“He has--no career?” “No.” “I do not quite understand.” She frowned over her words. “He is recovered?” “He will never completely recover.” “Monseigneur, you frighten me. What has happened to Luc?” “Whatever has happened it can make no difference to us who love him,” answered the Marquis. His eyes held Clémence with a power before which she blenched. “No, of course not,” she said in a laboured way “But--I am sorry for Luc,” she ended feebly. “Mademoiselle,” replied M. de Vauvenargues proudly, “this is not a thing one is _sorry_ for. It is a great tragedy.” “A--tragedy?” “The word frightens you? But remember that it is in your power to soften it. Luc has lost everything--but you.” “Oh!” she murmured again. “Yet if he is well----” The Marquis lifted his head still higher, never taking his eyes from her changing face. “You have seen people who have had the plague?” She gave some miserable little exclamation under her breath. He waited for her to find words. “He is changed?” she managed at last. “Yes.” She tried to smile. “Well, I suppose--not much.” “A great deal.” Clémence rose, sat down, and rose again. “Changed--very much?” “So changed,” said the Marquis slowly, “that only those who love him would know him.” “Monseigneur, you try to frighten me!” “You have to see him to-morrow.” Her breast heaved and her soft eyes were rebellious. “He was--beautiful,” she murmured. “I think he had no right. He did not think of me.” “He kept the plague from you--from Aix.” She took no notice. “For a vagabond’s child,” she continued--“for the sake of a thing of nought!” “No,” interrupted the Marquis sternly, “for the sake of his honour.” Clémence dropped again into the great black chair by the fire. “You will be here to welcome him to-morrow?” he added. “He speaks of you so often.” She did not reply. “Why do you not answer?” he asked harshly. “Oh, I shall be here,” she answered. “I was thinking of--how differently--I dreamed it.” She rose again, picked up her swansdown-edged muff, her gloves, her cane, and fastened her cloak at the chin. “Good-bye, Monseigneur,” she said timidly. “My father will bring me to-morrow. I will go now--I think--the horses will be tired--of waiting.” She curtsied and was turning away when the Marquis rose suddenly and stood between her and the door. “Mademoiselle,” he said hoarsely. She stopped and looked at him. He was no longer erect, no longer haughty. He looked old and bitterly troubled. He stood in a deprecating attitude before her delicate young loveliness. “Forgive me if I was harsh,” he said thickly. “I have no right perhaps to ask what I do.” She shuddered violently. “I entreat you not to forsake my son,” continued the old man passionately--“I implore you.” She closed her eyes. “I will not deceive you, Mademoiselle. He is--to a woman’s eyes--you may imagine.” She shrank against the wall. The Marquis continued, forcing the words out in almost incoherent agitation--