M. de Richelieu did not keep such a strict policing of Languedoc that it was likely to come to his knowledge--well, the affair would be hushed up; and he, Luc, saw no good in soiling his lips by any mention of it, though he felt himself no longer bound by the promise he had made the young rake. The Italian charlatan had perhaps not lived so as to look for a better end--let the whole thing be forgotten; Luc only hoped that he might meet neither priest nor patron again. As the sun rose above the horizon they came upon some poor scattered farms where a peasant driving pigs put them on the road to Avignon, which town they reached about noon of a misty autumn day. Luc put up at a quiet inn, and, having ascertained that the Governor was in residence but would soon be leaving for Paris, he sent his servant at once with the introduction from the Marquis de Caumont and a letter from himself requesting an interview. Jean dispatched on this business, the Marquis shifted his linen, breakfasted, and sat at the inn window overlooking the unfamiliar main street of beautiful Avignon. His head ached, his limbs were full of lassitude, and the incident of the night hung unpleasantly before his mental vision. He tried to replace this picture with others: with that of Clémence de Séguy in her frilled rose-coloured muslin; with that of young d’Espagnac kneeling in the chapel of St. Wenceslas. As he drove his thoughts back to the Hradcany, he suddenly recalled that the voice last night which the Italian had feigned to issue from the poor heretic’s dead lips had said, “Beware of her who comes from Bohemia!” It was a coincidence curious and distasteful that the wretched magician’s last words should have been these; doubtless they referred to some intrigue of his patron, but to Luc they recalled the Countess Carola, and he did not care to think of her in any such connexion. Her dark, gorgeous image, resolute among the snows, against the sombre, pure background of silver firs and frozen skies, came before him suddenly. He felt swiftly heartened as he pondered upon her; she was a vision of mingled fire and ice that passed the allurement of the senses and exquisitely attracted the spirit. Luc shook off the depression of yesterday’s sordid adventure, and his dreams all rushed back to his heart. His modest confidence that something would come of his interview with the Governor occupied him anew; he even allowed himself to picture his father’s pleasure at his return with news of success. Early in the afternoon Jean reappeared with a courteous note from M. de Richelieu’s secretary: His Highness was departing for Versailles to-morrow, but would M. le Marquis wait on him to-night at eight of the clock?