He would not turn.

He would not, he dared not see what was passing, or how they were handling her, lest the fury in his breast sweep all away, and he rise up and disobey her! When a movement told him that Basterga had released her--with a last ugly taunt aimed as much at him as at her--he still sat bearing it, curbing, drilling, compelling himself to be silent.

Ay, and still to be silent, though the voice that so cruelly wounded her was scarcely mute before it began again.
"Tissot, indeed!" Basterga cried in the same tone of bitter jeering.

"A fig for Tissot! No more shall we Upon his viler metal test our purest pure, And see him transmutations three endure! And why?
Because a mightier than Tissot is here! Because," with a coarse laugh, "Our stone angelical whereby All secret potencies to light are brought has itself suffered a transmutation! A transmutation do I say! Rather an eclipse, a darkening! He, whom matrons for their maidens fear, has come, has seen, has conquered! And we poor mortals bow before him." Still Claude, his face burning, his ears tingling, put force upon himself and sat mute, his eyes on the board.

He would not look round, he would not acknowledge what was passing.