“I entreat you not to forsake my son,” continued the old man passionately—“I implore you.”
She closed her eyes.
“I will not deceive you, Mademoiselle. He is—to a woman’s eyes—you may imagine.”
She shrank against the wall.
The Marquis continued, forcing the words out in almost incoherent agitation—
“You know what I wish to say, Mademoiselle. You must see him to-morrow. His strength has gone—and his comeliness. He could not use—a sword—or ride a horse—he—— Oh, my God!”
He brought his hands to his grey hair with a gesture of agony.
Clémence quivered into a little sob; she opened her eyes fearfully.
“This is a great scourge,” continued the Marquis, struggling for command over himself—“a great scourge. I want to tell you everything. He is—almost—blind.”
His head sank as if he had confessed a crime. But this humiliation of his fine nobility was lost on Clémence; his words alone impressed her.