“You have that,” he answered with inexpressible pride. “You have your name, me, your house.”
“It is not enough,” said Luc in the same tone. “I want, Monseigneur, my own soul.”
“Leave that in God’s hands,” flashed the Marquis.
“It is in my own,” answered Luc. “Monseigneur, we have come to this issue, and between us—now—it must be decided. I remember when I was a boy you found me writing and reading. You burnt my books and papers; you forbade me to make the acquaintance of men of literature; you instilled into me ideas I am scarcely free of yet. But it is no use—I belong to my age, I am one with those men in Paris.”
“With Voltaire, atheist, canaille.”
“With him, Monseigneur.”
“My son tells this to me!” cried the old man wildly. “If you want to read books, read the history of your house; you will find them much good company and not one pedant! You will be the first of your race to so disgrace yourself!”
With equal fire and decision Luc answered—
“Nothing can move me. I am what I am. There is only that one thing for me to do. I will not betray my inspiration because I am a man of quality—I would sooner degrade my rank than degrade my spirit.”
The Marquis moved back and put out his hand against the chimneypiece. The encroaching shadows began to strengthen in the long, dark chamber; they were over the face of the old noble, these shadows, and gave it a look of hardness, of dreariness, of implacable wrath—a terrible look and a terrible face to be turned on that other marred face opposite, a terrible glance for eyes to dart on those other eyes, half blind, but valiant, that watched patiently.