“Old!” he repeated. “Old!” He rose. “My God! do you think I am _old_? Look at me, Monsieur--am I _old_?” Luc turned his head towards him. “I can scarcely see you at all,” he said serenely. “I only see something gold and purple. I am, Monsieur, half blind.” The Duke stared at him. “If I was stricken like you, I would fall on my sword!” he exclaimed impulsively. “Each has his own courage,” replied Luc. “How long will you stay here?” asked the Maréchal abruptly. “Until I die, Monsieur.” “By Heaven, no. Come to the Hôtel d’Antin. You are a great man. Since I am growing old I need a philosopher at my side, and--I always liked you, Luc de Vauvenargues.” The Marquis rose. “I suppose it was you who obtained me the Spanish appointment after all?” he asked suddenly. “Do you bear me malice for that?” “No,” said Luc, “no. But I am glad that I have chosen a way where I can walk unaided.” “Will you come to the Hôtel d’Antin?” “Monseigneur, this time I have not come to Paris to become a pensioner of the great.” This answer, spoken with pride, but sweetly, caused the blood to flush to M. de Richelieu’s side curls. “So my philosopher rejects me!” he cried. “And I have prostrated myself at the feet of the wise man without learning the secret of perpetual youth or happiness! Farewell, Monsieur de Vauvenargues.” He bowed and stepped towards the door. When he had opened it he paused with the latch in his hand. “Where is she buried?” he asked. Luc did not answer. “I mean La Koklinska,” insisted the resplendent Maréchal. “In our hearts,” answered the Marquis swiftly. “Let her lie at peace.” “Your pardon,” said M. de Richelieu. “I would have dedicated something to her memory.” “You can, Monsieur--your silence.” The Duke bowed again. “My silence, then, until we three meet in the Elysian Fields, when we shall be able to have an interesting conversation. Again, and till then, farewell.” “Farewell, Monsieur le Maréchal.” The door closed on the gorgeous courtier, and Luc was alone as usual in the cold, darkening room, with the fire sinking on the hearth and the sun fading without over the roofs of Paris. CHAPTER VII THE ROSES OF M. MARMONTEL Luc stood again on the bridge, leaning on the parapet, and watching the river and the people passing to and fro. It was midsummer of the year ’46, and unusually hot. Most of the women wore roses--red, white, and pink. There were many boats on the river, and an air of gay carelessness over Paris; yet the war had not been so brilliantly successful of late. The English mastery of the seas was ruining commerce, and the Saxon troops were marching on Provence. The taxes were heavier than ever, and starved faces and bitter tongues more frequent in the poorer quarters where Luc lived.