“Do you bear me malice for that?”
“No,” said Luc, “no. But I am glad that I have chosen a way where I can walk unaided.”
“Will you come to the Hôtel d’Antin?”
“Monseigneur, this time I have not come to Paris to become a pensioner of the great.”
This answer, spoken with pride, but sweetly, caused the blood to flush to M. de Richelieu’s side curls.
“So my philosopher rejects me!” he cried. “And I have prostrated myself at the feet of the wise man without learning the secret of perpetual youth or happiness! Farewell, Monsieur de Vauvenargues.”
He bowed and stepped towards the door. When he had opened it he paused with the latch in his hand.
“Where is she buried?” he asked.
Luc did not answer.
“I mean La Koklinska,” insisted the resplendent Maréchal.