“I understand M. de Vauvenargues perfectly,” answered M. de Richelieu; and, as if unwilling to prolong the conversation, he turned back towards the house.
Luc, regarding him with an habitually keen observation, noticed that he was considerably older than he had appeared on either of the two previous occasions on which Luc had seen him.
In the lurid lights of the barn, in the shadowed softness of his own luxurious apartment, he had seemed in his first youth; but now the direct sunbeams that showed the red powder on Carola’s fine skin revealed the face of M. de Richelieu as that of a man of middle age, despite his slender, upright figure and careful dressing. His charm was none the less; his slightly broad countenance wore the same expression of almost irresistible daring gaiety and serene self-confidence. Luc smiled at him in his heart, and so was half won.
The three entered the house by a side door and ascended a back staircase. Luc thought the place seemed little used, a great mansion often shut up. He neither saw nor heard servants.
Carola went ahead with M. de Richelieu; he, as if disdainful of being overheard, said in a voice hardly lowered—
“You have chosen the wrong man, Madame; but if you wish to go on with the comedy, I shall not interfere.”
Carola’s reply was such a mere murmur that Luc did not hear; nor did he care what she said. He was content to leave this doubtful adventure in her hands—whichever way it ended, he would come to some issue with her before he left.
They entered upon a long wide corridor, the heavy candelabra and gilt-legged furniture covered with linen on which the dust lay thickly; the floor was of black and white squares of marble, the windows were shuttered, the air struck musty and yet chill.
Carola opened a high door half-way down this corridor, and the two men followed her into an ornately furnished room, where the sun streamed in a melancholy fashion over silk screens, silk-hung walls, carved chairs, and Eastern rugs. The room had an air of having been long deserted or only used casually; the sunbeams showed dust everywhere, and one of the wings of the elaborate shutters was still closed.
On a long crimson-striped sofa lay Carola’s hat, gloves, and cane. She seated herself near on a fantastic chair of a Chinese pattern; behind her was a picture covered by a faded pink curtain.