“I deny Him—before my own soul I deny Him. If He is more to you than your son—then I go—free—even of your love—free,” he laughed. “I cannot see you. Shall I go like this? Mother, does your God let you cast me off like this?”
She stood, taut and cold, at her husband’s side.
“I have no more to say to you,” she replied. “With great anguish I shall pray for you.”
“Is it possible,” murmured Luc—“is it possible?”
The Marquis spoke now.
“Madame, you have heard for yourself what manner of son we have. I have told him never to think or speak of us again. Was I right?”
She steadied herself against his shoulder.
“Quite—right.”
“I have bidden him go to Paris—to never set foot in Aix again. Again, was I right?”
“Quite—right.”