“No,” said the Marquis; “I have heard nothing of you. I was surprised to see you the other day—here, at the fête.”
“I came,” she replied, still gazing at him, “because I shall not be likely to ever hear music or see gaiety again—not even this little simple country merry-making.”
The wind blew sharply between them and a few dead leaves fell from the elm on to Carola’s lap.
“Is M. de Richelieu in Paris?” asked Luc.
“M. de Richelieu”—she spoke without heat or bitterness—“is now the servant of Madame de la Poplinière, and M. Amelot, who was my friend, has fallen. The Marquise de Pompadour has changed the face of the Court; every post is now filled by her creatures. Besides, I was very stupid in Austria—I was found out.”
Her horse shook his head and the bridle silver twinkled in the stillness.
Luc asked her what she had once asked him—
“What are you going to do with your life?”
“I have made my choice.” Her answer was ready. “M. de Richelieu is generous—he gives one—alternatives. I have an estate in Poland, my husband’s estate. I could go there, with a pension—I could die—like Madame de Chateauroux—I could go into a convent. I have decided on the last.”
“Why?” asked Luc, leaning a little forward on his saddle.