A gorgeous young man, with beautiful dark blue eyes and a face set in lines of gloom and discontent, lounged on a sofa piled with white satin cushions with silver tassels, eating elaborate bonbons out of a gold dish on a small table beside him. The window near looked on to the river and Paris; it was a private apartment in the Louvre, extravagantly furnished.

By the window stood M. de Richelieu looking often at the river and occasionally at his companion.

“I ask it as a favour,” he said.

The other did not trouble to raise his lids.

“Ask M. Amelot,” he replied; “I can do nothing.”

“You can advise him—make a suggestion.”

“I have no influence with him,” returned the young man with weary peevishness. “Besides, it is too much trouble.”

The sunlight shot a ray between the heavy silk curtains and shone on the speaker’s handsome face and disarranged dark hair that flowed over his shoulders and was only partially powdered.

“You know M. Amelot will do nothing to oblige me,” persisted M. de Richelieu; “he is a tiresome fool at best.”

The other half raised himself on the couch and turned his superb eyes on the Duke.

“MarÉchal,” he said with an air of authority, “I am tired of the subject.”

“Oh, it is as good a subject as another, sire,” returned M. de Richelieu good-humouredly, “and I do not often ask your Majesty for favours.”

“No,” retorted Louis; “you generally take them.”

He yawned, and sighed, and glanced distastefully round the room.

“Come, sire,” urged M. de Richelieu, “it is only a few words to M. Amelot.”

“I tell you he never takes my advice,” answered the King; “and I really know nothing about his business, so I have to be silent when he speaks, which makes our interviews very dull. Besides, I do not like him, and I do not wish to see him.”

“Write him a note, then,” returned M. de Richelieu, coming from the window.

“Mon Dieu, MarÉchal,” said Louis peevishly, “I am not sure that I like your protÉgÉ either.”

“You do not know him, sire,” replied the MarÉchal, surprised.

“Yes, I do. He wandered into my pavilion at Versailles. I think he is a little insane. Besides,” added His Majesty with some touch of animation, “he does not believe in God.”

“Neither do I,” responded the Duke gaily.

“I know, my dear MarÉchal, and it lies on my conscience that I give you my countenance,” said the King with a melancholy sigh. “But I pray for you,” he added sincerely.

“Your Majesty can pray for M. de Vauvenargues,” replied M. de Richelieu.

Louis frowned.

“Do you think I can put up prayers for every heretic and disbeliever in the kingdom? As for your Vauvenargues, why are you so eager to oblige him?”

The MarÉchal lifted his eyebrows and gave a whimsical little smile.

“Because he obliged me once, and I do not wish to be indebted to the fellow.”

“You can give him a post in Languedoc,” said the King obstinately.

“He will not take it—he must not know that I am behind this—he thinks anything from me would be a bribe.”

“Oh, he is one of that type, is he?” said Louis, leaning back on his cushions wearily. “I thought so. Well, I do not like them.” He selected another bonbon, then threw it down with disgust.

“Nevertheless,” persisted M. de Richelieu calmly, “your Majesty is going to ask M. Amelot to give this young man a post in the next embassy to Madrid.”

Louis was silent a moment; his soft, great eyes had a brooding look.

“What does he know about you?” he asked at length with some interest.

“Oh, it is not an amusing story,” replied the MarÉchal, seating himself at a little desk that stood in a corner and commencing to write.

Louis rose to his full splendid height and crossed to the chimneypiece; his dark blue satins, embroidered with steel, his paste buttons and buckles glittered from the head to the foot of his magnificent person. He yawned, took a spray of jasmine from a black enamel vase, and fastened it into the rich folds of his cravat.

“What are you writing, MarÉchal?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Your letter to M. Amelot, sire.”

“How I dislike people who make me do what I do not want to do,” complained the King reflectively.

M. de Richelieu brought the letter and a quill over to the King.

Louis eyed both with distaste.

The MarÉchal smiled and waited.

“If I sign, will you help me with La Chateauroux?” asked Louis at length.

M. de Richelieu lifted his shoulder with an expressive gesture.

“What do you want me to do with her?” he demanded, putting letter and pen on the mantelpiece.

“Do with her?” repeated the King impatiently. “Get her into a convent, send her back to her husband, find her another, banish her to the country, promise her anything, as long as you get her out of the palace. The Marquise absolutely refuses to allow her to remain.”

