Despite the different light, surroundings, and dress, the recognition was instantaneous on each side. For a breathless instant the two men gazed at each other. M. de Richelieu was the first to speak.

“So you are M. de Vauvenargues!” he said, and put his gold-slippered feet to the ground and threw his head back with a cold haughtiness.

“I am M. de Vauvenargues,” answered Luc.

“You were introduced unceremoniously,” returned the Duke. “I did not expect you so soon. Be seated, Monsieur le Marquis.”

Luc took one of the delicate chairs and fixed his eyes on the pale carpet; he was conscious of a wretched feeling of disappointment, of disgust, of a sense of personal failure.

“You look rather pale, Monsieur,” remarked the Governor, in those same gentle tones that Luc had heard last night. “I trust you have had an easy journey from Aix?”

The Marquis bowed in silence.

M. de Richelieu supported himself on his elbow on the pile of cushions at the head of his couch.

“You bring the best of introductions,” he said. “M. de Caumont speaks of you warmly—you were Hippolyte’s friend, and with him in Prague, were you not?”

Luc was impressed, almost bewildered, by his composure, his quick assumption of the courtly, gracious manner. Last night this calm had surprised him; now he found it astounding. M. de Richelieu had not changed colour, and was regarding him with unfaltering eyes.

But it was not in Luc to take up the matter on these terms; he revolted against the situation, against the part he was evidently expected to play. The slim, gorgeous young Governor, the sumptuous little room became hateful to him. He rose.

“Monseigneur,” he said coldly, “I came here on a misunderstanding.”

M. de Richelieu interrupted.

“You came, I think, Monsieur, because you are desirous of entering Government service—M. de Caumont asks my influence on your behalf.”

“I will not put you to that trouble, Highness,” answered Luc wearily.

The Duke laughed in his princely way, as if he was too great to be easily offended; yet Luc thought he was vexed too, perhaps a little confused.

“I shall be able to give you a position, Monsieur, immediately.”

Luc flushed almost as painfully as if some one had offered him money.

“You mistake me,” he said gravely.

“No, I think I estimate you fairly well,” answered the Governor decidedly.

“In this you mistake me,” replied Luc, with a sudden flash in his voice. “There is nothing in your gift, Monseigneur, that I would accept.”

A look of wrathful amaze glimmered for an instant in the Duke’s brown eyes, but he smiled, though coldly.

“For one who hopes to succeed in diplomacy,” he said, “you are singularly simple.”

“Not so simple, Monseigneur, that I do not see the attempt of your Highness to bribe a man who holds an unpleasant secret.”

M. de Richelieu did not alter the regal ease of his attitude, but he suddenly changed his tone.

“Forgive me, my dear Marquis,” he said pleasantly, “but we evidently do fail to understand each other, and that is a pity——”

Luc interrupted.

“Highness, this is the truth. I know that the wretched Italian was murdered last night, and I know whose sword struck him down. You deceived me easily,” he added simply, “and I know you are a great man, who can amuse himself as he pleases—you have the law in your own hands. But there is no employ under the Governor of Languedoc that I would take.”

With the effort of saying these words the colour flooded his face; he did not speak them with any grandeur, but with a frowning distaste.

M. de Richelieu flashed into fierce haughtiness.

“Do you imagine that you will better yourself by taking this story to Versailles? You think you can ruin me, perhaps——”

“Monsieur!” cried Luc, raising his head.

M. de Richelieu was on his feet, a glittering, winning figure, difficult to associate with the miserable scene in the barn.

“Well, if you think, Monsieur,” he said quietly, “that you would gain a hearing against me, remember I am Armand du Plessis,” and Luc realized suddenly what a great man, what a notable person he was defying. He thought of his future career, and his heart sank; what could he hope to achieve commencing with such a powerful enemy?

Something of this thought showed in his sensitive face, and the Governor was quick to perceive and follow up his advantage.

“I have used lettres de cachet on less occasion,” he said gently.

