Luc paused by the bridge; the exquisite enchantment of the place and hour captivated his senses. He drew a sigh and bent over the roses; their perfume came and went like the drawing of a breath. The nightingale halted in his importunate song and was still. Luc could not stay his feet; he softly crossed the little bridge and approached the door of the pavilion that seemed the centre of this magic spot.
The flood of tremulous pink-gold light showed more roses clustering close about the doorstep: white roses these, turned now to all hues of soft amber and ivory and shimmering away into the luminous shadow that concealed the walls of the pavilion.
Luc supposed that this was but one of the lavish festal arrangements; he had seen several pavilions in the park, though none as remote as this. As there was not a sign of movement nor any whisper of voices he thought the place empty.
With his usual light step unconsciously still further subdued he entered the pavilion.
It was one room, oval shaped, with white walls and ceiling and four windows shaded with peach-tinted silk and open on the lake.
On the panels between the windows hung delicate drawings in pastel framed by gilt ribbons, and in front of one window was a small table of kingswood, which bore some tall Venetian wineglasses and a blue enamel dish of bonbons. The furniture consisted of a low couch covered with pale rich satin cushions all embroidered with garlands and coronals of flowers, several chairs of the most delicate shape and make, and a gold clavichord and harp, both wreathed with natural white roses.
The light came from a silver lamp shaded with silk that hung from the ceiling.
In one corner was a pink satin screen, and as Luc’s first glance was satisfying him that he was alone in this delicious apartment, a gentleman came round this screen and stepped to the nearest window, evidently without seeing the Marquis, who was, indeed, half in the shadow of the outer air. This gentleman was of an appearance befitting the occupier of such an exquisite place. He wore a white velvet coat so embroidered with gold and pearl that the skirts stood stiff about him; his waistcoat was pale violet silk glittering with crystal flowers; his sword-hilt was gold and diamond; and there were diamonds in the black cravat which fell over the gorgeous lace on his bosom. This much and the extreme grace of his tall person Luc noticed in an instant; in the next he was aware that he looked at the man whom he had seen a few days before in the Rue du Bac cowering before the black coffin. Even though he could only see a profile and the long grey curls that flowed beside it he was sure.
Almost immediately the gentleman turned and was looking at him with a pair of great dark blue eyes of a marvellous colour and lustre. The face proved as fascinatingly beautiful as Luc had believed from his brief glimpse. The expression was now reserved, haughty, and melancholy; the perfect mouth with the dark upper lip, that showed how deep-hued his hair was beneath the powder, was set firmly, the cleft chin slightly raised. Handsome as the face was in line of feature, the most noticeable thing about it was the superb colour of the eyes—literally a sapphire blue, soft and yet flashing and vivid as the tint of a summer sky at even. Luc had read of such eyes in poetry, but had never thought to see them looking at him from a human face. With one hand, half hidden in the delicate lace at his wrist, holding back the fine silk curtain that concealed the silver lake, the gentleman stood, very much at his ease, and addressed Luc.
“Do I know you?” he asked languidly.