Luc felt instantly that his servant spoke the truth, and saw instantly how he had been deceived. There was no back door to the barn; the young man, discovering he was being cheated, had run the poor foreigner through and left him there to die. The priest knew it, and hence his anxiety about the servant: he had dreaded the very thing that had occurred—namely, that the fellow should return to the barn and see the second corpse.

The Marquis’s first feeling was one of intense anger that a dissolute young noble had been able so to fool him; he had accepted the tale of the Italian’s escape like any child, and had sat down to bandy words with one who was fresh from a miserable, cowardly murder.

“Why did you not tell me before?” he asked.

“Monseigneur, I thought you might wish to return, and then we stood a good chance of being murdered.”

“Why?” demanded Luc sharply. “We were two to two, and one of them a priest.”

“But, Monseigneur, he was armed under his habit, and I saw evil intention in his face—and how could we tell how many more were in hiding? With respect, Monsieur le Marquis, they were dealing with the Devil.”

“Are you sure that the man was dead?” asked Luc.

“Monseigneur, perfectly sure. He lay in a strange attitude with one leg drawn up, and I crept into the barn and felt him, and he was cold with a hole in his chest and his fingers all cut where he had snatched at the sword—and with the dead frogs and snakes and that other corpse in the chair——”

The Marquis cut him short.

“You will be silent about this, Jean, until I give you leave to speak. I shall not go back—now, at least.”

Jean, only too thankful that his master was not returning to what he feared might be an outpost of hell, promised readily enough. They proceeded along the straight road, looking out for some habitation where they could ask their way.

Luc felt depressed, angry, and disgusted. He recalled the Italian’s healthy face, his callous laughter, then the hideous little scene in the barn with the horrid, foolish details of gross superstitions; lastly, the calm serenity and haughtiness of the young man whose careless manner had so deceived him; and the priest, in his mockery of a habit—Luc wondered that he had not made some attempt at a disguise. Evidently all of them had been pretty sure that they were not likely to be interrupted; yet Monsieur Armand, as he called himself, had not seemed very concerned, or even surprised, at being discovered.

Luc, riding along in the grey dawn, wearily followed out the consequences of this wretched episode.

They would burn or bury the body of the foreigner, who was not likely to be missed; they would probably burn the whole barn—who was to make inquiries?

M. de Richelieu did not keep such a strict policing of Languedoc that it was likely to come to his knowledge—well, the affair would be hushed up; and he, Luc, saw no good in soiling his lips by any mention of it, though he felt himself no longer bound by the promise he had made the young rake.

The Italian charlatan had perhaps not lived so as to look for a better end—let the whole thing be forgotten; Luc only hoped that he might meet neither priest nor patron again.

As the sun rose above the horizon they came upon some poor scattered farms where a peasant driving pigs put them on the road to Avignon, which town they reached about noon of a misty autumn day. Luc put up at a quiet inn, and, having ascertained that the Governor was in residence but would soon be leaving for Paris, he sent his servant at once with the introduction from the Marquis de Caumont and a letter from himself requesting an interview.

Jean dispatched on this business, the Marquis shifted his linen, breakfasted, and sat at the inn window overlooking the unfamiliar main street of beautiful Avignon.

His head ached, his limbs were full of lassitude, and the incident of the night hung unpleasantly before his mental vision. He tried to replace this picture with others: with that of ClÉmence de SÉguy in her frilled rose-coloured muslin; with that of young d’Espagnac kneeling in the chapel of St. Wenceslas. As he drove his thoughts back to the Hradcany, he suddenly recalled that the voice last night which the Italian had feigned to issue from the poor heretic’s dead lips had said, “Beware of her who comes from Bohemia!” It was a coincidence curious and distasteful that the wretched magician’s last words should have been these; doubtless they referred to some intrigue of his patron, but to Luc they recalled the Countess Carola, and he did not care to think of her in any such connexion.

Her dark, gorgeous image, resolute among the snows, against the sombre, pure background of silver firs and frozen skies, came before him suddenly. He felt swiftly heartened as he pondered upon her; she was a vision of mingled fire and ice that passed the allurement of the senses and exquisitely attracted the spirit.

Luc shook off the depression of yesterday’s sordid adventure, and his dreams all rushed back to his heart. His modest confidence that something would come of his interview with the Governor occupied him anew; he even allowed himself to picture his father’s pleasure at his return with news of success.

