“Who are you?” he asked curiously. “I should like to know you. You speak like M. de Voltaire.”
Luc had instantly resolved not to give his name.
“I am a private citizen of Provence,” he answered, “and I have business in Avignon. The rain is over and I have had some rest, also I do not care to remain here, so I will now ride on to the town.”
He made a grave bow and was turning away when the other again detained him.
“You cannot ride to Avignon till it is light. Come with me—my name is Armand, Monsieur Armand—I do not ask yours.”
“And I have not yours,” answered Luc.
The other laughed.
“Armand for to-night—and I swear it is my christened name. There is supper in the house—I give you an invitation.”
The priest seemed impatient to be gone and annoyed at this conversation, but Luc, despite his distaste of the whole thing, was interested in the stranger, in his very shamelessness, in his peculiar, gentle address, in his mention of M. de Voltaire. He felt curious to see this man’s person, for they stood now in the shadow of the barn, and the priest kept his lantern turned carefully away.
“Monsieur,” answered Luc, “at present I should not know you again; if we go into the house I shall see your face.”