The Quest of Glory, Marjorie Bowen [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

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alarmed, he did not show it. His face expressed wonder and even

amusement.

 

“It was only a jest last night,” he said lightly, “a common amusement.”

 

“It cost a man his life,” answered Luc wearily. “But I pray your

Highness not to speak of it.”

 

“Well,” returned the Duke, with utter callousness, “he was a knave, and

deserved it. He was cheating, and I had him brought from Venice on

purpose.”

 

Luc did not answer; he felt tired, disappointed, and downcast. His one

desire was to get away from this house and from Avignon.

 

“I can make yesterday’s meeting fortunate for both of us,” continued the

Duke. “I liked you from the first. I require another secretary—”

 

“I must refuse,” interrupted Luc. “I will take nothing, Monseigneur.”

 

M. de Richelieu looked at him narrowly.

 

“Where have you lived all your life?” he asked abruptly. “In Aix and in

camp,” replied Luc. His dreamy eyes brightened. “I have been ten years

with the army.”

 

“Why did you leave?”

 

“Because my health broke,” said Luc briefly. “There were not many of us,

Monsieur, who survived the retreat from Prague.”

 

“And now you wish to become a politician,” said M. de Richelieu. “I

suppose you are an idealist?”

 

Luc smiled to think of the utter hopelessness of endeavouring to express

his aspirations to this man.

 

“I have ideas,” he answered simply. “I think I could succeed in

statecraft.”

 

“Tell me some of your ideas—tell me something of what you would do were

you in power.”

 

The Duke was standing now in front of the many-coloured tapestry; his

slight figure, his elegant features, and rich dressing-gown gave him an

almost feminine appearance. A faint mockery curved his nostrils and

touched his speech.

 

“I would not have men like M. de Richelieu Governor over any province

of, France,” answered Luc calmly.

 

Again that look of great haughtiness hardened the face of the Duke.

 

“You know nothing about M. de Richelieu,” he said.

 

He seated himself on the slender-legged chair under the tapestry and

began turning over a tray of engraved gems that stood on a little

tulip-wood table; yet absently, and with his brown eyes on Luc.

 

The two men whose lives, characters, and experiences were so absolutely

different that an impassable gulf existed between them looked at each

other as they might have gazed across the borders of some strange

country that they would never penetrate. M. de Richelieu’s career had

blazed high above the heads of men for all to see, but it was unknown to

Luc, who was ignorant of all the scandals and gossip of his time; and

Luc, to the Governor, was a man who came from absolute obscurity, who

was interestingly novel, but mainly to be noticed because he held an

uncomfortable knowledge of an unfortunate incident the Duke wished

forgotten. As he gazed at Luc, he was considering what to do. Though he

had been involved in many affairs as doubtful and as dangerous as that

of last night, though careless recklessness was the keynote of his

character and he was confident in his great position and powerful name,

yet a creditable witness to a murder connected with an unlawful ceremony

to which his confessor was privy was not to be too lightly suffered to

depart. The Duke had enemies; if they knew of this, they could make a

story of it that the King would not dare disregard. From a spark like

this might rise a flame that would burn the very foundations of his

greatness.

 

Malice was not in his nature, and he felt no unkindness towards the cold

young officer who so manifestly disliked him, but rather a curiosity to

know more of him and a half-amused liking.

 

“Monsieur,” he said at length, “this must be adjusted some way between

us. You seem to refuse my advances. Perhaps you think I am setting some

snare for you, but it is not so.”

 

This had never entered Luc’s thoughts. His outlook was so simple that

the other could never have guessed it; he merely wished to get away, to

forget it all, and try another road to success.

 

“Monseigneur,” he answered wearily, because his head was aching, and the

rosy light of the room and the scent of the flowers, that had at first

so pleased, now oppressed his senses, “we have nothing to fear or gain

from each other. Permit me to take my leave.”

 

With his stiff military bow he moved towards the door. M. de Richelieu

stepped forward and, with an almost affectionate gesture, caught his

arm.

