This languid peace of afternoon was broken by the arrival of a gentleman on horseback followed by a servant; he drew rein under the chestnut trees, dismounted, gave his horse to the man, and rather slowly ascended the pleasant shaded steps. Without knocking he opened the door and stepped at once into the dark, cool hall. A clock struck three, and he waited till the chimes had ceased, then opened a door on his left and entered a large low room full of shadow that looked out on to a great garden and a young beech covered with red-gold leaves in which the sun blazed splendidly. Luc de Clapiers stood gazing at the home he had not seen for nine years. Nothing was altered. On just such a day as this he had left it; but he remembered that the beech tree had been smaller then and not so prodigal of glorious foliage. There were the same dark walls, the same heavy mahogany furniture, the same picture of “The Sacrifice of Isaac” opposite the window, the same carved sideboard bearing silver and glass, the candlesticks and snuffers, the brass lamp and the taper-holders. Above the mantelpiece were, deep carved, the de Clapiers arms, still brightly coloured, fasces of argent and silver and the chief or--and on the mantelpiece the same dark marble clock. Luc crossed to the window that was not far above the ground and looked down the garden; in the distance were two gentlemen--one young and one old--followed by three bright dogs. Luc put his hand to his eyes, then unlatched the window, that opened casement fashion. The sound, slight as it was, carried in the absolute stillness; the two gentlemen who were approaching the house glanced up. They beheld, framed in the darkness of the room, the slim figure of a young soldier in a blue and silver uniform, wearing a light grey travelling cloak. “Luc!” cried the younger, and the other gave a great start. Luc stepped from the window and crossed to his father. He went simply on his knees before him and kissed his hands, while the old Marquis murmured, “You never wrote to me! You never wrote to me!” “No,” added the younger brother reproachfully, “you never wrote to us, Luc.” Luc admitted that he had not, beyond the first letter that told of his return from Bohemia. “I did not know if I should be able to come to Aix,” he said, “forgive me, Monseigneur.” “You have got leave now, my child?” cried the old Marquis, grasping his shoulder. “Yes, my father, I have some leisure now,” he answered rather sadly. “Come into the house,” said his brother, who was much moved. “I can hardly believe it is you--you have changed a great deal in nine years.” They entered the house--the Marquise was abroad; the servants were roused. Luc heard the orders for the preparation of his chamber and the stabling of his horse with a thrill of pure pleasure; it seemed that he had been very long away from home.