Luc stepped towards her. She thought he meant to ring, and moved aside; but he stopped before her, looking at her intently.
She glanced up at that: her eyes were bloodshot, and the lids swollen. He saw that she must have been crying, silently, in the dark. She seemed frightened and very humble. She held herself flat against the wall, and the beaver she held dropped from her loosening fingers.
Luc took off his hat. His face was serene and proud; his long locks of hazel-coloured hair, escaping from the black ribbon, blew over his forehead and shoulders; his cravat and the thick lace on his bosom stirred in this same breeze. The beautiful lines of his face showed fatigue but no sadness, and his eyes were clear and radiant.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Clémence,” she answered.
“Clémence!”
“It is true—that was my name in Provence,” she murmured. “I would never have told you—why did you ask?”
“Clémence,” he repeated. He stood with his hat in his hand as if he was in attendance on a great lady.
“Why do you not ring?” she asked hoarsely.
He made a gesture with his sword hand towards the convent.