His father flushed with surprise and pride. “I did not think you would be long idle, Luc,” he answered affectionately; “but you have set yourself a difficult career,” he added simply. “I have, as you know, no influence at Court.”
“I have written to M. de Biron; he will give me introductions at least. When I hear from him I will go to Paris.”
He spoke quietly, but in his eyes was a leaping light.
The old Marquis, both touched and pleased, rose and fondly laid his hand on his shoulder.
“You are a true de Clapiers,” he said, then sighed a little, thinking of the blue and silver uniform lying folded away in the chest in his son’s room.
Luc divined the thought, the regret.
“I shall still serve France, Monseigneur,” he said.
“But I have no interest in Paris,” repeated the old noble half sadly, “and I believe no one can succeed at Court without powerful friends. And we—we are rather remote from the great world, here at Aix.”
Luc was not daunted by these words. Paris was to him a dream city ruled by a dream king; there was nothing concrete in all the pictures he formed of it. He knew he had ardour and talent and devotion to offer, and he did not believe that these things were ever refused.
“If M. de Biron can give me no help I shall write to M. Amelot,” he said quietly, naming the Minister for Foreign Affairs—“or to His Majesty himself.”