“Shall I give up everything my soul urges me to because I had to leave the army?” he murmured. “Must I live and die in Aix?” But what was open to him? There was only one career worth comparing with the military--that of diplomacy. He had studied law and history; he felt capable of serving France by his pen as well as by his sword. This thought of politics had come to him before; to-day it came and would not be dismissed. He rose impulsively and went to the shelf where his books stood; he picked them up, one after another, and laid them down without opening any of them. An unnameable excitement had possession of him; an inner ecstasy made his limbs tremble. He felt that the whole world was too confined for his spirit; he felt that he grasped a sudden certainty that he would and must attain glory. He returned to his table, composing himself by a strong effort of will, and wrote to M. de Biron, his former Colonel, asking his help in his design of entering the diplomatic service. When this was written and sealed his old calmness returned. He left his room, gave the letter to a servant, and went into the garden. The sky was one flushing dome of golden blue, glowing in the west with the first hues of sunset. The leaves of the trees, the grasses, the flowers, and herbs were all quivering in a low, warm breeze. The old Marquis was seated on a stone bench by the carp pond, with his dogs beside him; he was watching the water, stained a turquoise blue from the sky and across which the blunt-faced carp floated, sparkling in their scarlet, orange, and black scales. Luc came up to the basin. His father smiled at him, but did not speak. The young man was silent also; he was thinking, by some whimsical connexion of ideas, of Carola Koklinska in her gay trappings as he looked at the vivid fish. He thought of her quiet ways, of her splendid clothes, of her great strength. He, not she, had fallen ill after their ghastly march to Eger. On his recovery he had been told that she had gone on with the army to Paris. She left a letter for him, in which she begged him to see her if he could in Paris. She gave her sister’s name, which meant nothing to Luc, but was well known in the capital, and said she was always to be found at that lady’s hotel. Luc had never written to her. She had become a curiously faint memory, blotted with darkness and snow and horror, yet gleaming vividly in her scarlet and gold through the Bohemian night. The Marquis spoke and broke his thoughts. “You are very silent, Luc.” The young man looked up instantly from the water. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I have resolved to enter politics.” His father flushed with surprise and pride. “I did not think you would be long idle, Luc,” he answered affectionately; “but you have set yourself a difficult career,” he added simply. “I have, as you know, no influence at Court.” “I have written to M. de Biron; he will give me introductions at least. When I hear from him I will go to Paris.”