“Oh, Monsieur!” he exclaimed, “you cannot guess how much I have hoped to one day meet you.”
“A soldier,” smiled M. de Voltaire, “and yet you found time for philosophy and the arts!”
Luc, who was standing like a scholar before his master, answered in nervous haste—
“I know nothing about either, Monsieur, nothing——”
The great man interrupted.
“I gather from your letters that you are in quest of glory—therefore you know a great deal about both. If you have the penetration to see, M. le Marquis, that there is nothing in the world like even the dim sparkle of glory—I, at least, can teach you nothing.”
As he spoke his eyes flashed as if a positive red fire sparkled from them; so strong was the effect of his presence that Luc felt as if he were being physically touched and held.
M. de Voltaire rose. He had the grand manner consciously—not unconsciously like M. de Richelieu—yet defined from the theatrical by his passionate genius that gave his very flourishes an air of conviction. He stepped up to the Marquis and held out his hand.
“Monseigneur,” he said, with a large air of grandeur, “I should like to be your friend.”
Luc clasped the thin right hand that had been so active and powerful in the cause of truth and freedom, and tears lent a lustre to his eyes.