“Not so simple, Monseigneur, that I do not see the attempt of your Highness to bribe a man who holds an unpleasant secret.”
M. de Richelieu did not alter the regal ease of his attitude, but he suddenly changed his tone.
“Forgive me, my dear Marquis,” he said pleasantly, “but we evidently do fail to understand each other, and that is a pity——”
Luc interrupted.
“Highness, this is the truth. I know that the wretched Italian was murdered last night, and I know whose sword struck him down. You deceived me easily,” he added simply, “and I know you are a great man, who can amuse himself as he pleases—you have the law in your own hands. But there is no employ under the Governor of Languedoc that I would take.”
With the effort of saying these words the colour flooded his face; he did not speak them with any grandeur, but with a frowning distaste.
M. de Richelieu flashed into fierce haughtiness.
“Do you imagine that you will better yourself by taking this story to Versailles? You think you can ruin me, perhaps——”
“Monsieur!” cried Luc, raising his head.
M. de Richelieu was on his feet, a glittering, winning figure, difficult to associate with the miserable scene in the barn.