Luc, grave, alert, serenely glad of his appointment as secretary to the embassy to Madrid which had just been conferred on him by M. Amelot, came on along the gallery, unconscious of the two gentlemen half concealed by the heavy folds of the great velvet curtain until he was just upon them. Then he raised his eyes, to see M. de Richelieu regarding him closely and the tall gentleman with the beautiful face, whose wonderful deep blue eyes were now lit by a kind of amusement. Luc was irresistibly attracted to this face with the loose curls dishevelled round the short, fine features, which he now saw for the first time in broad daylight. M. de Richelieu realized in an instant that Luc did not know the King. “I congratulate you on your appointment, M. le Marquis,” he said. Luc uncovered; a flush rose to his brow as a sudden thought stung him. “Do I owe this appointment to your influence, Maréchal?” he asked. “No, Monsieur,” replied M. de Richelieu, smiling broadly; “to this gentleman’s.” Louis’ blue eyes flickered over the slim, erect figure of the young noble. He remembered perfectly well his last meeting and all that Luc had said. He was essentially good-humoured, and the present situation diverted him. “Monseigneur,” said the Marquis with dignity, “I have the honour of your acquaintance, not of your name.” He waited with his hat in his hand and the colour deepening in his face, for he felt acutely that the Maréchal was laughing at him. “I do not know to whom I am indebted,” he added. “Monsieur,” answered Louis, “to the King of France.” “His Majesty!” stammered Luc, bewildered. “I am the King,” smiled Louis with a lazy, soft grandeur. Luc’s quick mind saw it all in a flash of pain--his first sight of this man, their meeting, the unplaceable manner, his own foolish, impetuous words. He rallied to the shock as he had rallied to many a cavalry charge; he faced the blue eyes unflinchingly, though his face became as colourless as the soft folds of muslin under his black velvet stock. “I stand at your Majesty’s mercy,” he said, in a faint but even voice. “You remember our meeting, Monsieur?” asked Louis. “Yes, sire.” Louis advanced a step. Luc did not lower his eyes; the two men looked at each other with a steady intentness. “You spoke of the King of France,” said Louis, “and you gave him too many virtues, Monsieur. It is a rare fault, for the King has more detractors than defenders. I hope you may keep your loyalty in your new employment.” He smiled a little sadly, and the blue eyes clouded and flashed. Luc was disarmed; the languid young idler was transformed into the man who might indeed be the King of his imaginings--a man who was too great to be affronted, too noble to remember trivialities. Luc was aware of nothing in that moment but a passionate desire to serve the King--to instantly prove his loyalty; the generous blood surged back into his face.