“Be merciful! Remember I shall never have a child to speak to me—I have nothing but myself.”
The Marquis winced and his face quivered.
“You have boasted that before!” he cried.
“No boast,” said Luc steadily—“the truth.”
“Then on that truth we part. Go to Paris and never think of me again.”
Luc stood for a full minute silent.
“I think you mean it,” he said at last. “I know I might waste my passion on you. I shall never trouble you any more, Monseigneur.”
The shadows gathered with steady swiftness. Luc was reminded of other darknesses: of the retreat from Prague, his journey with Carola to the convent, his parting with Clémence. He put his frail hand over his eyes to shut out the pallid bitterness of his father’s face.
“I must see my mother,” he said. “I think she would wish to say farewell.”
Without a word the Marquis pulled the long bell rope. Luc heard his quick orders, when the servant appeared—“To beg Madame for her presence.”