“Surely they too were worthy to be crowned,” he thought wistfully. And his heart swelled as he recalled Hippolyte dying in the hospital, and Georges in the snow. When the two rose to take their leave, Luc, after his farewells to M. de Voltaire, laid a wasted hand on the younger man’s soft satin sleeve. “Monsieur,” he said, with his unconquerable air of the great gentleman, “I have not held any roses in my hand since I came to Paris--seeing yours reminded me. Might I ask them of you--to remember you by, when you are gone?” M. Marmontel unfastened the red blooms without a word, and held them out. “Thank you,” smiled Luc. “You have honoured me. I give you all my good wishes--that your genius may make you happy as it has made you great.” The young man did not answer. He seemed abashed. When they had gone, Luc went to the table and put the flowers beside the proofs of his book. The sun was near the setting, but the room was still brilliant with ruddy light. Luc stood quite still, his hands resting on the edge of the table. He closed his eyes and bent his head. “Is there no charm to bring any of you back?” he asked, in a low voice. “For a moment? You _know_ now. Come back to me, dear. There is nothing in the way now, nothing. You know I am lonely, do you not?” He swayed a little against the table, and set his teeth. “Come back; come--_back_.” He sank on his knees, and rested his face against the wand-bottomed chair. “I love you--is it not strong enough? Come--_back_.” For a while he shivered in the summer silence of the dying afternoon, and his blood ran passionately in his tired body. Then he lifted his swimming head, and fumbled for the roses that had been worn by the man who was happy, and loved, and young, and famous,--the the man who had everything he had hoped to have, and was everything that he had hoped to be,--and he laid the petals to his lips, and presently wept into their hearts, because he too was young, and some things that were dead could not be forgotten, and some hopes that were unfulfilled and some desires that were unsatisfied could not be for ever silenced. CHAPTER VIII THE END OF THE QUEST On a pale, bitter day in the following spring, Luc de Clapiers made his way with a steady, purposeful slowness to a certain house in the Isle where there was a garden. It was the hotel of some nobleman, neglected and shut up. The garden was neglected too, but there was grass in it, green now, and two trees, just beginning to be flushed with leaves that crossed their boughs before the shuttered windows and closed doors. In the centre of this garden was a fountain, broken and dried up. The basin was grey with dead moss, and in the centre rose a defaced figure with a pitying face and a bare bosom girdled beneath with drapery, in the folds of which the little birds nested.