “and I am afraid to guess.”

“Afraid!” echoed Carola. “I too am afraid, bitterly afraid.”

She turned her eyes from him and sank on to the seat with her head bent.

Luc stepped impulsively towards her.

“I have dreamt of you so often,” he said gravely; his lips were quivering and his eyes filled with tears. “You could never understand——”

He laid his hand very lightly on her cloak; she looked up suddenly and said almost fiercely—

“Do not kiss me—do not touch me.”

He would as soon have thought of trying to clasp the rainbow or press his lips to a moonbeam. He started, and flushed, and winced.

“Not you,” she continued. “I could so easily hate you if you were to bring it to that. I also have had my dreams.”

She was suddenly stripped of glory; her voice was even a little harsh; her attitude of shrinking distaste had nothing of the divine in it. Luc stared at her with a sudden terror; she seemed to be changing under his very eyes.

She rose again, drooping yet stately, and drew her cloak about her.

“Nothing has happened!” she exclaimed vehemently. “Do you hear—nothing has happened!”

“Why do you deny yourself?” cried Luc. “Why are you lying to me?”

“Nothing has happened!” she repeated; “nothing. Keep your dreams.”

It seemed to Luc that she, while she spoke, was looking beyond him at some one else, and with a throbbing brain he turned and gazed towards the gloomy back of the house.

There was, as he had expected, a man coming slowly towards them.

Luc stiffened and narrowed his eyes.

“This is the man who will be useful to you,” said Carola, in an ordinary tone.

The stranger, who wore a black velvet mantle and a hat with a high white plumage fastened by a steel loop and button that glittered in the strong sun, approached at an easy gait. When he uncovered to the Countess, Luc recognized, with an angry heart, M. de Richelieu.

The Duke marked him with instant and unmistakeable surprise.

“Is this your friend, Madame?” he said, in no pleased tone.

“You know each other?” asked Carola.

“We have a slight acquaintance,” answered the Duke grandly.

“One I shall not presume on, Monsieur,” said Luc, burning to think that perhaps M. de Richelieu thought he wished to solicit the benefits he had once refused.

“You did not expect to see me nor I you,” replied M. de Richelieu, absolutely composed and courteous, “but our previous knowledge of each other need not interfere with the matter on hand now.”

Luc bowed, not at all satisfied. He did not desire any favour, direct or indirect, from M. de Richelieu; he did not like to see him on these terms of intimacy with the Countess; he did not wish such a man introduced into his life.

The only thing that kept him from proudly taking his leave was the conviction that both Carola and the Duke had been quite innocent of planning the situation, she being ignorant that M. de Richelieu and he had met before, and the Duke being unaware that her protÉgÉ was M. de Vauvenargues.

Therefore Luc felt that his refusal to listen to their proposals would be ungrateful to Carola, and put him in a foolish position towards the Duke, who had already gracefully carried off the encounter.

The Countess on her part appeared confused; she obviously wondered when these two had met, and why Luc had not mentioned his acquaintance with the Duke.

“You know M. le MarÉchal!” she exclaimed. “Then my task—to bring you to an understanding of each other—is the lighter.”

“I understand M. de Vauvenargues perfectly,” answered M. de Richelieu; and, as if unwilling to prolong the conversation, he turned back towards the house.

Luc, regarding him with an habitually keen observation, noticed that he was considerably older than he had appeared on either of the two previous occasions on which Luc had seen him.

In the lurid lights of the barn, in the shadowed softness of his own luxurious apartment, he had seemed in his first youth; but now the direct sunbeams that showed the red powder on Carola’s fine skin revealed the face of M. de Richelieu as that of a man of middle age, despite his slender, upright figure and careful dressing. His charm was none the less; his slightly broad countenance wore the same expression of almost irresistible daring gaiety and serene self-confidence. Luc smiled at him in his heart, and so was half won.

The three entered the house by a side door and ascended a back staircase. Luc thought the place seemed little used, a great mansion often shut up. He neither saw nor heard servants.

Carola went ahead with M. de Richelieu; he, as if disdainful of being overheard, said in a voice hardly lowered—

“You have chosen the wrong man, Madame; but if you wish to go on with the comedy, I shall not interfere.”

Carola’s reply was such a mere murmur that Luc did not hear; nor did he care what she said. He was content to leave this doubtful adventure in her hands—whichever way it ended, he would come to some issue with her before he left.

They entered upon a long wide corridor, the heavy candelabra and gilt-legged furniture covered with linen on which the dust lay thickly; the floor was of black and white squares of marble, the windows were shuttered, the air struck musty and yet chill.

