“No,” answered Luc; “but I know there is a God, and I love not to talk of these matters. As for His Majesty—if I did not believe in him could I serve him?”
“Serve France,” interrupted M. de Voltaire. “Put aside all prejudice, superstition, your rank, your family, come to Paris, go into a garret—be one of us—start as I started—be free, express your own soul, write your thoughts, and laugh at the world!”
Luc looked at him with steady hazel eyes, then shook his head.
“I cannot,” he said, in firm, positive tones and with a faint smile.
CHAPTER IX
REFLECTIONS
Luc was no more moved from his way by M. de Voltaire’s impetuous entry into his life than he had been by the unveiling of Carola or by the glimpse he had of the frivolous, cynical Court.
M. de Voltaire was alive, vivid, great. Luc admired him almost to adoration for his intellect and his courage, but he did not in the least waver from the plain path he had set himself, nor did the words of the fiery philosopher affect his scheme of life.
He was going along the way prescribed by tradition, by his instinct, by his birth. He was a noble, a soldier; he owed allegiance to the King, respect to his father, reverence to his name and blazon. That he could not believe in the dogma of the Church was no reason for him to disbelieve in loyalty and honour.
Certainly he had wished to be free, but had always rejected the thought as a temptation; and to give up his rank, his family, his noble ambitions to devote himself to literature seemed to him pure sacrilege. He did not even dwell on the suggestion long, but dismissed it as an impossibility.
If the King were nothing in himself—well, he was a symbol, and Luc, with the obstinacy of the idealist, refused to believe that the world was what the caustic vision of M. de Voltaire saw it.