He waited with his hat in his hand and the colour deepening in his face, for he felt acutely that the Maréchal was laughing at him.
“I do not know to whom I am indebted,” he added.
“Monsieur,” answered Louis, “to the King of France.”
“His Majesty!” stammered Luc, bewildered.
“I am the King,” smiled Louis with a lazy, soft grandeur.
Luc’s quick mind saw it all in a flash of pain—his first sight of this man, their meeting, the unplaceable manner, his own foolish, impetuous words. He rallied to the shock as he had rallied to many a cavalry charge; he faced the blue eyes unflinchingly, though his face became as colourless as the soft folds of muslin under his black velvet stock.
“I stand at your Majesty’s mercy,” he said, in a faint but even voice.
“You remember our meeting, Monsieur?” asked Louis.
“Yes, sire.”
Louis advanced a step. Luc did not lower his eyes; the two men looked at each other with a steady intentness.