“How could he be otherwise—young, glorious, brave, the hope of France?” A flash came into his voice and he raised his brows in a little frown, as was his habit when excited.
Carola Koklinska moved in her seat, so that her silk mantle fell apart over the long sheen of her gold gown.
“You must come to the fête at Versailles next week,” she said.
“M. de Caumont, who is a friend of my family, requested my presence there with him,” answered Luc. “Shall I see you there, Madame?”
“Yes—oh yes.”
Luc was pleased with this meeting. Carola’s gravity, reserve, the slight mystery of her background all encouraged the abstract ideas of strength, purity, and spirituality that he had associated with her image.
“I have often thought of you,” he said, with a very tender chivalry, “and always as an inspiration.”
She coloured painfully.
“You are on the quest of glory, are you not?” she asked in a breath.
“You have my secret,” he answered, half wistfully, half proudly. For the moment both his reserve and his strength gave way before the impulse to utterly confide in this strange, cold creature and take her comfort, her admonitions, maybe her praise; but he checked the desire, though she might have read it in his hazel eyes as he turned them softly, yet mysteriously, on her. She rose, and he hardened instantly into utter reserve.