The Marquis moved back and put out his hand against the chimneypiece. The encroaching shadows began to strengthen in the long, dark chamber; they were over the face of the old noble, these shadows, and gave it a look of hardness, of dreariness, of implacable wrath--a terrible look and a terrible face to be turned on that other marred face opposite, a terrible glance for eyes to dart on those other eyes, half blind, but valiant, that watched patiently. “There is only one thing for _me_ to do,” he said, in bitter mockery of his son’s words. “If you mean what you say, if you hold the beliefs you avow, you leave at once and for ever the house of de Clapiers, you will never look on me or your mother again, and you will not obtain from me a single louis if you are starving--as you will starve in your folly and wickedness.” The old clock struck the half-hour. Those same bells had chimed when Luc had first come into his father’s presence in his fine uniform and been blessed with proud gladness by the man who was spurning him now. Luc trembled a little, then sat down. “I meant,” he replied, “all I said, Monseigneur.” “And I also mean what I say.” Luc was silent; his hands fell into his lap. His father remained motionless, erect, hard, grey in the grey shadows. “I must go--even on these terms I must go.” His voice was yearning, full of regret, of sorrow, but not of weakness. “Then go--at once.” The young man got to his feet. “Like--this?” “At once.” “Monseigneur!”--he held his hands out across the table--“is there nothing in the past that can prevent you from parting so from me--nothing?” “The present kills the past. You choose to forget your blazon, your quality, your name--you are then nothing to me. I shall forget my eldest son as he has forgotten me.” Luc answered feverishly, desperately-- “Take care, Monseigneur--you will never be able to undo what you do now--never. Think of it--what a difference it would make to me if I had a kind remembrance of you to take with me into the last endeavour of my life.” “Go--leave my presence. I do not wish to hear your voice.” “My father!” “Go!” “Will you hear me?” “Hear you! What do you think it is to me to hear _my son_ speak as you have spoken?” “Be merciful! Remember I shall never have a child to speak to me--I have nothing but myself.” The Marquis winced and his face quivered. “You have boasted that before!” he cried. “No boast,” said Luc steadily--“the truth.” “Then on that truth we part. Go to Paris and never think of me again.” Luc stood for a full minute silent. “I think you mean it,” he said at last. “I know I might waste my passion on you. I shall never trouble you any more, Monseigneur.” The shadows gathered with steady swiftness. Luc was reminded of other darknesses: of the retreat from Prague, his journey with Carola to the convent, his parting with Clémence. He put his frail hand over his eyes to shut out the pallid bitterness of his father’s face.