“I must see my mother,” he said. “I think she would wish to say farewell.” Without a word the Marquis pulled the long bell rope. Luc heard his quick orders, when the servant appeared--“To beg Madame for her presence.” “Thank you, Monseigneur,” he said hoarsely. He seated himself and sank his face in his hands. Were there still depths of anguish, of regret to be sounded? Were there still delicate pangs of pain as yet unknown to him? He heard the door open. He looked up, to perceive the Marquise entering the room--to perceive her, between his blurred sight and the shadows, very dimly, a gleam of rose-coloured brocade, a flash of brilliants in the fire-glow. “Madame,” said M. de Vauvenargues, in a voice hard and bitter, “I have brought you here to say farewell to your son.” Luc was on his feet. He began to speak--he did not know what he was saying. “No,” interrupted the Marquis. “Hear me first, Madame.” Madame de Vauvenargues laid her hand on his cuff. “What has come between you two?” she asked. “Joseph, how is this possible?” “God and honour have come between us,” he answered. “Luc is going to Paris--to--Voltaire--to earn his bread among mountebanks by writing blasphemies. He--a de Clapiers!--he elects to go down into the gutter.” “Hush, Monseigneur, hush!” she implored. “There is some mistake. Luc, Luc--speak to me--tell me what you wish.” His own voice sounded hollow and weary to him as he answered-- “I am a follower of M. de Voltaire, Madame. I choose to use what life I have left in the profession of letters--I am going to Paris for that purpose.” “You hear!” cried the Marquis--“you hear!” His wife held herself erect. “Luc,” she said, “you will not persist in this wicked folly.” “Alas!” he answered with great sweetness, “does it seem that to you, my mother?” “Voltaire!” she murmured. “Say your farewells,” commanded the Marquis fiercely. Luc came slowly round the table, feeling his way by the edge of it. “You, at least, will not let me go with harsh words,” he said unsteadily. “Tell me one thing!” she flashed--“do you turn your back on God?” He was beyond all subterfuge. Lies seemed then too flimsy to handle--things that broke at a touch--only truth was strong enough for his mood. “On the God of the Gospels, yes,” he answered. “But what has that to do with you and me?” She crossed herself and shrank back against her husband. “You deny Christ?” she asked, quivering. “I am speaking to _you_, mother,” he answered passionately. “I am in great need of you, I am very lonely and weak with regrets--give me a kind farewell.” “Do you deny Christ?” she repeated, and clutched her husband’s hand. Luc lurched and caught hold of the back of the settle by the fire-place. “Shall a dead man come between us?” he asked, and his voice was faint. “The Living God!” answered his mother. Luc straightened himself.