The other narrowed his eyes with that superb insolence that seemed to Luc at variance with his obvious high breeding.
“I can assure you,” he said, “you are unique—at least in my experience,” he added, with no softening in his voice, which was as beautiful as his person, but marred with an inflexion of gloom and scorn.
Luc rose; he longed to be out in the night again, alone with his own aspirations.
“We waste time very foolishly,” he said. “Pardon me that I intruded on you, Monsieur.” He turned towards the door and looked with joy on the moonlit lake.
“Waste time!” repeated the other; “you use extraordinary words. How can one waste what is so endless, so wearisome?”
Luc paused, with his hand on the pale, glimmering door. His impulse was to leave without more words, but as he looked at the other man the circumstances of his first knowledge of him, and the sumptuous beauty of this spoilt favourite of fortune, moved him to further speech; curiosity and a certain almost passionate contempt stirred him. For this man was not like M. de Richelieu; he redeemed himself with no gaiety or wit or energy, but seemed too proud or too supine to make the least effort to please or even to comprehend others.
“How old are you?” asked Luc abruptly.
“Twenty-seven,” was the answer, given in a kind of haughty surprise.
“And tired of life!” smiled the Marquis. “Is there anything in the world you have not enjoyed to satiety? is there anything under heaven you are not weary of?”
The other answered with deep melancholy.