He saw a man of no more than his own age, of the appearance of a well-bred gentleman, dressed in a worn suit of dark red corded tabinet, with a plain muslin shirt ruffled at the neck and wrists; he wore a simple sword, ornamented by a bunch of steel tassels hanging from the scabbard, and a lady’s handkerchief, deeply bordered with lace, beneath the black band of his neck ribbon. Owing to the way in which he sat and his attitude, with his head slightly bent, Luc could not clearly distinguish his features; but his hair, which was a bright brown, inclined to reddish, and gathered into a club, was full in the meagre light of the window. “In what way can I serve you, Monsieur?” asked the Marquis. He was slightly interested, slightly diverted, but weary mentally and languid after his sleepless night. His pure, proud face was thrown up by the strengthening dawn against the old black chair in which he sat, and his deep grey eyes rested on the other with perfect courtesy and perfect serenity. “I am the Marquis de Vauvenargues, formerly of the _régiment du roi_,” he said. The young man moved suddenly, looped the curtain yet farther back, and pulled his chair round so that the light fell over his face; it was like taking a mask from his features, so suddenly were countenance and personality revealed. He had, as the Marquis noticed with a slight sense of horror, something of the look of Georges d’Espagnac in his fair, regular outline; but his expression was one of hopeless despair, keen wretchedness, and bitter self-contempt. His light brown eyes were sunk and shadowed, his mouth strained, his cheeks hollow; over his whole face was a bluish tinge that contrasted with the bright colour of his hair. This might have been caused by the chill, hard light of the dawn, or the effect of ill-health. Whatever the reason of it, it gave him a peculiar, ghastly appearance. Luc sat forward in his chair; for the second time within a few hours he was looking at an expression of absolute despair on a young, fair face. He compared the two countenances--the seen and the remembered--and there was this great difference in them, that, whereas the noble in the pavilion had revealed the bitter languor of satiety, the faded distaste of life caused by unending pleasure and cloying luxury, this man looked like one who had burnt out his soul in some useless endeavour, and was now on the verge of uttermost failure. “Monsieur,” said the Marquis, not without a tremor in his tone, “why did you ask my company?” “Ah,” replied the other, in a voice that had retained more of its youth and freshness than his face, “you are afraid that I am about to disturb your tranquillity by some recital of grief; but you need not be. And besides,” he added, “you are as serene as a very old monk who has never left his cloister--I can see it in your eyes.” “Not so serene,” replied Luc, “that I am not troubled by the sight of despair, and I have looked on it before this night.”