“M. de Richelieu gave me your address,” he remarked; “but I did not wait for his company to make the acquaintance of one of whom I have formed such a high opinion.” “Monsieur,” answered Luc earnestly, “I fear I have been presumptuous in forcing myself on your notice; but for the interest you have taken in me I am passionately grateful.” M. de Voltaire was secretly, immensely gratified. He had not climbed from an attorney’s clerk to be a friend of kings without meeting very severe rebuffs on the way. Even now, courted as he was, the nobles he consorted with reminded him often enough, in covert ways, that he was not ‘born.’ But here was a Marquis, a soldier, who sincerely bowed down to him. He had been greatly flattered when he received Luc’s first letter; now his vast vanity, quick to take offence, quick to respond to admiration, was even more flattered by the young noble’s ardent homage. And a finer feeling than vanity moved M. de Voltaire’s great generous heart; he thought that he saw in this frail, boyish-looking, blushing, slightly awkward soldier a kindred soul. On his part Luc was struggling with an overwhelming sense of humility in being thus suddenly sought out by the man whom, of all others, he most admired and respected. “Oh, Monsieur!” he exclaimed, “you cannot guess how much I have hoped to one day meet you.” “A soldier,” smiled M. de Voltaire, “and yet you found time for philosophy and the arts!” Luc, who was standing like a scholar before his master, answered in nervous haste-- “I know nothing about either, Monsieur, nothing----” The great man interrupted. “I gather from your letters that you are in quest of glory--therefore you know a great deal about both. If you have the penetration to see, M. le Marquis, that there is nothing in the world like even the dim sparkle of glory--I, at least, can teach you nothing.” As he spoke his eyes flashed as if a positive red fire sparkled from them; so strong was the effect of his presence that Luc felt as if he were being physically touched and held. M. de Voltaire rose. He had the grand manner consciously--not unconsciously like M. de Richelieu--yet defined from the theatrical by his passionate genius that gave his very flourishes an air of conviction. He stepped up to the Marquis and held out his hand. “Monseigneur,” he said, with a large air of grandeur, “I should like to be your friend.” Luc clasped the thin right hand that had been so active and powerful in the cause of truth and freedom, and tears lent a lustre to his eyes. “Monsieur,” he answered, “I have nothing to offer one like you but my devotion--I have had very few friends--but if you will be troubled with me I will pledge my service to you--always.” M. de Voltaire looked at him thoughtfully. “You have the spirit,” he said--“yes, you have the spirit that is to waken France and re-create her. Do you not feel it, see it everywhere--the dawn of something better than we have ever known?”