“Do you play?” he asked. “I never had the time or the money,” said the Marquis simply. “You do?” “I was the finest gambler in France, they say, before I was ten years old,” was the listless reply; as he spoke he took the white chair before the card table. “Why, those who brought you up have something to answer for,” smiled Luc. He took off his hat and seated himself on the corner of the sofa, an elegant dark figure in his deep blue velvet against the light background. The other man was silent a moment, then he said in an even voice-- “God judge them--I think they have.” He interested Luc intensely, by reason of his great beauty, his tragic melancholy, and something indefinable in his manner that Luc could not place. He was obviously a noble--possibly a great noble--but his air was the air of some class Luc had never met. He was as much puzzled by it as if he had suddenly found himself talking to some shopkeeper of the Rue St. Honoré in disguise as a gentleman, or some foreigner passing as a Frenchman; yet he could not have named what this man did or said that was out of the ordinary. “Monsieur,” he said, “you seem to me very melancholy, and yet, methinks, you appear one of fortune’s favourites.” “In what way?” was the almost wondering answer. Luc was near moved to laughter again, then to a great pity. “You have youth and health, I know, Monsieur, and, I think, money and leisure--probably a great name and power. Am I right?” “I have all those,” answered the other wearily. “But what have those things to do with content?” “There are men,” smiled Luc, “who have neither money nor health nor power, only great ambitions--unsatisfied.” “Ambitions!” The blue eyes widened. “If you have power you can gratify your ambitions, doubtless, Monsieur,” remarked the Marquis dryly; “but you seem to me one who hath known nothing but ease.” The other leant forward a little; his gaze was fixed on Luc in an interested fashion. “Who are you?” Luc’s shyness returned. “I was a soldier,” he said briefly; “I am now merely M. de Vauvenargues, who has still his use to find.” “What do you wish to do?” “To serve the King,” answered Luc without affectation. “The King! I suppose it is a profitable employment to serve the King.” The sneer was so manifest that Luc replied with some warmth-- “No, Monsieur; but it is honourable, and I look for honour.” “Then,” returned the gentleman with even deeper scorn, “you are unique in France.” Luc flushed to his brow and his reserve vanished again. “If you think that,” he replied earnestly, “it is clear that you have never been with the army.” “The army!” repeated the other with an air of cynical haughtiness, and Luc began to be impatient with the gloomy voluptuary who appeared to be sunk in such a sloth of mind that he was incapable even of appreciation.