M. de Vauvenargues seated himself on the other side of the long black polished table. His erect, massive figure; his old-fashioned, handsome clothes; his aristocratic, proud, yet simple and kindly face, were flooded with red light from the fire, which threw it up against the sombre background of the dark chamber that always, even on the most brilliant day, seemed filled with shadows.
He leant a little forward, and fixed his eyes on the rosy vision of the young girl in her white fur, white silk, and gold laces.
“You love Luc, do you not?” he asked, in a terrible voice.
Her eyes widened, holding his in a full stare of terror.
“Take care what you commit yourself to,” he continued. “Think before you answer. Do you love my son?”
“Yes,” answered Clémence. “How strange for you to ask me, Monseigneur!”
“You have never been to see him—not even when all fear of infection was over.”
She flushed painfully.
“He did not wish me to—you told me so yourself.”
“Well, you will see him to-morrow, Clémence.” The strong voice was touched with tenderness and sorrow. “And you love him? You know what that means?—Love?”