The Duke put his hand swiftly to the gold lace on his bosom.
“You hold me in contempt,” he said, with a fine smile, “but I can feel no scorn for you. How do you do it?”
Luc lifted his head.
“Are you so discontented with your own life that you must come prying into mine?” he said evenly. “You have what you wanted. Be satisfied, as I am.”
M. de Richelieu’s face paled with a sudden passion.
“There is nothing can satisfy me! I begin to find the world very stale, so much of it is foolish. But you seem to have found something new. Tell me, for I no longer see anything gilded in all the world. There is a tarnish over the gold pieces, and over the women’s hair—and both were bright enough to me once.”
Luc leant forward, and with a bent poker stirred the fire into a sparkle of embers.
“I fear, Monsieur le Maréchal,” he said, “that you begin to grow old.”
The Duke laughed.
“Old!” he repeated. “Old!” He rose. “My God! do you think I am old? Look at me, Monsieur—am I old?”