Carola opened a high door half-way down this corridor, and the two men followed her into an ornately furnished room, where the sun streamed in a melancholy fashion over silk screens, silk-hung walls, carved chairs, and Eastern rugs. The room had an air of having been long deserted or only used casually; the sunbeams showed dust everywhere, and one of the wings of the elaborate shutters was still closed.

On a long crimson-striped sofa lay Carola’s hat, gloves, and cane. She seated herself near on a fantastic chair of a Chinese pattern; behind her was a picture covered by a faded pink curtain.

Luc looked at her and at nothing else. The presence of M. de Richelieu was no longer anything to him; he was waiting for the explanation of this mystery,—Carola Koklinska,—an explanation that had seemed on the point of being revealed in the garden. What was she?—did she or did she not fulfil his ideal of the spiritual power of perfect woman?—did he love her as he knew he was capable of loving? He stood against the closed shutter with his grave hazel eyes on her face. She was colourless save for the false blush on her cheeks: he disliked that artificial glow, and thought of her as she was among the Bohemian snows, haggard and disfigured, yet more pleasing to him then than now.

M. de Richelieu glanced from one to the other with an eye of hawk-like brightness.

“Do you wish me to speak?” he asked Carola, and cast his hat on to a little tulip-wood table.

She bent her head, and the Duke turned with a quiet magnificence of manner to Luc.

“Monsieur le Marquis, may I have—for a little—your attention?”

With an effort Luc took his eyes from Carola; he was not concerned with what M. de Richelieu had to say.

In an even voice, with the air of one who courteously, but without conviction, discharges a duty, the Duke began speaking. He related, from the inside, politics that Luc knew already from the outside; he gave details of the present state of affairs between the Courts of France, Austria, England, and Prussia; he indicated the web of intrigues that was continually being spun beyond the scrutiny of the public eye. Luc listened without interest; he had already guessed that M. de Richelieu intended, through the influence of the Countess, to offer him some adventurous chance in politics, and he had already resolved to refuse—he began, in fact, to understand.

Even while the Duke was speaking, Luc’s mind was still busy with the problem of Carola. Once or twice he allowed his glance to rest on her: she was seated with her pallid face supported between her long ringless hands; her cloak had fallen apart, and a crystal heart that hung round her neck by a thin silver chain swung and twinkled above her knees.

M. de Richelieu proceeded to unfold a plan for the confusion of Maria Theresa. A young man had been prepared and instructed for the principal rÔle in this intrigue, but unfortunately had lost his life in a duel; and Madame la Comtesse having declared she knew of some one to take his place—— The Duke paused.

“What is the task you wish me to undertake, Monsieur?” asked Luc, without raising his head; while the Duke was speaking, a great many things had become slowly plain.

M. de Richelieu told him with an almost crude brevity. He was to go to the Austrian Court and proclaim himself neglected by his country; he was to offer to serve Maria, the unfortunate Empress-Queen; he was to creep into her confidences, and forward them to the French Ministers. “Madame la Comtesse is going to Austria,” finished the Duke; “you would work in collusion.”

An extraordinary calmness came over Luc. He slightly moved his attitude against the shutter.

“In what capacity, Madame, are you going to the Court of Austria?” he asked.

She made no answer.

The Duke looked steadily at Luc.

“You refuse, of course?” he said.

The Marquis smiled.

“I thank you, Monsieur, for the compliment. Your position is awkward—and I am grateful for your courtesy.” He pressed his handkerchief to his pale but firm lips.

The Duke gave a little bow.

“You did not understand?”

“No—but now I do.”

Carola, still holding her head in her hands, looked with great tragic eyes from one to another. M. de Richelieu crossed over to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“I always promised you, Madame, that you should have your own way in your whims—and I have done what you asked me to. Unfortunately, Monsieur de Vauvenargues refuses.”

“He has had no time to consider,” she said, without changing her attitude.

Luc stepped from the window.

“One word, M. le Duc—this is your house?”

“Yes,” answered M. de Richelieu, with the slightest lift of his delicate brows.

“You know that,” breathed Carola; “from the first you must have known——”

“No,” said Luc. “I am from the provinces.”

The Duke’s clear glance went from one to another; he spoke very gravely, with an even pride.

“I told Madame she had made a mistake. Perhaps Madame will explain?”

He picked up his hat.

“Shall I leave you to explain?” he insisted, looking full at Carola.

“Leave me to solve my enigma,” said Luc, with a smile. “Give me five minutes, M. le Duc——”

“Are you so quick?” responded M. de Richelieu. “I will give you half an hour in which to weary of guessing your riddle.”

His charming face relaxed into a soft and fleeting smile, he bowed low to the haggard lady on the sofa, and left her alone with Luc.