“You have a high conception of the King!”
“Yes,” smiled Luc proudly. “I know what real loyalty is—no courtier can teach me. I have walked among the dying, who eased their torments by murmuring the name of King Louis. I have beheld men spurred to great achievement by the thought of him; his name is a power that you perhaps cannot conceive of. I believe with thousands that he will, in the splendid ardour of his youth, lead France to greater glories that she has yet attained. Louis the Great will be overshadowed by Louis the Well Beloved!”
His thin cheek flushed with enthusiasm; he looked beyond the gorgeous pavilion to the exquisite night.
“His Majesty is to be envied,” said the other coldly.
Luc drew a deep breath.
“To be envied! Imagine, on such a night as this, to stand beneath the heavens, young, a king—and King of France! The whole world waiting to give you her best—the power, the scope, the ardent love and devotion at your feet. Ah, Monsieur, to be such a man is to almost pass humanity.”
He turned impetuously to find his listener watching him curiously with the same expression of cold melancholy, and a certain chill came over his own ardour.
“I do not know why I speak so,” he said with a flush, “nor why I have been drawn to talk at all.”
“Because,” replied the other wearily, “you are a fool.” He yawned and then gave a little sigh.
Luc’s instant anger as instantly died, for there was something tragic in the beautiful face so utterly hopeless, so blind to the spiritual, so weary of the senses.