“Now I will keep you no longer, Monsieur,” he said, in an even voice. “And if you wish to see my pictures—there is one I should like to show you, a little later in the morning; it is not yet quite completed.”
Luc could see no brushes, paints, or easel in the plain bedchamber, nor any sign that the painter could finish any canvas; again he thought he detected a wildness in the man’s speech.
“I shall be glad to see you again,” he said. “I fear this visit, Monsieur, has been of little use; but since you would give me no confidence, I could give you no consolation.”
The painter smiled; he was still looking at the hour-glass.
“Where there is no hope, how can there be any consolation?” he replied. “You have rendered me all the service I required—half an hour’s company.”
He set down the hour-glass, went to the door and opened it.
“You are searching for glory, are you not, Monsieur?” he asked, as Luc passed him. “Well, the word is a lie; there is no such thing—it is all a cloud of delusion; and when you have pierced the cloud, you find there is nothing there but the blankness of despair.”
“No!” cried Luc, with energy. “No!”
The painter shook his head in contradiction with a ghastly smile and closed the door on the Marquis, who heard immediately the bolts being slipped into place.