The Marquis turned in slow bewilderment; he dimly saw the figure of a man advancing from the window.
“I have been waiting for you,” said this person, in a terribly moved voice.
“Who are you?” asked Luc. He knew nothing, save that this was not one of his friends.
“Who am I? Do you not know me?”
“No—yet——”
“Can you not see me?”
“I can see very little—hardly at all. I know your voice.”
“I am Joseph de Clapiers.”
Luc made a step backward. His face, that had seemed utterly bloodless, was suddenly stained with a great flush of colour.
“I am sorry you have come,” he said. His thought was that it would have been better, far better, if he could have died before any of his family, or indeed anyone connected with his old life, had seen him in what must to them be degradation unspeakable.