“Ah,” replied the other, in a voice that had retained more of its youth and freshness than his face, “you are afraid that I am about to disturb your tranquillity by some recital of grief; but you need not be. And besides,” he added, “you are as serene as a very old monk who has never left his cloister—I can see it in your eyes.”
“Not so serene,” replied Luc, “that I am not troubled by the sight of despair, and I have looked on it before this night.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” was the answer: “return to your room and forget I ever broke in upon your meditations.”
“Who are you?” asked Luc.
“A painter—perhaps a poet.”
“What have you done with your life,” asked the Marquis, “that at your age you seem so hopeless?”
The painter smiled bitterly.
“I have wasted all my years in the quest of glory.”
Luc felt the blood beating at his heart.
“And you have found——?” he questioned half fearfully.