The monotonous demand for money continued to issue from the bloodless lips; the half-blind eyes winked and peered at Luc with a stifled appeal. The Marquis pulled out his purse and gave the fellow a silver coin in silence, his delicate senses revolted beyond expression at the nearness of the wretched creature. When the beggar, seeing silver for the first time for many months, snatched at Luc’s coat in gratitude it was more than he could endure; he drew back sharply against the wall.
“Eh, Monseigneur,” mumbled the fellow, crouching away, “pardon me, and may the good saints bless you.”
Luc’s tender heart was instantly moved; he regretted that he had been betrayed into an act of pride which had further humbled one so unfortunate.
“God pity you and release you,” he said; then he noticed that the beggar had only one leg and dragged himself awkwardly by means of a rude crutch. The fellow saw his benefactor’s glance, and with a sudden odd animation in his voice said—
“I lost that in Bohemia, Monseigneur.”
“You were a soldier!” exclaimed Luc.
“Yes, Monseigneur—was wounded; then the cold and the smallpox.” He dropped into his mumble again; his senses seemed clouded. “There were not many came home at all,” he muttered, and hopped off with the coin between his teeth.
Luc stood gazing after him. That pitiful object had perhaps been a gay soldier a couple of years ago. He did not care to follow out his reflections, but abruptly drew his cloak about him and returned to his lodgings.
He found awaiting him a letter from M. Amelot, requesting his attendance at the Louvre on the following day.