THE PAINTER Luc heard that the King and M. Amelot had returned to Paris early the same morning that he had been in converse with the young painter. There was now nothing to keep him in Versailles: he had not seen the Countess Carola, and yesterday M. de Biron, who was now rejoining his regiment, could tell him nothing of her. She was probably still in Paris. Versailles, at least, had no attractions for Luc; he was more than ever anxious to see M. Amelot, as a second crisis had arisen between France, Austria, and the advancing power of Prussia. Now Fleury was dead, greater things were hoped from the diplomats of Paris, and Luc believed that he might find this a favourable moment for obtaining employment in politics. A few days before he came to Versailles he had heard from his father; he re-read the letter now, and it revived the sense of the dead weight of the chains of home. His father was waiting eagerly for news of his success; his mother wanted him back, and sent anxious inquiries after his health; Joseph and all his friends would have been so happy if he would have returned after his hardships at the war and settled down in Aix---- Why could he not do it? He loved them all; he often felt ill and lonely. Why not go back and forget these vain visions that M. de Biron so laughed at? Why not marry Mademoiselle de Séguy and take up the life his father and his brother were leading? His sense of responsibility towards his parents was heavy: they had done everything for him, he nothing for them; he grudged even the money his stay in Paris was costing. Joseph had never been able to afford to come to Court. That they should be indulgent, even making sacrifices for him, was the last intolerable chain; how could he proceed on his way fettered by obligation, burdened by affection and sentiment? He wept a little over this love that was so rare and precious, and yet so useless! He almost wished that he was penniless, friendless--_Master_ of himself, with no one to care if he lived or died; a state that was supposed to be the epitome of human misery. But the man so situated was at least free. Other thoughts instantly checked and thrust this aside, but it had been formed. After all, what all these conflicting emotions amounted to was that he must in some way justify himself; must obey the passionate impulse within him, and obtain a scope for his energies. He left his chamber, and walked near the great park where he had met the beautiful young noble in the peach-coloured light of the pavilion last night. One sentence of his kept recurring to Luc; it was the only moment when he had shown any glimpse of feeling, and it was when Luc had said, “Those who brought you up have something to answer for,” and the young man had answered, in a moved tone, “God judge them--I think they have!”