“Do you not know me, Monsieur le Marquis?”
Luc strained his eyes.
“Come a little nearer. Ah!”—as the other obeyed—“Monsieur de Richelieu!”
“Yes.”
The Duke glanced round the plaster walls, the raftered ceiling, the shabby furniture. Then his bold dark eyes rested on the meagre figure of Luc, clothed in garments still too good for his surroundings, and he flushed, and a shade came over his broad low brow.
“Do you live here?” he asked.
“Yes, Maréchal.”
Luc indicated a chair, and M. de Richelieu seated himself. The splendour of his velvets, laces, brilliants, and all his extravagant appointments, looked strange enough in this room. His charming face was red between the flowing curls, and he gazed at Luc with an expression of amazement.
“Yesterday,” he said, “M. de Voltaire brought your book to the Hôtel d’Antin, and I was reading it last night. Good God—a man of your quality! I wish you could have accepted the Spanish appointment.”
Luc seated himself on the low chair by the hearth, on which a few sticks were burning.