“Your Majesty will have no idle servant in me,” he said, and his voice quivered a little now. Louis held out his large, shapely hand. “Sire!” cried Luc, overwhelmed. He sank on one knee and kissed the King’s fingers with throbbing lips. “We hope to see you on your return from Spain,” said Louis as he rose. “Your Majesty!” murmured Luc. He took his dismissal with a dignity above a courtier’s and stepped backwards, bowing low. Louis was silent for a little after Luc had gone, but M. de Richelieu laughed, as if he were in possession of a delicious jest. “What is the matter, Maréchal?” asked Louis at length, turning sleepy eyes on him. “I was thinking that, after all, your Majesty does it better than I could.” Louis gave him a sideway glance, revealing, it seemed, that he was not so unconscious of his own arts as he appeared to be. “Ah,” he answered languidly. “I did not like the fellow,” he added thoughtfully; “he has a bright look of death. I hope he will not come back.” With a sudden shudder he continued, “keep these dying men away from me, Richelieu!” “Dying?” echoed the Maréchal, startled. “Why, he is well enough--La Koklinska was in love with him last week.” “All the same, I do not think he has long to live,” replied the King gloomily. A sound of voices and the tap of high-heeled shoes came from the end of the corridor. Louis turned his beautiful face with a startled movement. “Mon Dieu,” he cried, angry and paling, “it is Madame de Chateauroux!” He caught M. de Richelieu by the arm and drew him sharply into the audience chamber. CHAPTER XI THE FÊTE A honey-coloured haze of autumn glory hung over the trees and fields outside Aix, where a fête was being held, this perfect day in late October. Among the crowds who wandered in and out of the trees, the booths, the stalls were Luc de Clapiers and his promised wife, Clémence de Séguy. He had returned home for his betrothal and to prepare for the appointment he was to take up in the spring. His prospects were suddenly pure gold to him; the sense of the opportunity ahead, of the achievement within his grasp, of success, of fulfilment mingled with the joy of pleasing his father, of satisfying all those claims of family affection and family pride, which had so often seemed a chain and a clog, into one ecstasy of living that was crowned by the gentle passion and happy devotion of Clémence, who seemed to have no wish in the world but to shine for him. Her soft youth, her grave ignorance, her pretty follies and lofty ideals of constancy, self-sacrifice, and truth won from him a tender respect and a generous gratitude that seemed to her perfect love. When she was absent from him he did not often think of her. She filled her place in his mind as his promised wife; over his soul she had no dominion.