“Monsieur,” he said at length, “this must be adjusted some way between us. You seem to refuse my advances. Perhaps you think I am setting some snare for you, but it is not so.”
This had never entered Luc’s thoughts. His outlook was so simple that the other could never have guessed it; he merely wished to get away, to forget it all, and try another road to success.
“Monseigneur,” he answered wearily, because his head was aching, and the rosy light of the room and the scent of the flowers, that had at first so pleased, now oppressed his senses, “we have nothing to fear or gain from each other. Permit me to take my leave.”
With his stiff military bow he moved towards the door. M. de Richelieu stepped forward and, with an almost affectionate gesture, caught his arm.
“Be reasonable,” he said. “I lost my temper last night; but after all the fellow was of no account—’tis over now.”
“So I wish it to be, your Highness,” replied Luc.
“But there is no need,” continued the Duke, “that it should prevent me from doing you the service you came to request.”
Luc was silent; he was not insensible to M. de Richelieu’s beautiful grace, to the complete attraction of his person and features that his life, whatever it had been, had not in the least coarsened or spoilt. Such was the power of this charm, delicate, manly, strong, that Luc, though he despised the Duke without affectation, yet felt his scorn overwhelmed in this physical nearness.
“Secretary to the Governor of Languedoc is not a post easily obtained,” insisted M. de Richelieu. “And I think we should work well together, Monsieur.”
“It is not in your power to give me what I seek, Monsieur,” replied Luc sadly. “Indeed it is impossible.”