Three days ago he had first seen himself in a mirror. Two days ago he had written to M. Amelot saying that his health did not permit him to take up the appointment at Madrid.
And to-day he had to see Clémence de Séguy.
He had gently told Jean to leave the mirror, and it hung against the wall at the foot of his bed.
He turned to it now, took it down and brought it to the full light of the window, held it between his hands, and gazed into it.
He could only see very imperfectly. Objects had lost their sharp outlines, their true colours; things beyond the radius of his own outstretched hand were dim and obscure. He peered into the mirror with the stoop and concentration of gaze of an old man.
He saw, as behind a blur, his own face, chalk-white, scarred, and seamed with a faint bluish colour; his eyes frayed, and swollen, yet sunk; his mouth strained and distorted—a face without bloom, or youth, or softness—a terrible face, from which all beauty, all expression had been swept, for in the ruins of these pale features was not one trace of the fair, mobile, spiritual countenance that had once shown to the world the soul of Luc de Clapiers.
His fine hazel hair had gone. He wore a curled white peruke, which further altered his appearance. He was so feeble he could not hold himself erect; he stooped from the shoulders and was gauntly thin. Presently he put the mirror on the bed, and two difficult tears forced themselves out of his worn eyes and ran down his disfigured cheeks.
Outside the birds were flying to and fro, and the fragrant perfumes of early spring swelled and receded on the full breeze.
The scent of earth, of flowers, of young trees came to Luc’s nostrils. He shuddered like one struck on an open wound.
He went to the window, stood with his hands on the rough sill, looking on to the little patch of herb garden and the whitewashed corner of the building.