“You look rather pale, Monsieur,” remarked the Governor, in those same gentle tones that Luc had heard last night. “I trust you have had an easy journey from Aix?” The Marquis bowed in silence. M. de Richelieu supported himself on his elbow on the pile of cushions at the head of his couch. “You bring the best of introductions,” he said. “M. de Caumont speaks of you warmly--you were Hippolyte’s friend, and with him in Prague, were you not?” Luc was impressed, almost bewildered, by his composure, his quick assumption of the courtly, gracious manner. Last night this calm had surprised him; now he found it astounding. M. de Richelieu had not changed colour, and was regarding him with unfaltering eyes. But it was not in Luc to take up the matter on these terms; he revolted against the situation, against the part he was evidently expected to play. The slim, gorgeous young Governor, the sumptuous little room became hateful to him. He rose. “Monseigneur,” he said coldly, “I came here on a misunderstanding.” M. de Richelieu interrupted. “You came, I think, Monsieur, because you are desirous of entering Government service--M. de Caumont asks my influence on your behalf.” “I will not put you to that trouble, Highness,” answered Luc wearily. The Duke laughed in his princely way, as if he was too great to be easily offended; yet Luc thought he was vexed too, perhaps a little confused. “I shall be able to give you a position, Monsieur, immediately.” Luc flushed almost as painfully as if some one had offered him money. “You mistake me,” he said gravely. “No, I think I estimate you fairly well,” answered the Governor decidedly. “In this you mistake me,” replied Luc, with a sudden flash in his voice. “There is nothing in your gift, Monseigneur, that I would accept.” A look of wrathful amaze glimmered for an instant in the Duke’s brown eyes, but he smiled, though coldly. “For one who hopes to succeed in diplomacy,” he said, “you are singularly simple.” “Not so simple, Monseigneur, that I do not see the attempt of your Highness to bribe a man who holds an unpleasant secret.” M. de Richelieu did not alter the regal ease of his attitude, but he suddenly changed his tone. “Forgive me, my dear Marquis,” he said pleasantly, “but we evidently do fail to understand each other, and that is a pity----” Luc interrupted. “Highness, this is the truth. I know that the wretched Italian was murdered last night, and I know whose sword struck him down. You deceived me easily,” he added simply, “and I know you are a great man, who can amuse himself as he pleases--you have the law in your own hands. But there is no employ under the Governor of Languedoc that I would take.” With the effort of saying these words the colour flooded his face; he did not speak them with any grandeur, but with a frowning distaste. M. de Richelieu flashed into fierce haughtiness.