“I deny Him--before my own soul I deny Him. If He is more to you than your son--then I go--free--even of your love--free,” he laughed. “I cannot see you. Shall I go like this? Mother, does your God let you cast me off like this?” She stood, taut and cold, at her husband’s side. “I have no more to say to you,” she replied. “With great anguish I shall pray for you.” “Is it possible,” murmured Luc--“is it possible?” The Marquis spoke now. “Madame, you have heard for yourself what manner of son we have. I have told him never to think or speak of us again. Was I right?” She steadied herself against his shoulder. “Quite--right.” “I have bidden him go to Paris--to never set foot in Aix again. Again, was I right?” “Quite--right.” “I tell him, before you, to look for no pity, no charity, no recognition from us until he has made his peace with his outraged God. Marguérite, am I right?” She replied now in one word-- “Yes.” Luc drew a little broken sigh. “Farewell,” he said. His father did not answer nor move from his haughty attitude, but his mother said in an awful voice-- “Farewell, and Christ have mercy on you.” He could not see either of them. In moving to the door he stumbled several times against the furniture, for the deep twilight meant utter darkness to his partial blindness. The two before the fire heard his awkward steps, his fumbling for the handle of the door, and never moved. When he at last had gone from them utterly, the Marquis caught his wife by the shoulders and looked down into her face. “Never speak his name to me again,” he cried; “never! never!” CHAPTER V THE DEPARTURE FROM AIX Luc sat in a corner of the Paris post-chaise which was driving through the dark away from Aix. It was over now. He was free of everything; his own master; on his own road to his own goal. Though, knowing his father, he must have known this utter breach would follow his confession of his faith and belief, yet no previous preparation could soften the pang of the suddenness with which the thing had happened. For years he had been aware that if he spoke what was in his mind his father would be moved to terrible wrath; yet it was none the less awful that he was riding away from Aix, from his home, for ever. His mother, too. She had let him go with less kindness than he had often seen her show to poor beseechers of charity at her gate. Jean, his own body-servant, had shrunk from him--he had packed his portmanteaus himself; the other servants had kept out of his way. He seemed to have left the house under a silent curse. He roused himself; demanded of himself what he was doing brooding on the past. His justification lay in the future. He looked round the interior of the coach, which was full of mist, and shadow, and the wavering light of an oil lamp that hung above the red upholstered worn back of the seat opposite him.