He spoke quietly, but in his eyes was a leaping light. The old Marquis, both touched and pleased, rose and fondly laid his hand on his shoulder. “You are a true de Clapiers,” he said, then sighed a little, thinking of the blue and silver uniform lying folded away in the chest in his son’s room. Luc divined the thought, the regret. “I shall still serve France, Monseigneur,” he said. “But I have no interest in Paris,” repeated the old noble half sadly, “and I believe no one can succeed at Court without powerful friends. And we--we are rather remote from the great world, here at Aix.” Luc was not daunted by these words. Paris was to him a dream city ruled by a dream king; there was nothing concrete in all the pictures he formed of it. He knew he had ardour and talent and devotion to offer, and he did not believe that these things were ever refused. “If M. de Biron can give me no help I shall write to M. Amelot,” he said quietly, naming the Minister for Foreign Affairs--“or to His Majesty himself.” For a nature that was reserved, almost timid, in all personal matters this was an extraordinary resolution, and one that would not have occurred to many men. The Marquis noted it with some amaze, but made no comment. In these few months since Luc’s return from Bohemia his father had learnt to recognize and respect something remarkable and unfathomable in the character of his son. The sunlight was fading with a sad rapidity. Luc left the garden to return to the house; he entered the dining-room by the open windows. A soft shadow was over everything, making the objects in the chamber almost indistinguishable, but on the table showed the white square of a letter. He picked it up and took it to the light of the pale length of the window; it was heavily sealed with an elaborate and foreign coat of arms and addressed to-- “MONSEIGNEUR MONSEIGNEUR LE CAPITAINE LE MARQUIS DE VAUVENARGUES” He opened it with inevitable curiosity, for the hand was unknown to him; but as he broke the thick wax a strong Oriental perfume told him the writer. It was from the Countess Koklinska. She wrote briefly and with an air of serene friendliness, as might be used by one writing from the Court to the country. She hoped that the Marquis was recovered from his fatigues, and hoped she might see him in Paris. She had heard that he had left the army, and asked abruptly on the last line of her letter, “What is the next step in your career?”