Luc turned so as to face him.

“Scarcely on men of my position, M. de Richelieu,” he answered haughtily. “I am not of the bourgeois, to be threatened.”

He was stung now out of his shyness and reserve; he faced the Governor as an equal and unabashed.

“As to last night, my own wish is to forget it,” he said sternly. “I shall not speak for the sake of speaking—you know that. I should not be silent for any threat’s sake if honour bade me speak—you know that also, Monseigneur.”

M. de Richelieu was clearly puzzled; if at the same time vexed, or alarmed, he did not show it. His face expressed wonder and even amusement.

“It was only a jest last night,” he said lightly, “a common amusement.”

“It cost a man his life,” answered Luc wearily. “But I pray your Highness not to speak of it.”

“Well,” returned the Duke, with utter callousness, “he was a knave, and deserved it. He was cheating, and I had him brought from Venice on purpose.”

Luc did not answer; he felt tired, disappointed, and downcast. His one desire was to get away from this house and from Avignon.

“I can make yesterday’s meeting fortunate for both of us,” continued the Duke. “I liked you from the first. I require another secretary——”

“I must refuse,” interrupted Luc. “I will take nothing, Monseigneur.”

M. de Richelieu looked at him narrowly.

“Where have you lived all your life?” he asked abruptly.

“In Aix and in camp,” replied Luc. His dreamy eyes brightened. “I have been ten years with the army.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because my health broke,” said Luc briefly. “There were not many of us, Monsieur, who survived the retreat from Prague.”

“And now you wish to become a politician,” said M. de Richelieu. “I suppose you are an idealist?”

Luc smiled to think of the utter hopelessness of endeavouring to express his aspirations to this man.

“I have ideas,” he answered simply. “I think I could succeed in statecraft.”

“Tell me some of your ideas—tell me something of what you would do were you in power.”

The Duke was standing now in front of the many-coloured tapestry; his slight figure, his elegant features, and rich dressing-gown gave him an almost feminine appearance. A faint mockery curved his nostrils and touched his speech.

“I would not have men like M. de Richelieu Governor over any province of France,” answered Luc calmly.

Again that look of great haughtiness hardened the face of the Duke.

“You know nothing about M. de Richelieu,” he said.

He seated himself on the slender-legged chair under the tapestry and began turning over a tray of engraved gems that stood on a little tulip-wood table; yet absently, and with his brown eyes on Luc.

The two men whose lives, characters, and experiences were so absolutely different that an impassable gulf existed between them looked at each other as they might have gazed across the borders of some strange country that they would never penetrate. M. de Richelieu’s career had blazed high above the heads of men for all to see, but it was unknown to Luc, who was ignorant of all the scandals and gossip of his time; and Luc, to the Governor, was a man who came from absolute obscurity, who was interestingly novel, but mainly to be noticed because he held an uncomfortable knowledge of an unfortunate incident the Duke wished forgotten. As he gazed at Luc, he was considering what to do. Though he had been involved in many affairs as doubtful and as dangerous as that of last night, though careless recklessness was the keynote of his character and he was confident in his great position and powerful name, yet a creditable witness to a murder connected with an unlawful ceremony to which his confessor was privy was not to be too lightly suffered to depart. The Duke had enemies; if they knew of this, they could make a story of it that the King would not dare disregard. From a spark like this might rise a flame that would burn the very foundations of his greatness.

Malice was not in his nature, and he felt no unkindness towards the cold young officer who so manifestly disliked him, but rather a curiosity to know more of him and a half-amused liking.

“Monsieur,” he said at length, “this must be adjusted some way between us. You seem to refuse my advances. Perhaps you think I am setting some snare for you, but it is not so.”

This had never entered Luc’s thoughts. His outlook was so simple that the other could never have guessed it; he merely wished to get away, to forget it all, and try another road to success.

