“You were introduced unceremoniously,” returned the Duke. “I did not expect you so soon. Be seated, Monsieur le Marquis.”
Luc took one of the delicate chairs and fixed his eyes on the pale carpet; he was conscious of a wretched feeling of disappointment, of disgust, of a sense of personal failure.
“You look rather pale, Monsieur,” remarked the Governor, in those same gentle tones that Luc had heard last night. “I trust you have had an easy journey from Aix?”
The Marquis bowed in silence.
M. de Richelieu supported himself on his elbow on the pile of cushions at the head of his couch.
“You bring the best of introductions,” he said. “M. de Caumont speaks of you warmly—you were Hippolyte’s friend, and with him in Prague, were you not?”
Luc was impressed, almost bewildered, by his composure, his quick assumption of the courtly, gracious manner. Last night this calm had surprised him; now he found it astounding. M. de Richelieu had not changed colour, and was regarding him with unfaltering eyes.
But it was not in Luc to take up the matter on these terms; he revolted against the situation, against the part he was evidently expected to play. The slim, gorgeous young Governor, the sumptuous little room became hateful to him. He rose.
“Monseigneur,” he said coldly, “I came here on a misunderstanding.”
M. de Richelieu interrupted.