Clémence de Fortia laid her warm pink fingers over his dry white hands. “I know,” she said. “But here we escaped the worst; and--somehow----” She paused; she was thinking of the letter near her heart. What did changing dynasties matter after all, was her reflection, when the essential things were the same? Aloud she finished her sentence with a smile: “It is so pleasant in the garden, Monsieur, that I cannot help being happy!” The old man smiled also, but his eyes were dim with memories. “Here is my father!” cried Mademoiselle de Fortia, springing to her feet. “And you will want to talk to him!” She ran across the sunny grass to meet a man of middle age, dressed in the fashion of the Revolution. “M. de Vauvenargues is sad to-day,” she whispered. “I tried to comfort him, but he is so very, very old. And I have heard from Paris.” She blushed defiantly. “What do they say in Paris?” asked the Marquis de Fortia. “They _say_ General Bonaparte is going to marry Madame de Beauharnais. But she is not young, and he is quite well thought of, is he not?” “I will relieve you of your post,” smiled her father. “Go and read your gossip, child.” She laughed, and ran away into the rose garden with her hands at her bosom. M. de Fortia went to the old man, who was staring before him at the water that dripped by the river deity into the basin of the fountain from the mouth of the urn. He looked up as his friend approached, and said abruptly, in his high voice-- “Do you think Voltaire, a great man?” “Certainly--one of the greatest.” “He thought my brother had genius.” “Your brother?” “My elder brother----” He paused, seemed to make an effort of memory. “Luc--yes, his name was Luc I have not spoken that name for half a hundred years. Luc--I believe we were fond of each other. He used to--write.” He nodded at the fountain. “Well, I have his manuscripts and his book upstairs. I thought of them last night. I am an old man, and the last of a family that has been very proud, as you know, my friend, very proud.” He paused again. “But perhaps, when I am dead, our name will not suffer--in these days--when things are so different, and who is to remember us?” His voice sank, and an expression of profound melancholy clouded his face. “What do you wish me to do?” asked M. de Fortia, bending over him. The last of the de Clapiers drew a key from his pocket, and presented it with a trembling hand. “You will find the box in my desk. When I am dead, publish my brothers writings--with his name. We used to think he had disgraced our blazon; but now--perhaps--his book might even keep alive--in the new era coming--the noble name”--pride lit the dim eyes--“of Vauvenargues.” _Printed by_ MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED _Edinburgh_ Transcriber’s Notes The following corrections have been made in the text: Part 1, Chapter 8, paragraph 12 - ‘vived’ replaced with ‘vivid’ (he looked at the vivid fish)