CHAPTER IV
THE CONFLICT
The elder Marquis de Vauvenargues put down the Gazette in which he had been reading of the opening of the spring campaign and the progress of the Chevalier de St. George through Scotland, and looked across the dining-room at his eldest son.
Luc stood before the window half concealed by the long folds of the dark crimson curtains. It was late afternoon in March, and the garden was grey, misty, and fragrant; beyond the trees, just blurred with green, glowed the pale, clear blue of the fading sky, mournful, remote, and calm.
“Mademoiselle de Séguy is leaving for Paris to-morrow,” said the Marquis.
“Ah!” answered Luc, without moving his head.
M. de Vauvenargues paused a moment, then added in a low tone—
“It need not have been, Luc, it need not have been.”
The young man did not reply, and his father sighed.
“You were always obstinate, Luc,” he added with a sad tenderness, “from the day you insisted on entering the army—which was Joseph’s place—as the second son.”
Luc moved now; he turned his back to the window, facing now the long, dark room, the table on which the fine cloth, cakes, and wine still gleamed, facing the figure of his father in full peruke and black velvet, brilliants and much Michelin lace.