M. Marmontel wore roses like the women who had passed to and fro the Pont St. Germain--sweet-smelling red roses, thrust into the black velvet ribbon that fastened the long lace ends of his cravat. His bright, sparkling brown hair was tied with a blue velvet knot; his white waistcoat was flourished with wreaths of flowers in many colours; his face was slightly flushed under the eyes that were fixed on the man before him, with a look of mingled humility, apprehension, and self-confidence, only to be seen in the faces of the very youthful and very happy. Luc, with painful, laboured searching, made out these details. His grasp tightened on the straight young fingers. “I congratulate M. Marmontel from the depths of my heart,” he said. And his voice was so soft, so sweet, so sincere that the man to whom he spoke gave a slight start. He was expecting another voice from this frail, ill creature. “What does it feel like,” continued Luc, in the same warm tones, “to be _young_ and _famous_? To have achieved so soon?” “Monseigneur, you overwhelm me,” answered the young author frankly. Luc smiled. His scarred face--the delicate traits of which had been so for ever ruined--changed with this smile in such a fashion-- inexpressible, but not to be ignored--that M. Marmontel, with a sense of shock, knew he was in the presence of something very rare and beautiful, and his own achievement seemed a crude thing. “I have done nothing,” he said. “I hope some day--but at present--nothing, Monsieur.” He lowered his eyes, confused. The low, sweet, aristocrat’s voice answered-- “You must not undervalue yourself, nor your great rewards. I am grateful you found time to come here.” He gave a little gesture round the miserable room, a gesture that was the man of quality’s dismissal of his surroundings. And indeed M. Marmontel, though used to the most splendid hotels of Paris, had forgotten the garret from the moment Luc had spoken. M. de Voltaire began to talk: of the great world; of the world of letters; of the world beyond Paris, beyond France; of the future, and the great changes that were coming with a swiftness almost terrible. But for once Luc was not listening to the speech of M. de Voltaire; he was looking tenderly, lovingly, at the favourite of fortune, the man in the flush of his youth and fame, the man who had won glory at the first effort. He thought of d’Espagnac and de Seytres--of how beautiful and ardent they had been, and how forgotten they were in their foreign graves--and his soul rushed back to his own early youth and his opening dreams. This man had realized his--this man had everything gorgeous in the world before him; he was modest and fine, but his extraordinary sense of triumph was betrayed in his clear laugh. He laughed often at M. de Voltaire’s remarks. No shade of envy or even of regret touched Luc. He did not think of himself at all; only he felt a little wonder at the thought of the two young officers whom he had so loved.