“Will you not even speak to me?” she asked; she was gazing at him with great intentness. He opened the door and went out, closing it after him. In the corridor he found M. de Richelieu seated on one of the linen-covered chairs, whistling a little air under his breath and beating time to it by delicate movements of his bare right hand. Seeing the Marquis, he rose. Luc paused; the two men were face to face. Luc noted that M. de Richelieu’s handsome eyes were full of amusement. He could not wonder; he smiled too, with his head a little thrown back. “Who was she?” he asked; “eh, M. le Maréchal?” The Duke slightly lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. She is quite marvellous. She came from”--he opened and threw out his hand--“nothing.” Luc bowed. “Adieu, Monsieur. I regret if I have incommoded you by this visit--forgive my ignorance.” “I am still in your debt,” returned the Duke. “Tell me, now we meet again, is there any way I can serve you?” He spoke with a winning air of grandeur and perfect courtesy. Luc responded-- “Yes,” he said suddenly, “you can present me to M. de Voltaire.” “With the best will in the world,” replied M. de Richelieu. “You are, I perceive, already something of a philosopher. Where is your lodging?” “In the Rue du Bac.” “You shall hear from me.” The Duke accompanied him to the dark side staircase, directed him carefully as to his way out, and then took leave of him. Luc passed out of the house, out of the garden into the courtyard, through the great iron gates, and so into the untidy, sordid street that led to the wretched noisy quarter of St. Antoine. The sun was out again, vivid and steady; it would be shining over a certain poor funeral in Versailles. Luc felt sorry, as much for her as for the dead man; possibly she was the finer material. He wished that he had never seen either of them. A strong Eastern scent clung to his cloak; he shook it out to the wind and turned home. CHAPTER VIII VOLTAIRE Luc dismissed Carola Koklinska from his thoughts as he would have brushed a dead leaf from his coat, but he could not so easily banish the sensation that something distasteful and sad had occurred; this clung to him like the vague remembrance of an evil dream. His stately lodgings seemed more lonely; the aspect of the city had something hard, even cruel and menacing, in it; he felt farther from the accomplishment of his desires. The usual letter from home awoke an even deeper sense of responsibility and of yearning, the extraordinary mingled feelings of desire for freedom from everything and desire to fulfil his duty to the utmost towards those whom he loved and honoured. Yet his sweet serenity lifted him above any sense of struggle; he was like one waiting for commands.