He turned impetuously to find his listener watching him curiously with the same expression of cold melancholy, and a certain chill came over his own ardour. “I do not know why I speak so,” he said with a flush, “nor why I have been drawn to talk at all.” “Because,” replied the other wearily, “you are a fool.” He yawned and then gave a little sigh. Luc’s instant anger as instantly died, for there was something tragic in the beautiful face so utterly hopeless, so blind to the spiritual, so weary of the senses. “Good night, Monsieur,” said the Marquis gravely. The other made no answer. His blue eyes fluttered lazily from Luc and rested on the floor; his chin sunk on the jewelled laces on his breast. The absolute indifference of his manner was a marked discourtesy. The Marquis gave him a narrowed glance and left him. As Luc saw the water, the sky, the roses, and the moonlight, the image of the jaded, sad, and sneering young man went from his mind; he could not think melancholy thoughts on such a night of gold and pearl, dark trees and fragrant flowers. CHAPTER IV DESPAIR As Luc stood at the window of his modest bedroom the night of the fête, he was thinking of two definite themes, curiously woven and twisted into one strand of reflection. The first theme was the diamond ring he had seen the Countess Carola wearing. He wondered how she came by it, and he was rather vexed by the thought that perhaps the page had never told his master it had been refused, but kept and sold it secretly; for that it was the same jewel he had held in his hand in the Governor’s house at Avignon that was now in the possession of the Polish lady he did not, in his heart, for a moment doubt. The second theme, in no way connected, yet mingled, with the other, was the man he had held that curious conversation with in the fairylike pavilion at Versailles--a man with life strong within him, yet tired of life, the most melancholy of spectacles, and one new to Luc. While men like this one and M. de Richelieu held the great places of the land, perhaps M. de Biron was right in saying that penniless, unsupported zeal would find no scope in Paris. Perhaps, after all, Roland was dead at Roncesvalles, Charlemagne buried, and all the peers perished, taking chivalry with them to their graves. The moon had long since set, and a vivid dawn was spreading above the housetops of the little town. Luc softly opened the window and looked out, up and down the bare, silent little street, fresh and clean in the new light. Supposing it was all a delusion, supposing glory always evaded him, vanished into clouds of disappointment, supposing he was always met by the cold look those blue eyes had turned on him last night?