The monotonous demand for money continued to issue from the bloodless lips; the half-blind eyes winked and peered at Luc with a stifled appeal. The Marquis pulled out his purse and gave the fellow a silver coin in silence, his delicate senses revolted beyond expression at the nearness of the wretched creature. When the beggar, seeing silver for the first time for many months, snatched at Luc’s coat in gratitude it was more than he could endure; he drew back sharply against the wall. “Eh, Monseigneur,” mumbled the fellow, crouching away, “pardon me, and may the good saints bless you.” Luc’s tender heart was instantly moved; he regretted that he had been betrayed into an act of pride which had further humbled one so unfortunate. “God pity you and release you,” he said; then he noticed that the beggar had only one leg and dragged himself awkwardly by means of a rude crutch. The fellow saw his benefactor’s glance, and with a sudden odd animation in his voice said-- “I lost that in Bohemia, Monseigneur.” “You were a soldier!” exclaimed Luc. “Yes, Monseigneur--was wounded; then the cold and the smallpox.” He dropped into his mumble again; his senses seemed clouded. “There were not many came home at all,” he muttered, and hopped off with the coin between his teeth. Luc stood gazing after him. That pitiful object had perhaps been a gay soldier a couple of years ago. He did not care to follow out his reflections, but abruptly drew his cloak about him and returned to his lodgings. He found awaiting him a letter from M. Amelot, requesting his attendance at the Louvre on the following day. CHAPTER X IN THE LOUVRE 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.”