“I have passed, Monseigneur, all my youth far from the distractions of the world, in tasks that render me fit for the position towards which my character impels me, and I dare to think that a training so laborious puts me, at least, on a level with those who have spent all their fortune on their intrigues and their pleasures. I am well aware, Monseigneur, that the hopes that I have founded on my own ardour are likely to be deceived; my health will not permit me to continue my services at the war. I have written to M. le Duc de Biron asking him to accept my resignation, and there remains nothing to me in my present situation but to again put my case before you, Monseigneur, and to await the grace of your reply. Pardon me, Monseigneur, if this letter is not sufficiently measured in expression.—I am, Monseigneur, your devoted servant,
“Vauvenargues”
This letter was written in a breath and on the instant sealed and dispatched; the inspiration to write it had come from the few lines of M. de Voltaire’s note. It was not a letter many would have sent to a Minister. Luc was not versed in the method of addressing the great; he wrote from his heart, urged on by the burning desire for action, for achievement, for fame.
When the letter had gone he went to the window and looked out on the steady rain and straight-fronted houses, lit with the glimmer of oil lamps, that hid Paris from his vision.
What was the cloud, the confusion, the barrier that came between him and the attainment of his desires? There was some key somewhere that unlocked the door of Paris, of life—of that life which meant the scope to exercise, to strain the energies, to put the utmost into endeavour. Where was such a life?
For ten years Luc had been waiting—always round the corner was the promised goal—everything had been beautiful with the glamour of romance. But, looked at coldly, what had these ten years been but wasted? Luc was starting fresh on another road, and seemed as far as ever from the summit of his ambitions. Yet it could not be possible that he was going to remain for ever obscure; he could not believe that.
There was a little narrow balcony with a fine railing before his window. Luc drew the curtains, opened the wet glass, and stepped out. The air was pure and clear, the rain fresh and delicate. The long twisted length of the Rue du Bac glistened with the reflected light of the pools between the cobbles.
Luc thrilled to the mystery and inspiration of the silent city with its hidden activities, to the subtle pleasure of the rain and the lamplight. He thought—he knew not why—of the King, young, ardent, brave, with the riches of the world rolled to his feet—the King—of France!
Luc shivered even to imagine the glorious pride of that position. He leant on the railing, regardless of the rain that was falling, and looked up and down the street that was all he could see of Paris.
A sedan-chair came from the direction of the river, carried by two bearers in plain livery; it was—though Luc did not recognize it as such—a hired chair. It stopped at the house nearly opposite Luc. A gentleman put his head out and said something in a low voice; the chair moved a few doors higher up. Meanwhile from the opposite end of the street came two other men carrying, not a sedan-chair, but a large black coffin, on the lid of which was a shield-shaped plate that threw off the hesitating rays of the lamplight.