He opened the window now, and moved the pot, and admired the glint of the sun on the glossy leaves. The sight of this little plant, so strong, so silent, gave him an extraordinary sensation—it was so noble in its intense life, and yet so helpless. Luc sometimes felt abashed before the gold foliage rising out of the common pot on the dirty sill. He thought now that the soil felt dry, and turned to get water. In that moment the door opened and a man stepped into the room. “Who are you, Monsieur?” asked Luc pleasantly. The other swept off his hat. “Do you not know me, Monsieur le Marquis?” Luc strained his eyes. “Come a little nearer. Ah!”--as the other obeyed--“Monsieur de Richelieu!” “Yes.” The Duke glanced round the plaster walls, the raftered ceiling, the shabby furniture. Then his bold dark eyes rested on the meagre figure of Luc, clothed in garments still too good for his surroundings, and he flushed, and a shade came over his broad low brow. “Do you live here?” he asked. “Yes, Maréchal.” Luc indicated a chair, and M. de Richelieu seated himself. The splendour of his velvets, laces, brilliants, and all his extravagant appointments, looked strange enough in this room. His charming face was red between the flowing curls, and he gazed at Luc with an expression of amazement. “Yesterday,” he said, “M. de Voltaire brought your book to the Hôtel d’Antin, and I was reading it last night. Good God—a man of your quality! I wish you could have accepted the Spanish appointment.” Luc seated himself on the low chair by the hearth, on which a few sticks were burning. “I wished so also,” he said quietly. “But you see for yourself, Monseigneur, that my health would not permit.” The Maréchal seemed unable to find words. Luc leant forward and narrowed his weak eyes. “Have you come to offer me patronage, Monsieur?” he asked. The Duke answered with a noble air-- “It would not be possible for anyone to offer M. de Vauvenargues patronage. I heard from M. de Voltaire that you were here, and I came to be instructed in philosophy.” “A Maréchal de France comes to be instructed in philosophy in a garret!” smiled Luc; “and from one with whom he discovered long since that he had nothing in common!” The Duke looked down at his open hand, that he lightly struck with his gauntlet, which was heavily embroidered with wreaths of roses, of gold ribbon, and of violets. “We have something in common,” he said--“Madame la Comtesse Koklinska.” Luc rose and leant against the mean mantelshelf. “Yes, we have that memory in common,” he answered calmly. “When did you see her last?” asked the Duke. “She is dead,” said Luc, looking at him. M. de Richelieu glanced up swiftly. There was a curious sense of stillness in the room. When the Duke spoke, his tone was also low. “When did she die?” “In a convent in Aix--nearly a year ago. So you did not know?” “But I might have guessed that no other reason would have prevented her from coming back.”