“You spoke of the King of France,” said Louis, “and you gave him too many virtues, Monsieur. It is a rare fault, for the King has more detractors than defenders. I hope you may keep your loyalty in your new employment.” He smiled a little sadly, and the blue eyes clouded and flashed.
Luc was disarmed; the languid young idler was transformed into the man who might indeed be the King of his imaginings—a man who was too great to be affronted, too noble to remember trivialities. Luc was aware of nothing in that moment but a passionate desire to serve the King—to instantly prove his loyalty; the generous blood surged back into his face.
“Your Majesty will have no idle servant in me,” he said, and his voice quivered a little now.
Louis held out his large, shapely hand.
“Sire!” cried Luc, overwhelmed. He sank on one knee and kissed the King’s fingers with throbbing lips.
“We hope to see you on your return from Spain,” said Louis as he rose.
“Your Majesty!” murmured Luc. He took his dismissal with a dignity above a courtier’s and stepped backwards, bowing low.
Louis was silent for a little after Luc had gone, but M. de Richelieu laughed, as if he were in possession of a delicious jest.
“What is the matter, Maréchal?” asked Louis at length, turning sleepy eyes on him.
“I was thinking that, after all, your Majesty does it better than I could.”