The pretty whisper of talk was hushed as Luc entered and there was a second’s pause, caused, though he did not guess it, by the instant impression of extreme delicacy he made as he stood before the open door, the candlelight full on him, and behind him the background of the dark shadows of the hall.
He was unusually pale, and his eyes were too lustrous, too wide and bright, too deeply shadowed for health. His dark, simple, and rather careless dress, the plain waves of his smooth hair, accentuated the impression he made of something uncommon, exceptional; but this sense of difference was mainly caused by his expression, by a certain smile and flash in his eyes, by an extraordinary sweetness in the lines of the mouth and chin, by a proud look of motion in his carriage which was like swiftness arrested.
His sudden silent appearance made all who gazed at him realize in a flash his exceeding, uncommon beauty; it was as if they regarded a stranger, they even felt afraid of him.
He, all unconscious, came to the table where his mother’s tambour frame lay, and affectionately turned over the lengths of silks.
“How quickly you work!” he smiled.
Joseph, to conceal an unaccountable sense of confusion, commenced playing a little old-fashioned “coranto,” which was the only piece he knew perfectly by heart.
Clémence expressed her sense of the inexpressible in another way.
“How silent we all are!” she exclaimed, and rose.
Luc looked up instantly.
“I fear I disturbed you,” he said; she had come a few steps from the hearth, and their eyes met.