“Monseigneur,” he answered wearily, because his head was aching, and the rosy light of the room and the scent of the flowers, that had at first so pleased, now oppressed his senses, “we have nothing to fear or gain from each other. Permit me to take my leave.”

With his stiff military bow he moved towards the door. M. de Richelieu stepped forward and, with an almost affectionate gesture, caught his arm.

“Be reasonable,” he said. “I lost my temper last night; but after all the fellow was of no account—’tis over now.”

“So I wish it to be, your Highness,” replied Luc.

“But there is no need,” continued the Duke, “that it should prevent me from doing you the service you came to request.”

Luc was silent; he was not insensible to M. de Richelieu’s beautiful grace, to the complete attraction of his person and features that his life, whatever it had been, had not in the least coarsened or spoilt. Such was the power of this charm, delicate, manly, strong, that Luc, though he despised the Duke without affectation, yet felt his scorn overwhelmed in this physical nearness.

“Secretary to the Governor of Languedoc is not a post easily obtained,” insisted M. de Richelieu. “And I think we should work well together, Monsieur.”

“It is not in your power to give me what I seek, Monsieur,” replied Luc sadly. “Indeed it is impossible.”

The Duke drew back a step.

“I implore you allow me to depart,” continued the Marquis. “We shall never understand each other.”

M. de Richelieu twisted his fingers in the curls on his bosom.

“What object have you in keeping silence about last night?” he asked shortly.

“What object,” returned Luc proudly, “have I in speaking?”

“Oh, you seem to have a great sympathy with heretics and charlatans and the baser sort. And what of your servant?”

“He did not see your Highness in the full light. Besides, he was a soldier, and is devoted to the house of de Clapiers; you may, Monseigneur, be assured he will not speak.”

“That means that I have taken two obligations from you—my sword last night and your promise now,” said the Duke very proudly. “It is impossible, Monsieur le Marquis, that you should refuse to take anything from me.”

“I want nothing of your Highness,” replied Luc; for he thought of the Duke’s offers as so many bribes, nothing more.

M. de Richelieu was galled and angry; it was the first time in his life that he had felt himself obliged to anyone. He was an adept in bestowing favours, but had never before received one save from the King. His breeding, however, took the defeat gracefully.

“I hope,” he said coldly, “that some day I may be able to balance this.”

“There is nothing to balance,” returned Luc earnestly, for the whole interview was irritating him. “Let your Highness forget it all and forget me.”

“Will you go to Paris?” asked the Duke abruptly.

“Perhaps,” said Luc. His plans were all dashed to the ground, and he had not yet formed others.

“Come to me, then, if you ever need help,” said M. de Richelieu, with sudden and characteristic recklessness. “A Puritan like you is like to get into trouble some way.”

“I am no Puritan,” returned Luc, flushing slightly, “but an atheist.”

M. de Richelieu crossed himself and, at the same time, laughed.

“Some day I must introduce you to Monsieur de Voltaire. As for me, I see I can do nothing with you. I wish you success, Monsieur, but I am not very hopeful.”

He did not hold out his hand, but bowed very grandly and rang a little bell that stood near the tray of gems.

Luc returned the bow in silence, glad to take his departure; the black page appeared, and conducted him from the mansion. Luc passed through the beautiful apartments without any sense of pleasure now; he felt exhausted, and even faint. He longed to be out in the night and under the stars.

When he was on the threshold of the street door another page breathlessly overtook him.

“Monseigneur, you left your glove,” he said.

Luc took the riding gauntlet, and felt something heavy in the palm. The colour throbbed in his face; he shook out on to his hand a diamond ring of exceptional beauty and remarkably set with sapphires.

“Yes, it is my glove,” he said to the page, who was hurrying away, “but take this back to M. de Richelieu—it is a mistake.” He held out the ring.

“Monseigneur said the jewel was yours,” returned the page.

“Well, then,” replied M. de Vauvenargues proudly, “take it as your guerdon for bringing me the glove.”

He flung it on the carpet at the boy’s feet and left the Governor’s house.