The dusk was gathering, blurring the lines of the city, and a fine rain began to fall. Luc moved from his station, and walked slowly back to his lodgings in the fashionable Rue du Bac; his father had insisted on his living with proper magnificence, and Luc felt his only sting of failure when he considered the so far useless expenses.
When he entered his quiet, handsome rooms he found a letter.
His servant had been to the inn that Luc had given as his Paris address, and had found this missive, which had been left the previous day by a lackey whose splendour had startled the host. Luc’s heart fluttered; he thought of the King, of M. Amelot——
When he had torn the seal, he saw it was from M. de Voltaire.
The great man wrote with charm, with generous frankness: he praised his young correspondent’s taste, yet pointed out where it went astray; he warmly encouraged the love of literature, the thirst for knowledge—he hoped the Marquis would write to him again.
Luc put the letter down with a thrill of pure, intense pleasure; the blood flushed into his cheeks and his heart beat quickly; at that moment he felt an adoration for its writer.
He did not notice the darkening room, the rain that was falling steadily without; he sat motionless on the stiff striped sofa forming picture after picture of endless glory, for all his winged fancies had been stirred into life by this encouragement.
Presently, before the room was quite dark, he wrote the following letter to M. Amelot:—
“Monseigneur,—I am sufficiently disappointed that the letter I have had the honour to write to you, and that which I sent under cover to you for the King, have not attracted your attention.
“It is not surprising, perhaps, that a Minister so occupied should not find time to examine such letters; but, Monseigneur, permit me to tell you that it is this discouragement, given to those gentlemen who have nothing to offer but their loyalty, that causes the coldness so often remarked in the provincial nobility and extinguishes in them all emulation for court favour.