“Yes; ah, yes. But I wondered—his career.”
The Marquis flashed round on her.
“Do you think of his career when his life has only been spared by a miracle?”
She shrank away from him.
“For his sake I think of it,” she answered piteously. “He was always so ardent for—glory.”
An expression so terrible, so swiftly distorting, passed over the fine features of the Marquis that Clémence stopped in her walk to stare at him.
“Come into the house,” he said, gripping her arm. “I wish to speak to you.”
She murmured some awed response, and came obediently.
They entered the dark, heavy dining-room by the window where Luc had stood the day of his return from the war, and watched his father, his brother, and the bright dogs in the summer garden.
The Marquis closed the window. There was a great fire on the hearth, and Clémence crouched close to it, mechanically loosening her furred cloak and pulling off her doeskin gloves.