“Where?” he demanded.
“On the heights,” said M. de Vauvenargues.
It was now quite dark save for the light of the wagon lamp that fell over the straw-coloured silk hangings of M. de Belleisle, the beautiful anguished face framed in the gorgeous hair, the woman in her barbaric splendour clasping the feeble child, and the slender figure of the Marquis in his blue and silver uniform; it glimmered, too, on the pieces of the Maréchal’s dessert service, and the sparkle of them caught Carola’s eye.
“Do you travel with such things?” she asked. “Our nobles sleep on the ground, and drink from horn——”
“M. de Belleisle must travel as a Maréchal de France,” answered the Marquis. “But these things seem foolish now.”
A great giddy sickness was on him, and a distaste of life that could be so wretched; the spirit within him was weary of the miserable flesh that suffered so pitifully.
“Give me my sword,” said M. d’Espagnac. “I am starting out on a quest. Do you hear? Jesu, have mercy upon me!”
Carola rose and walked up and down with the child.
“You are Catholic?” she asked.
“No,” answered the Marquis.