His father rose.
“But, dear Heaven, what chance have you in Paris?”
“I must make my own chances,” smiled Luc.
The old Marquis and Joseph both surveyed him with a certain pride. Luc was indescribably touched to see that mingled look of satisfaction and solicitude on their faces.
He crossed impulsively to the clavichord and the sofa, and held out his hands, one to his father, one to his brother.
“Do not think I am eager to be gone,” he said, with a fine flush. “It is only that I have not earned this home—yet.”
Joseph thought he referred to his fortune spent at the war, leaving him dependent on their father, and blushed furiously.
“Luc——” he began desperately.
Their father interrupted.
“Joseph, he must go. I understand. He will be the head of the family, and, bred a soldier, he finds this a poor life.... You shall go, Luc, but we must see you back soon.... Your place is at Aix.”