“Yes.”
“How—what do you mean to do?”
“I mean to collect my writings, to publish them—to write again.”
“How do you mean to live?”
“As they lived when they began.”
“And you will write?”
“Yes—I must.”
The Marquis rose, and his face was distorted.
“Have you forgotten that you are my son—my eldest son?”
“No.” Luc rose also, and stood fronting his father, the table between them.