Luc felt sorry for him, but contemptuous too; he wondered if he should see him again entering the house in the Rue du Bac, or if the adventure of the coffin had caused him to abandon his place of rendezvous. Somehow Luc did not think he would risk the narrow street again after dark. How extraordinary cowardice was---- The Marquis could not remotely conceive the fear of death as an active factor in anyone’s life. As he sat over his dinner in an inn near the populous market square, he thought of the young painter whose quest for glory had brought him to despair, even to madness. Glory--what was it that so many, in this frivolous age, pursued with panting breath and staring eyes? The great sceptic Voltaire, even as the great believer Bossuet, had been swept on to achievement by the desire of it; the blue-eyed noble who might have had it by lifting his finger sat inert and melancholy; the obscure young artist was livid with anguish because he had missed it. Where was it, what was it? A kind of frenzy, a wordless exaltation; perhaps the only sign there is of the godlike in man; the gateway to the infinite; the talisman that would turn the world to gold and heaven into a reality; the pursuit of the San Graal; the journey to the land of Canaan; the search for El Dorado, for the Islands of the Blest--under all these symbols had the quest of glory been disguised. Luc trembled in his heart, for who had yet found the Fortunate Isles? By the time he returned to his lodgings, his servant had packed his portmanteau and had the horses ready for their return to Paris. It was considerably past midday, and later than he had intended; he thought of the artist, and asked Jean if he had seen him go out. The man answered “No,” and Luc crossed the landing and knocked on the door opposite. There was no answer, and after waiting a little, Luc, who was already in his riding-cloak, turned the handle and entered the sombre, old-fashioned bedchamber where he had found himself in that morning’s dawn. He then saw that his servant had been mistaken, for the painter had certainly gone out; the room was empty. The Marquis was leaving again when he noticed on the dark table between the windows where the brass lamp and hour-glass stood a folded piece of paper. He approached, and saw it was addressed to himself. It contained only a few lines, and was unsigned. “MONSIEUR,--I am unfortunately obliged to leave you on a journey I have long contemplated. As you were courteous enough to wish to see some of my work, you will find my first and last masterpiece on the bed--I call it ‘The End of the Quest of Glory.’ It has the merit of truth, at least.” Luc glanced round the room: not a thing had been disarranged--some clothes even still lay across a chair; a portmanteau stood, loosely unstrapped, at the foot of the bed. Luc felt an absolute conviction that no one had left this room since he had himself, several hours before--save one way----