The Duke was standing now in front of the many-coloured tapestry; his slight figure, his elegant features, and rich dressing-gown gave him an almost feminine appearance. A faint mockery curved his nostrils and touched his speech. “I would not have men like M. de Richelieu Governor over any province of France,” answered Luc calmly. Again that look of great haughtiness hardened the face of the Duke. “You know nothing about M. de Richelieu,” he said. He seated himself on the slender-legged chair under the tapestry and began turning over a tray of engraved gems that stood on a little tulip-wood table; yet absently, and with his brown eyes on Luc. The two men whose lives, characters, and experiences were so absolutely different that an impassable gulf existed between them looked at each other as they might have gazed across the borders of some strange country that they would never penetrate. M. de Richelieu’s career had blazed high above the heads of men for all to see, but it was unknown to Luc, who was ignorant of all the scandals and gossip of his time; and Luc, to the Governor, was a man who came from absolute obscurity, who was interestingly novel, but mainly to be noticed because he held an uncomfortable knowledge of an unfortunate incident the Duke wished forgotten. As he gazed at Luc, he was considering what to do. Though he had been involved in many affairs as doubtful and as dangerous as that of last night, though careless recklessness was the keynote of his character and he was confident in his great position and powerful name, yet a creditable witness to a murder connected with an unlawful ceremony to which his confessor was privy was not to be too lightly suffered to depart. The Duke had enemies; if they knew of this, they could make a story of it that the King would not dare disregard. From a spark like this might rise a flame that would burn the very foundations of his greatness. Malice was not in his nature, and he felt no unkindness towards the cold young officer who so manifestly disliked him, but rather a curiosity to know more of him and a half-amused liking. “Monsieur,” he said at length, “this must be adjusted some way between us. You seem to refuse my advances. Perhaps you think I am setting some snare for you, but it is not so.” This had never entered Luc’s thoughts. His outlook was so simple that the other could never have guessed it; he merely wished to get away, to forget it all, and try another road to success. “Monseigneur,” he answered wearily, because his head was aching, and the rosy light of the room and the scent of the flowers, that had at first so pleased, now oppressed his senses, “we have nothing to fear or gain from each other. Permit me to take my leave.” With his stiff military bow he moved towards the door. M. de Richelieu stepped forward and, with an almost affectionate gesture, caught his arm.