“Monsieur, would you come to my room and keep me company a little while? I thought if you had been a priest I could have asked this in the name of God. As it is, may I ask it in the name of our common youth, our common humanity?”
“I have no reason in the world for refusing,” answered the Marquis; “but if you require a priest, shall I not go for one? There is, I think, a convent near by.”
The young man shook his head.
“No, if you will come, Monsieur—just for a little while.”
Luc closed his own door and followed the other across the landing into the room opposite.
He found it was much larger than his own and rather gloomily furnished. The house was old, and the floor was sloping in this room and the two windows with the deep sills had slightly sunk; the walls were panelled in black waxed oak, and the ceiling was low and beamed.
A heavy bed, with dark blue brocade curtains drawn closely round it, stood in one corner, and near it hung a long mirror in a thick tortoiseshell frame; in the murky depths of the greenish glass the rest of the chamber was reflected.
A brass hand-lamp and an hour-glass stood on a circular worm-eaten oak table between the windows, from which the sombre tapestry curtains had been looped back.
Hanging on the wall above this table was a black crucifix similar to that which the Marquis had in his own apartment.
The few chairs were large and worn, with sunken seats and arms polished with much use. The occupier of this ordinary, yet gloomy, apartment offered one of these chairs to the Marquis and took one himself, seating himself with his back to the light and his face towards Luc.