“In our hearts,” answered the Marquis swiftly. “Let her lie at peace.”
“Your pardon,” said M. de Richelieu. “I would have dedicated something to her memory.”
“You can, Monsieur—your silence.”
The Duke bowed again.
“My silence, then, until we three meet in the Elysian Fields, when we shall be able to have an interesting conversation. Again, and till then, farewell.”
“Farewell, Monsieur le Maréchal.”
The door closed on the gorgeous courtier, and Luc was alone as usual in the cold, darkening room, with the fire sinking on the hearth and the sun fading without over the roofs of Paris.
CHAPTER VII
THE ROSES OF M. MARMONTEL
Luc stood again on the bridge, leaning on the parapet, and watching the river and the people passing to and fro.
It was midsummer of the year ’46, and unusually hot. Most of the women wore roses—red, white, and pink. There were many boats on the river, and an air of gay carelessness over Paris; yet the war had not been so brilliantly successful of late. The English mastery of the seas was ruining commerce, and the Saxon troops were marching on Provence. The taxes were heavier than ever, and starved faces and bitter tongues more frequent in the poorer quarters where Luc lived.