“Thank you, Monseigneur,” he said hoarsely. He seated himself and sank his face in his hands. Were there still depths of anguish, of regret to be sounded? Were there still delicate pangs of pain as yet unknown to him?
He heard the door open. He looked up, to perceive the Marquise entering the room—to perceive her, between his blurred sight and the shadows, very dimly, a gleam of rose-coloured brocade, a flash of brilliants in the fire-glow.
“Madame,” said M. de Vauvenargues, in a voice hard and bitter, “I have brought you here to say farewell to your son.”
Luc was on his feet. He began to speak—he did not know what he was saying.
“No,” interrupted the Marquis. “Hear me first, Madame.”
Madame de Vauvenargues laid her hand on his cuff.
“What has come between you two?” she asked. “Joseph, how is this possible?”
“God and honour have come between us,” he answered. “Luc is going to Paris—to—Voltaire—to earn his bread among mountebanks by writing blasphemies. He—a de Clapiers!—he elects to go down into the gutter.”
“Hush, Monseigneur, hush!” she implored. “There is some mistake. Luc, Luc—speak to me—tell me what you wish.”
His own voice sounded hollow and weary to him as he answered—