“Clémence is waiting for you,” he continued. “She would have accompanied me, but I thought you would rather meet her at home.” The name hurt and startled Luc. He made an effort to think coherently. He forced his thoughts on to the coming moments. “Monseigneur,” he asked, “Mademoiselle de Séguy--knows?” “Knows what?” demanded the Marquis in a still voice. Luc’s dim eyes filled with tenderness. He answered very gently-- “Knows that she is free, my father.” The old man gallantly kept his pose, his calm. “You must not speak like that, Luc. Mademoiselle de Séguy loves you--nothing makes any difference to her. She is eager----” “Ah, hush!” said Luc sadly, yet serenely. “Look at me, Monseigneur--look at me--think of her--of any woman. I have known a long while that it could never be. Surely neither you nor she think I would ask this sacrifice?” “This is not the language of love,” said the Marquis firmly. “Do you not recall how she wished to prove herself? how she wished to show what her affection meant?” Luc did remember, with a swift, sharp sense of longing and regret, the brief days he had spent with his promised wife--her vows--her devotion. “God bless her for her brave loyalty,” he said unsteadily; “but my life is too broken now ever to be joined to another. She is a sweet woman. I hope she will find great happiness.” “With you, Luc, with you,” cried the Marquis vehemently. “She is waiting for you; she is constant to you. Do not cast away the best thing left to you.” “My father,” cried Luc, “do not you tempt me! I have faced it all. I counted the cost that night I rode here. I knew then I had lost her. Do not speak of it.” Something in his quivering tone quelled the old man. “You will at least see her?” he asked humbly, in the wild hope that Clémence’s pity and generous tenderness might overcome his son’s resolution. “She looks upon you as her future husband.” “I will see her,” answered Luc, and his scarred face flushed dully. “I fear I have given her some pain--and you, and my mother, Monseigneur. I must adjust it all as best I may.” And while he spoke he was thinking, “She left no message. I wonder if she spoke of me, or thought of me at all?” “Our home is at Aix,” said the old Marquis, “and you are my eldest son. I, as you know, was never eager for you to go to Paris--but you had then--ambitions--and I acceded to them. Now I shall be glad to have you at home, and after a little while you also, Luc, will be glad to be with your own people.” Through Luc’s brain ran the weary question, “If I had known it was for the last time, would it have made any difference? Yet I did know.” Aloud he said-- “Mademoiselle must be free, my father. It was never in my mind that she believed herself bound.” “But you have promised me that you will see her.” “Yes,” answered Luc sadly. “Poor child!” The Marquis hesitated, looked on the ground, then raised his head suddenly.