“Who are you?” asked Luc. He knew nothing, save that this was not one of his friends. “Who am I? Do you not know me?” “No--yet----” “Can you not see me?” “I can see very little--hardly at all. I know your voice.” “I am Joseph de Clapiers.” Luc made a step backward. His face, that had seemed utterly bloodless, was suddenly stained with a great flush of colour. “I am sorry you have come,” he said. His thought was that it would have been better, far better, if he could have died before any of his family, or indeed anyone connected with his old life, had seen him in what must to them be degradation unspeakable. “How did you find me?” he asked. He endeavoured, with the rising yearning of old affection, to make out his brother’s face, but Joseph stood too far from him. To Luc he was featureless. “Some one I know heard a man called Marmontel speak of you. I traced you through that. They told me here that this was your room, and I waited for you.” He spoke in a controlled, though harsh and strained voice. After that first fierce cry he had gained command of himself. “I am sorry you came,” repeated Luc, with quiet sweetness. “We had no farewell in Aix, but you would have kept a more pleasant memory of me if you had not come. Will you not sit down?” he added. He himself sank into the rough wood chair by the table; indeed, his limbs were shaking so that he could not stand. Joseph came near enough for Luc to see his fresh comeliness; near enough for them to touch each other, and for the elder to divine the wrath and horror in the face of the younger. He suddenly saw himself as if a mirror hung before him, and the blood again swept his face. “Why did you come?” he asked under his breath. Joseph stared at him cruelly. Luc no longer bore any sign or mark of a gentleman. He wore a clumsy grey coat, worn, and a little frayed at the cuffs; his waistcoat, which was of a dingy yellow colour, was stained with ink; his neckcloth was coarse, though newly washed and folded neatly; his stockings were thick and woollen, his shoes heavy. He wore no wig, and his hair was long again, and tied with a black ribbon, but colourless and grey about the front, as if it had been powdered. Joseph marked the absence of sword, watch, and ring. He did not mark the fine freshness of the rough attire, nor reflect on the effort this decent cleanliness meant to the man who lived alone, half blind, and in such poverty. “My father!” he murmured. “My father!” “Did he send you?” asked Luc. “No.” “Has he ever spoken of me?” “No.” “Nor my mother?” “No.” “You--think they are right?” “Yes.” “Why are you here?” asked Luc patiently. “Because,” was the fierce answer, “I cannot endure a de Clapiers to die in a hospital, and be buried at the expense of public charity.” The elder brother lifted his ruined face and smiled. “What do you want of me?” he asked. “You must come to my hotel----” Luc interrupted.