“You know what I wish to say, Mademoiselle. You must see him to-morrow. His strength has gone--and his comeliness. He could not use--a sword--or ride a horse--he---- Oh, my God!” He brought his hands to his grey hair with a gesture of agony. Clémence quivered into a little sob; she opened her eyes fearfully. “This is a great scourge,” continued the Marquis, struggling for command over himself--“a great scourge. I want to tell you everything. He is--almost--blind.” His head sank as if he had confessed a crime. But this humiliation of his fine nobility was lost on Clémence; his words alone impressed her. “Why was I not told before?” she asked frantically. “We had not the courage,” the old man confessed. “And if you love him----” “Oh, if I love him!” she interrupted. “I loved the Luc de Clapiers that was!” “He is still the same in spirit, still my son, still your lover. Why, this is a chance for you.” He spoke with piteous eagerness. “You used to say how you wished you could prove your love. Do you not remember? Luc told me once--he spoke like a man who holds the Eucharist in his hands when he told me that you had said you wished you could prove---- This is your chance.” Her heaving bosom, her eyes, the rise and fall of colour in her cheeks bespoke desperation. “And you have told me again--just now, that you love him.” “Monseigneur, give me time--let me think. This is very terrible. I pity him--oh, how I pity him!” “Pity him! You should be proud of him.” “Yes, that too--but I am distracted--give me time.” “There is no time. He is coming home to-morrow. There is your chance, Mademoiselle; you must meet him--as if--he were _the same_.” She put her hands before her eyes. “I do not think--I can,” she whispered. The Marquis flashed into wild anger. “Then you never loved _him_! You were toying with youth and gallantry, and his devotion was but like a brooch to your gown--and you vowed constancy because it sounded pretty, and you liked to be with him because he was a graceful cavalier--you did not love him for his noble soul as it walked before God!” She cowered and trembled under his fierce rush of words. “But you pretended you did, Mademoiselle, and now you shall pay the penalty of your pretence.” She could not answer. He caught her wrist. Then his wrath died, and he was old, and broken, and pitiful again. “Mademoiselle--my son used to kiss you?” She stared forlornly. “Think of him when he used to kiss you.” Her face flushed. “Ah, Monseigneur!” “Forgive an old man, very humble before your beauty. I think no one else ever kissed you?” “Never,” she said fiercely--“never--nor he often; I could not bear it, for I loved him--too much.” She drew her hand away, and as if her own words had loosened memories of too sweet a rapture to be endured she began to weep hotly. “You can never forsake him!” cried the Marquis. “No--no--and you will make life so pleasant to him that he will not regret even--glory.”