“If she had lived, M. de Maréchal, she would never have come back. She died in the habit of a novice.” “Ah--well, after all, that is what they all do. Did she speak of me?” “She said, Monsieur, you had done--what they all do.” M. de Richelieu laughed softly. “She was a clever woman. I never knew her deceived. She was, in her way, quite marvellous. But I did not come to speak of her.” “No, Monsieur, but to look on a curiosity, I suppose?” M. de Richelieu rose to his feet with a shimmer of his violet watered silks, and said a curious thing. “Are you--with the world forgone--happy?” he asked. Luc looked over the house-tops at the setting sun that glittered over the roofs of the Isle of St. Louis. “Yes,” he answered. He coughed, put his hand to the plain linen ruffles on his bosom, and sat down again in the worn chair. “And yet you have lost everything!” exclaimed the Maréchal. “I keep my soul,” smiled Luc; and his pallid, disfigured face glowed for a second into its old likeness. “I have _my_ soul,” said the Maréchal, “and all the world besides. What have you that I have not?” “Nothing, maybe,” replied Luc gravely. “Ah,” insisted the Court favourite, “you have the power to come and live--like this.” His superb gesture was as if he indicated a kennel. “You have the power to sacrifice things that must be sweet to you. What inspires you?” “The love of glory, Monsieur,” smiled Luc. “Call it that. But what is the use of words? My life marches to a different music from yours.” “Do you despise me?” asked the Maréchal quickly, eagerly. Luc considered a moment before he lifted his head and answered quietly-- “I think I do.” “So M. de Voltaire says sometimes; but he is not a man of quality. I thought you despised me when we first met. Why?” “You had such great opportunities,” answered Luc. “I have made great use of them. There is no one more powerful in France, except La Pompadour.” “That is a proud boast,” said the Marquis. “I recommend it for your epitaph, Monsieur le Maréchal.” The Duke put his hand swiftly to the gold lace on his bosom. “You hold me in contempt,” he said, with a fine smile, “but I can feel no scorn for you. How do you do it?” Luc lifted his head. “Are you so discontented with your own life that you must come prying into mine?” he said evenly. “You have what you wanted. Be satisfied, as I am.” M. de Richelieu’s face paled with a sudden passion. “There is _nothing_ can satisfy me! I begin to find the world very stale, so much of it is foolish. But _you_ seem to have found something new. Tell me, for I no longer see anything gilded in all the world. There is a tarnish over the gold pieces, and over the women’s hair--and both were bright enough to me once.” Luc leant forward, and with a bent poker stirred the fire into a sparkle of embers. “I fear, Monsieur le Maréchal,” he said, “that you begin to grow old.” The Duke laughed.