“Since you _have_ come, Joseph,” he said, “let us part in friendship. We are the two last of our family, and--after all--that is something.” “Will you leave this?” demanded the younger man, not kindly, but with a suppressed violence. “Will you come with me?” “No,” replied Luc. “This is my place now. And it is easier for me to refuse you, Joseph, because I know that pride, not love, asks this.” “Pride!” echoed Joseph. “_You_ have the damnable pride of the Devil. You prefer your garret--your accursed book”--he snatched the thin volume from under Luc’s frail fingers, and cast it on the ground--“your outcast friends--to your family, your honour, your home.” The Marquis made a faint gesture of sorrow and protest. “This is not needful,” he murmured. But Joseph’s vigorous voice overbore his feeble tones. “Very well, then,” he continued; “die in the miserable loft your dishonourable conduct has brought you to, and leave us to endure your disgrace--as we have endured it since you left Aix!” Luc got to his feet again, and stood holding on to the edge of the table. “You will be able to blot me from your annals very completely soon,” he said. “When I am dead, no one will speak of me, and you can forget.” He lifted his hand and let it fall. The little pile of silver pieces was knocked over by the gesture, and the money rolled across the floor to the feet of the younger brother. “Is this Voltaire’s charity?” he cried. Luc lifted his head, and smiled. “No. I sold my sword this morning. So you see I can pay for my own coffin, Joseph.” He sat down again and hid his face in his two hands, as if he was greatly fatigued, and wished to compose his thoughts. There was a dignity about this movement and pose, as if he had withdrawn himself into final silence. Joseph had no more weapons; his wrath flared impotently. He stared fiercely at his brother, and set his scarlet heel on the book he had flung on the floor; then, in white haughtiness and bitter speechlessness, left the garret. “I am tired,” said Luc to himself; “tired--tired.” He dropped his hands, and rose and looked round for the crushed volume Joseph had spurned with his foot. As he stooped to pick it up he heard a soft yet swelling crash of music. “Soldiers,” he murmured, “going to the--war.” The music gathered in strength until it culminated in an almost intolerable crescendo of passionate exaltation. It seemed to be very near, almost in the room. Luc found himself on his knees, quivering in the sound of it. The music began to paint pictures in the garret, and Luc’s blindness did not prevent his seeing them: gorgeous banners draped the bare rafters, and a procession with flags, shields, and drums crossed the humble floor, and broke away the mean walls, and let in the great clouds and the strong sunbeams, and showed a vast span of pure light that dazzled into the infinite distance. A company with sublime tread was passing over this bridge, and they smiled at Luc.