A gorgeous young man, with beautiful dark blue eyes and a face set in lines of gloom and discontent, lounged on a sofa piled with white satin cushions with silver tassels, eating elaborate bonbons out of a gold dish on a small table beside him. The window near looked on to the river and Paris; it was a private apartment in the Louvre, extravagantly furnished.
By the window stood M. de Richelieu looking often at the river and occasionally at his companion.
“I ask it as a favour,” he said.
The other did not trouble to raise his lids.
“Ask M. Amelot,” he replied; “I can do nothing.”
“You can advise him—make a suggestion.”
“I have no influence with him,” returned the young man with weary peevishness. “Besides, it is too much trouble.”
The sunlight shot a ray between the heavy silk curtains and shone on the speaker’s handsome face and disarranged dark hair that flowed over his shoulders and was only partially powdered.
“You know M. Amelot will do nothing to oblige me,” persisted M. de Richelieu; “he is a tiresome fool at best.”
The other half raised himself on the couch and turned his superb eyes on the Duke.