“He has been gaining strength,” returned the Marquis. “He was very, very ill. The doctor told me that it was one of God’s marvels that he has recovered at all. He has never been strong since the campaign in Bohemia.” The girl glanced covertly at the noble, proud, and haggard face of her companion. “There is something I want to ask you,” she said hurriedly. “Yes, my child,” he answered gravely. “Is he--will he be able to go to Madrid?” A dark look clouded the old man’s eyes. “Why do you want to know? Is it not enough that he is coming home to-morrow?” he replied. “Yes; ah, yes. But I wondered--his career.” The Marquis flashed round on her. “Do you think of his career when his life has only been spared by a miracle?” She shrank away from him. “For his sake I think of it,” she answered piteously. “He was always so ardent for--glory.” An expression so terrible, so swiftly distorting, passed over the fine features of the Marquis that Clémence stopped in her walk to stare at him. “Come into the house,” he said, gripping her arm. “_I_ wish to speak to _you_.” She murmured some awed response, and came obediently. They entered the dark, heavy dining-room by the window where Luc had stood the day of his return from the war, and watched his father, his brother, and the bright dogs in the summer garden. The Marquis closed the window. There was a great fire on the hearth, and Clémence crouched close to it, mechanically loosening her furred cloak and pulling off her doeskin gloves. M. de Vauvenargues seated himself on the other side of the long black polished table. His erect, massive figure; his old-fashioned, handsome clothes; his aristocratic, proud, yet simple and kindly face, were flooded with red light from the fire, which threw it up against the sombre background of the dark chamber that always, even on the most brilliant day, seemed filled with shadows. He leant a little forward, and fixed his eyes on the rosy vision of the young girl in her white fur, white silk, and gold laces. “You love Luc, do you not?” he asked, in a terrible voice. Her eyes widened, holding his in a full stare of terror. “Take care what you commit yourself to,” he continued. “Think before you answer. Do you love my son?” “Yes,” answered Clémence. “How strange for you to ask me, Monseigneur!” “You have never been to see him--not even when all fear of infection was over.” She flushed painfully. “He did not wish me to--you told me so yourself.” “Well, you will see him to-morrow, Clémence.” The strong voice was touched with tenderness and sorrow. “And you love him? You know what that means?--Love?” “Yes, yes,” shivered Clémence. For a while--a very little while--the Marquis was silent; then he said-- “Luc will not be able to go to Madrid.” “Ah!” she murmured. “He wrote yesterday,” continued the Marquis, “to refuse the post. He will never be able to do any work again.” Clémence clenched her hands on her lap. “He is--not strong enough?” “No.”