“You know that,” breathed Carola; “from the first you must have known----” “No,” said Luc. “I am from the provinces.” The Duke’s clear glance went from one to another; he spoke very gravely, with an even pride. “I told Madame she had made a mistake. Perhaps Madame will explain?” He picked up his hat. “Shall I leave you to explain?” he insisted, looking full at Carola. “Leave me to solve my enigma,” said Luc, with a smile. “Give me five minutes, M. le Duc----” “Are you so quick?” responded M. de Richelieu. “I will give you half an hour in which to weary of guessing your riddle.” His charming face relaxed into a soft and fleeting smile, he bowed low to the haggard lady on the sofa, and left her alone with Luc. CHAPTER VII A PICTURE Carola moved her long hands so that they covered her face. “What are you?” asked Luc dreamily. “What are you?” She dropped her hands and looked at him. “I do not know. Whatever men label me, I think. To you at least I was a beacon of pure flame--was I not?” “You have quenched that light now, Madame,” he answered quietly. “I could not believe that you had not found out--till you came to-day,” she said. “And yet I wondered, too--for you are one of those who care----” She rose, erect in the stiff folds of her brocade gown. “So you will not come to Austria?” she asked. He smiled. “Did you think I would? You know my ambitions.” Some passion ran through her and tightened her whole frame; she clasped her hands together and pressed them against her bosom. “Do you dare to despise me?” she cried. “Do you accuse me of fooling you?” “I fooled myself,” he answered quietly. “You seemed to me wonderful.” The real blood outshone the paint on her cheeks. “Am I less wonderful,” she asked, “because I come from the gutter?--because I am a wanton and spy?” “Not less wonderful to M. de Richelieu,” answered Luc, “but to me you no longer exist save as a shadowy riddle. That can be no grief to you, Madame.” She unclasped her hands and raised her head; she took up her hat and flung it down again; she cast herself on the settee and pulled at the heavy lace on her bosom. All the while he watched her, never moving. “I wanted to help you,” she said, breathing quickly. “It is not my fault that you blindly accepted me--M. de Biron must know. I wished to help you ever since we tramped the snow together in Bohemia.” He thought of her with the dead child in her arms and holding the dying head of Georges d’Espagnac; he looked at her tenderly. “Poor soul!” he whispered. The words seemed to sting her into fierceness. “Am I so soiled that you pity me?” she demanded. “I pity you too--you who are flinging everything away for glory--glory!” She laid a passionate sneer on the word, but Luc was unmoved. “I believe that you wished to help me--I think you must have a generous soul, Madame. But you cannot help me.”