But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father’s arms. He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,—
“Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!”
In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows, and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he could ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.
Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.
“Poor child!” he said. “How you must have suffered!”
“I thought I should lose my senses,” replied Jacques simply.
And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,—
“But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay away so long?”
The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation? Turning his eyes aside, he answered,—
“I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris.” But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.