“I have done nothing,” he said. “I hope some day—but at present—nothing, Monsieur.”
He lowered his eyes, confused.
The low, sweet, aristocrat’s voice answered—
“You must not undervalue yourself, nor your great rewards. I am grateful you found time to come here.” He gave a little gesture round the miserable room, a gesture that was the man of quality’s dismissal of his surroundings. And indeed M. Marmontel, though used to the most splendid hotels of Paris, had forgotten the garret from the moment Luc had spoken.
M. de Voltaire began to talk: of the great world; of the world of letters; of the world beyond Paris, beyond France; of the future, and the great changes that were coming with a swiftness almost terrible. But for once Luc was not listening to the speech of M. de Voltaire; he was looking tenderly, lovingly, at the favourite of fortune, the man in the flush of his youth and fame, the man who had won glory at the first effort.
He thought of d’Espagnac and de Seytres—of how beautiful and ardent they had been, and how forgotten they were in their foreign graves—and his soul rushed back to his own early youth and his opening dreams. This man had realized his—this man had everything gorgeous in the world before him; he was modest and fine, but his extraordinary sense of triumph was betrayed in his clear laugh. He laughed often at M. de Voltaire’s remarks. No shade of envy or even of regret touched Luc. He did not think of himself at all; only he felt a little wonder at the thought of the two young officers whom he had so loved.
“Surely they too were worthy to be crowned,” he thought wistfully. And his heart swelled as he recalled Hippolyte dying in the hospital, and Georges in the snow.
When the two rose to take their leave, Luc, after his farewells to M. de Voltaire, laid a wasted hand on the younger man’s soft satin sleeve.
“Monsieur,” he said, with his unconquerable air of the great gentleman, “I have not held any roses in my hand since I came to Paris—seeing yours reminded me. Might I ask them of you—to remember you by, when you are gone?”
M. Marmontel unfastened the red blooms without a word, and held them out.