“If I make Madame de Chateauroux leave the Louvre peaceably I shall want more than your Majesty’s signature to that paper,” replied the Marshal.

“You promised yesterday you would see her for me,” protested Louis.

“When I was not sober,” said M. de Richelieu; “and afterwards you told her she should stay.”

“Well, I was not sober either,” responded the King sullenly. “Can you not accuse her of treason and get her into the Bastille? Nothing less will stop her tongue. Get rid of her so that I never see her again, and I will make your Vauvenargues anything you wish.”

“Mon Dieu,” responded the Marshal, “your Majesty drives a hard bargain; if Madame la Duchesse was to hear you she would buy us both a potion from the old witch in the Rue du Bac.”

Louis shivered.

“I consulted her yesterday,” he said, lowering his voice; “she was very vague. I think Madame la Duchesse pays her to deceive me, for she said I had better beware of the Marquise and the atheist who is her friend—that is M. de Voltaire.”

The Duke took the now dry quill, redipped it in the ink, and presented it to Louis.

“Sign, sire,” he said amiably, “and we will discuss La Chateauroux afterwards.”

With an impatient exclamation the King scrawled his signature to the few lines of writing in the MarÉchal’s beautiful hand.

“That appoints M. de Vauvenargues secretary to the next embassy to Spain,” remarked M. de Richelieu, “and is a clear affront to M. Amelot, who has his nephew preparing for the post,” he added with malicious levity as he rang the silver and sardonyx hand-bell on the desk.

An usher in white livery instantly appeared. M. de Richelieu gave him the note, folded carelessly across.

“For the Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he said.

When they were alone again Louis sighed discontentedly.

“I shall be plagued out of my life,” he complained.

“No, sire,” replied M. de Richelieu. “I told M. Amelot yesterday to write to this young man and command him to the Louvre to-day, and that your Majesty intended giving him a post.”

“Impudent!” cried Louis. “You took all this upon yourself? Really, MarÉchal, you might as well be King of France.”

“I suppose,” replied the Duke, “I should fill the position as well as your Majesty.”

“I suppose you would,” agreed the King indifferently. “Meanwhile—suggest something to pass the time.”

The MarÉchal mentioned several amusements, all of which the King languidly rejected.

“Well, then, some business!” exclaimed M. de Richelieu. He snatched up a blue portfolio with gold ribbons and opened it, scattering the papers over the desk. “All these to be read, considered, and signed—M. de Voltaire’s instructions on his secret embassy to Berlin—the war—the question about the Chevalier St. George—the Austrian affair—Canada—Flanders—”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Louis impatiently. “How many more?”

“A great many, sire.”

Louis cursed his Minister wearily, crossed to the desk, took up the pen, and began signing the documents, one after another, as the MarÉchal, laughing, put them before him.

“I would never have employed this Voltaire,” he remarked with an air of distaste, “but the Marquise says he is a great man.”

The volatile Duke was soon weary of handing out the papers; he hurried them, signed and unsigned, back into the portfolio.

“It is time for the audience with the new envoy from Russia,” he said, glancing at the pale pink marble clock.

Louis cast down his pen and moved away towards the window, from which he could see the dusty gold prospect of Paris, and the tawny glitter of the river, and the flutter of the trees in the palace garden and along the quays.

“MarÉchal,” he said reflectively, “I am much loved in Paris. Yesterday when I drove out there was the very mob shouting. I think I shall go to the war again,” he added—“to Flanders.”

“To please Paris, sire?” asked the MarÉchal, who, now the King’s back was turned, was skilfully abstracting from the portfolio some of the papers which happened to be against the interest of certain friends of his. “Certainly the people like nothing better than a hero.”

Louis laughed with a depth of bitterness that was surprisingly in contrast to the almost stupid apathy of his usual demeanour.

“I was well trained to be a hero to please the French,” he said. He turned and laid his white right hand, still strong for all its idle slackness, on M. de Richelieu’s shoulder. “Come, MarÉchal, let us attend our audience.”

The Duke closed the portfolio with an air of nonchalance and rose; the King’s hand slipped to his arm and rested there on the Duke’s black sleeve that was stiff with coloured sequin embroidery.

The two—the King still leaning on the MarÉchal’s arm—left His Majesty’s private apartments for the long galleries of the Louvre.