 

“Be reasonable,” he said. “I lost my temper last night; but after all

the fellow was of no account—‘tis over now.”

 

“So I wish it to be, your Highness,” replied Luc.

 

“But there is no need,” continued the Duke, “that it should prevent me

from doing you the service you came to request.”

 

Luc was silent; he was not insensible to M. de Richelieu’s beautiful

grace, to the complete attraction of his person and features that his

life, whatever it had been, had not in the least coarsened or spoilt.

Such was the power of this charm, delicate, manly, strong, that Luc,

though he despised the Duke without affectation, yet felt his scorn

overwhelmed in this physical nearness.

 

“Secretary to the Governor of Languedoc is not a post easily obtained,”

insisted M. de Richelieu. “And I think we should work well together,

Monsieur.”

 

“It is not in your power to give me what I seek, Monsieur,” replied Luc

sadly. “Indeed it is impossible.” The Duke drew back a step.

 

“I implore you allow me to depart,” continued the Marquis. “We shall

never understand each other.”

 

M. de Richelieu twisted his fingers in the curls on his bosom.

 

“What object have you in keeping silence about last night?” he asked

shortly.

 

“What object,” returned Luc proudly, “have I in speaking?”

 

“Oh, you seem to have a great sympathy with heretics and charlatans and

the baser sort. And what of your servant?”

 

“He did not see your Highness in the full light. Besides, he was a

soldier, and is devoted to the house of de Clapiers; you may,

Monseigneur, be assured he will not speak.”

 

“That means that I have taken two obligations from you—my sword last

night and your promise now,” said the Duke very proudly. “It is

impossible, Monsieur le Marquis, that you should refuse to take anything

from me.”

 

“I want nothing of your Highness,” replied Luc; for he thought of the

Duke’s offers as so many bribes, nothing more.

 

M. de Richelieu was galled and angry; it was the first time in his life

that he had felt himself obliged to anyone. He was an adept in bestowing

favours, but had never before received one save from the King. His

breeding, however, took the defeat gracefully.

 

“I hope,” he said coldly, “that some day I may be able to balance this.”

 

“There is nothing to balance,” returned Luc earnestly, for the whole

interview was irritating him. “Let your Highness forget it all and

forget me.”

 

“Will you go to Paris?” asked the Duke abruptly.

 

“Perhaps,” said Luc. His plans were all dashed to the ground, and he had

not yet formed others.

 

“Come to me, then, if you ever need help,” said M. de Richelieu, with

sudden and characteristic recklessness. “A Puritan like you is like to

get into trouble some way.”

 

“I am no Puritan,” returned Luc, flushing slightly, “but an atheist.”

 

M. de Richelieu crossed himself and, at the same time, laughed.

 

“Some day I must introduce you to Monsieur de Voltaire. As for me, I see

I can do nothing with you. I wish you success, Monsieur, but I am not

very hopeful.”

 

He did not hold out his hand, but bowed very grandly and rang a little

bell that stood near the tray of gems.

 

Luc returned the bow in silence, glad to take his departure; the black

page appeared, and conducted him from the mansion. Luc passed through

the beautiful apartments without any sense of pleasure now; he felt

exhausted, and even faint. He longed to be out in the night and under

the stars.

 

When he was on the threshold of the street door another page

breathlessly overtook him.

 

“Monseigneur, you left your glove,” he said.

 

Luc took the riding gauntlet, and felt something heavy in the palm. The

colour throbbed in his face; he shook out on to his hand a diamond ring

of exceptional beauty and remarkably set with sapphires.

 

“Yes, it is my glove,” he said to the page, who was hurrying away, “but

take this back to M. de Richelieu—it is a mistake.” He held out the

ring.

 

“Monseigneur said the jewel was yours,” returned the page.

 

“Well, then,” replied M. de Vauvenargues proudly, “take it as your

guerdon for bringing me the glove.”

 

He flung it on the carpet at the boy’s feet and left the Governor’s

house.