The captain’s hazel eyes dropped; he held his father’s hand even more firmly.
“If there is a man who should be burnt in the market-place it is M. de Voltaire,” continued the old Marquis. “He and his books and his doctrines burnt—together.”
Luc removed his hand and rose; he asked if his mother would not soon return, then raised his hitherto untouched glass of amber white wine and drank it slowly. Joseph had a delicate feeling that his brother would like to be alone with their father.
“I will see if your chamber is set,” he excused himself, and left them quietly.
The Marquis was following him, but Luc set down his glass sharply and said, “Father!”
The old man turned. He thought that this was the explanation of the “not now” of Luc. He closed the door and returned to the table.
Luc stood with his head a little bent on his bosom, the sun, that filtered through the beech leaves without, setting his silver broideries aquiver with light and sparkling in the loosened threads of his brown locks.
“My poor boy,”—his father took him gently by the shoulders—“you are ill.”
Luc raised steady and beautifully smiling eyes. “No, Monseigneur, not ill.” He paused a moment, then added, “But not strong—not strong enough for a soldier.”
The Marquis did not comprehend. Luc laid his hands on his father’s breast and a look of faintness came over his face, but his eyes glowed more ardent and brilliant than ever.