As M. de Richelieu was lifting the purple curtain from the entrance of the antechamber of the audience room he saw a solitary young man coming down the corridor.

“This is my Vauvenargues,” he smiled.

Louis paused, looked back, and, seeing the young man, smiled also.

Luc, grave, alert, serenely glad of his appointment as secretary to the embassy to Madrid which had just been conferred on him by M. Amelot, came on along the gallery, unconscious of the two gentlemen half concealed by the heavy folds of the great velvet curtain until he was just upon them. Then he raised his eyes, to see M. de Richelieu regarding him closely and the tall gentleman with the beautiful face, whose wonderful deep blue eyes were now lit by a kind of amusement. Luc was irresistibly attracted to this face with the loose curls dishevelled round the short, fine features, which he now saw for the first time in broad daylight.

M. de Richelieu realized in an instant that Luc did not know the King.

“I congratulate you on your appointment, M. le Marquis,” he said.

Luc uncovered; a flush rose to his brow as a sudden thought stung him.

“Do I owe this appointment to your influence, MarÉchal?” he asked.

“No, Monsieur,” replied M. de Richelieu, smiling broadly; “to this gentleman’s.”

Louis’ blue eyes flickered over the slim, erect figure of the young noble. He remembered perfectly well his last meeting and all that Luc had said. He was essentially good-humoured, and the present situation diverted him.

“Monseigneur,” said the Marquis with dignity, “I have the honour of your acquaintance, not of your name.”

He waited with his hat in his hand and the colour deepening in his face, for he felt acutely that the MarÉchal was laughing at him.

“I do not know to whom I am indebted,” he added.

“Monsieur,” answered Louis, “to the King of France.”

“His Majesty!” stammered Luc, bewildered.

“I am the King,” smiled Louis with a lazy, soft grandeur.

Luc’s quick mind saw it all in a flash of pain—his first sight of this man, their meeting, the unplaceable manner, his own foolish, impetuous words. He rallied to the shock as he had rallied to many a cavalry charge; he faced the blue eyes unflinchingly, though his face became as colourless as the soft folds of muslin under his black velvet stock.

“I stand at your Majesty’s mercy,” he said, in a faint but even voice.

“You remember our meeting, Monsieur?” asked Louis.

“Yes, sire.”

Louis advanced a step. Luc did not lower his eyes; the two men looked at each other with a steady intentness.

“You spoke of the King of France,” said Louis, “and you gave him too many virtues, Monsieur. It is a rare fault, for the King has more detractors than defenders. I hope you may keep your loyalty in your new employment.” He smiled a little sadly, and the blue eyes clouded and flashed.

Luc was disarmed; the languid young idler was transformed into the man who might indeed be the King of his imaginings—a man who was too great to be affronted, too noble to remember trivialities. Luc was aware of nothing in that moment but a passionate desire to serve the King—to instantly prove his loyalty; the generous blood surged back into his face.

“Your Majesty will have no idle servant in me,” he said, and his voice quivered a little now.

Louis held out his large, shapely hand.

“Sire!” cried Luc, overwhelmed. He sank on one knee and kissed the King’s fingers with throbbing lips.

“We hope to see you on your return from Spain,” said Louis as he rose.

“Your Majesty!” murmured Luc. He took his dismissal with a dignity above a courtier’s and stepped backwards, bowing low.

Louis was silent for a little after Luc had gone, but M. de Richelieu laughed, as if he were in possession of a delicious jest.

“What is the matter, MarÉchal?” asked Louis at length, turning sleepy eyes on him.

“I was thinking that, after all, your Majesty does it better than I could.”

Louis gave him a sideway glance, revealing, it seemed, that he was not so unconscious of his own arts as he appeared to be.

“Ah,” he answered languidly. “I did not like the fellow,” he added thoughtfully; “he has a bright look of death. I hope he will not come back.” With a sudden shudder he continued, “keep these dying men away from me, Richelieu!”

“Dying?” echoed the MarÉchal, startled. “Why, he is well enough—La Koklinska was in love with him last week.”

“All the same, I do not think he has long to live,” replied the King gloomily.

A sound of voices and the tap of high-heeled shoes came from the end of the corridor.

Louis turned his beautiful face with a startled movement.

“Mon Dieu,” he cried, angry and paling, “it is Madame de Chateauroux!”

He caught M. de Richelieu by the arm and drew him sharply into the audience chamber.