Early in the afternoon Jean reappeared with a courteous note from M. de Richelieu’s secretary: His Highness was departing for Versailles to-morrow, but would M. le Marquis wait on him to-night at eight of the clock?

Luc sent the servant back with his answering thanks for the appointment, and went upstairs to unpack his finest suit; it was plain enough, and the work of a country tailor, but Luc attired himself gravely, with no thought for the fashion, and went out to find a barber to powder and dress his hair. When this was done, it was already dusk.

He could scarcely eat any dinner, and reluctantly admitted to himself that he was nervous. His natural reserve made him shrink from waiting on the great, and inherited pride made him shrink from asking a favour; neither had his long soldier’s training fitted him for dealing with a courtier like M. de Richelieu.

He felt he would be at a disadvantage with such a man, and the old powerful longing for the army, for the career on which he had set his heart, and to which he had devoted his best energies and earliest youth, assailed him; but he angrily controlled this weakness, and broke his thoughts by opening a little volume of Pascal he always carried in his pocket.

At the appointed time he rode up to the Governor’s residence and gave his name. He was at once ushered into a great painted antechamber with a domed ceiling and white walls covered with a confusion of cupids, wreaths of flowers, tambourines, flutes, masks, and garlands all very elegantly drawn and coloured.

In each panel of the wall hung an oval mirror which had above it a gilt sconce of perfumed wax candles; the chairs were of delicate ash-wood and Aubusson tapestry. On a low green marble-topped table by one of the windows was a portfolio of prints and a book bound in calf; the name of the author caught Luc’s eye—it was M. de Voltaire.

Luc was not insensible to the charm and elegance of the apartment; he was keenly sensitive to all beauty. The taste that he had never been able to cultivate was accurate; he knew that paintings, furniture, and every detail of the chamber were the most exquisite possible, and his spirit expanded in the atmosphere; he did not even notice that he was being kept waiting longer than was courteous.

Turning presently, thinking that he heard some one approach, Luc caught sight of himself nearly full length in one of the oval mirrors. He saw a slight, pale young man, with a serene and delicate face, thoughtful hazel eyes, and a clear complexion, precise grey curls, and a plain suit of violet cloth trimmed with silver, a rich lace cravat tied very carefully, a simple sword, and a black ribbon round his throat.

The strange surroundings made his own person appear strange; he looked at himself as he might have looked at a mere acquaintance, critically, yet almost disinterestedly.

He was still searching his own face when the folding-doors at the end of the room opened, and a black page wearing a scarlet tunic and turban silently motioned him to advance.

The Marquis followed him into the next room, and the beauty of the little apartment was such as he had never seen; it steeped his soul in sudden pleasurable languor. The page disappeared, and Luc looked about him eagerly.

The walls were of pale ash-wood, smooth and watered like satin; the carpet was of the same hue, but scattered with a design of dull pink roses; the chairs were gilt and violet velvet; and the window was hung with curtains of pale mauve and pink heavily fringed with gold, and looped so as to show the ivory satin lining. One entire side of the wall was covered by an exquisite piece of tapestry in a hundred melting hues, showing the legend of Europa and the Bull; on the pale carved wood mantelpiece stood a clock and candlesticks of rock crystal and enamel, and a fine china bowl of lilacs, camellias, tuberoses, and white syringa.

The whole was faintly lit by a silver and crystal lamp that hung by slender chains from the ceiling, which was covered by drawn grey silk.

A cabinet of beautiful workmanship inlaid with painted china plaques, a desk of marquetry and ormolu covered with rich articles, and an exquisite lute of ivory and ebony tied with jade green ribbons completed the furniture.

In one corner a white, violet, and gold brocade curtain was half drawn away from a low couch that stood in an alcove; as Luc glanced at this he saw with a start that a man was lying there, asleep or dozing, with his head turned towards the wall.

He wore a soft blue satin dressing-gown and a cravat of flimsy lace that hung in a cloud to the ground; his hair, which was curling and unpowdered, flowed over his bosom and shoulders; his breeches, waistcoat, and stockings were white; his feet thrust into gold slippers.

His whole figure was considerably in shadow, but by his even breathing he was certainly asleep.

Luc was first amused and then vexed; he made no doubt that this was the Governor.

“M. de Richelieu,” he said, in a firm voice. “Your Highness——”

The sleeper stirred lightly, raised his head, and sat up.

Luc was looking at the “Monsieur Armand” of last night’s sordid happenings.