In that moment Luc felt that life was endless, glorious, and triumphant to those who had in their hearts this gift of energy, this spur to achievement. He bowed his head in a kind of tumult of thanksgiving, and such an agitation of joy filled his bosom that he had to support himself against the tall window frame. The sound of the opening door sounded, to his ecstatic mood, sharp as a pistol crack; yet in reality the door was both opened and closed softly. Beyond the candlelight stood a girl in a much-frilled rose-coloured muslin gown, holding in her hand a bunch of drooping wild pinks.
She wore a chip straw hat tied under the chin with gold ribbons and a white lace shawl over her shoulders.
When she saw Luc she laughed prettily and advanced to the table; her extreme fairness seemed the greater by contrast with the shining dark mahogany.
“Of course you do not recall me,” she said, in a delicate and pleasing voice. “I am Clémence de Séguy, who saw you leave to join your regiment nine years ago—when she was in the convent school.”
Luc made an effort to place and remember her; his instinctive courtesy helped him, though his thoughts had been strangely scattered by her sudden appearance.
“I remember no one like you, Mademoiselle,” he said, “in all Provence; but your name is known to me as that of one of my father’s friends.”
She laughed as if pleased.
“Tell me about the war,” she answered.
As he looked at her he seemed to see the powerful face, slender figure, and gorgeous garments of the Countess Carola standing beside her in absolute contrast. The two could not have been more different; the reality before Luc’s eyes was not so strong as the inner vision. He put his hand to the fragrant letter in his pocket.
The Marquis entered and presented him with pretty ceremony. As Luc kissed the girl’s fingers he thought of another hand that he would soon salute in Paris—Paris.