If Luc had needed any completion of his happiness he would have found it in the radiant demeanour of his father, whose every wish had been now fulfilled and satisfied. He did not know of Luc’s correspondence with M. de Voltaire; in Aix, Luc attended Mass, and never mentioned the new philosophy that guided Paris. There was nothing to trouble the elder M. de Vauvenargues’s touching pleasure in his sons. Coloured lamps began to appear in the trees, mingling their twinkling beams with the sanguine fires of the sun, and music sounded with renewed gaiety from the gaudy tents. Luc de Clapiers was content. CHAPTER XII AFTERWARDS The last generous glow of October had passed into the first chill of November; the white haze of an early frost lay over the fields as Luc, but a few days after the fête, rode across the fields where he had walked with Clémence on his way home from the house of the Comte de Séguy. He noted, even in his happy mood, a certain sadness in the deserted spot that had been so gay. The fair was over, the travelling players had gone, leaving behind them worn grass, scattered rubbish, and trampled bushes; in one corner of the field a ragged tent still stood with a long blue and scarlet streamer fluttering above it. Luc wondered at that, for there was no indication of anyone having been left behind; but he rode on briskly towards the gates of Aix, and was striking out of the fields into the high road when round the group of elms, where the stage had been but so short a time before, rode Carola Koklinska. It seemed as if she would have passed him without a word, but he drew rein, and then she checked her horse also. “You wonder to see me in Aix,” she said. It was sunless and near to twilight. She wore a dark dress and hat, and in her whole person was no colour whatever; her face was pallid, and the blood only showed faintly in her lips; her mount was a fine white horse--an animal such as she had ridden when she came round the silver firs in Bohemia. “Certainly; I thought you were in Austria, Madame,” said Luc with a grave smile. She looked at him steadily through the cold, uncertain light. “I have been a failure in Austria,” she answered. “Perhaps you have not heard, Monsieur, that I have been a failure altogether.” “No,” said the Marquis; “I have heard nothing of you. I was surprised to see you the other day--here, at the fête.” “I came,” she replied, still gazing at him, “because I shall not be likely to ever hear music or see gaiety again--not even this little simple country merry-making.” The wind blew sharply between them and a few dead leaves fell from the elm on to Carola’s lap. “Is M. de Richelieu in Paris?” asked Luc.