“Had you been with us during the retreat from Prague, Monsieur, you would know how real heroism can be; there was neither profit nor glory for many thousands there who lay down to die in the snow--content to serve the King.” The stranger gazed at him without a change of expression. “What do _you_ hope for at Court?” he asked. “I have nothing to offer but my zeal,” replied Luc, “and I expect nothing but some scope in which to serve His Majesty.” He was answered by a short laugh. “I repeat that you are quite unique, Monsieur.” “There are more men in France than you or I could count, Monsieur, who feel as I,” returned Luc proudly, “and you are unfortunate that you have spent your life in such a fashion as never to have met them.” The other narrowed his eyes with that superb insolence that seemed to Luc at variance with his obvious high breeding. “I can assure you,” he said, “you _are_ unique--at least in my experience,” he added, with no softening in his voice, which was as beautiful as his person, but marred with an inflexion of gloom and scorn. Luc rose; he longed to be out in the night again, alone with his own aspirations. “We waste time very foolishly,” he said. “Pardon me that I intruded on you, Monsieur.” He turned towards the door and looked with joy on the moonlit lake. “Waste time!” repeated the other; “you use extraordinary words. How can one waste what is so endless, so wearisome?” Luc paused, with his hand on the pale, glimmering door. His impulse was to leave without more words, but as he looked at the other man the circumstances of his first knowledge of him, and the sumptuous beauty of this spoilt favourite of fortune, moved him to further speech; curiosity and a certain almost passionate contempt stirred him. For this man was not like M. de Richelieu; he redeemed himself with no gaiety or wit or energy, but seemed too proud or too supine to make the least effort to please or even to comprehend others. “How old are you?” asked Luc abruptly. “Twenty-seven,” was the answer, given in a kind of haughty surprise. “And tired of life!” smiled the Marquis. “Is there anything in the world you have not enjoyed to satiety? is there anything under heaven you are not weary of?” The other answered with deep melancholy. “You are quite right, Monsieur, there is nothing that can give me the least pleasure; I find everything very miserable and stale.” “Yet,” said Luc, thinking of the black coffin, “probably you are afraid of death.” The cynic crossed himself with a trembling hand and paled perceptibly. “How dare you use that word?” he cried. “Have I not said that I will not hear it? But those who believe are saved,” he added, with more animation than he had yet shown, “and I am saved, for I believe. No one can say that I am not a religious man.” “You hang between loathing of life and fear of damnation, then,” returned Luc, marvelling. “Monsieur, I very greatly pity you that your superstitions bring you no greater comfort.”