The younger brother was like him and like Luc: sweetness and dignity mingled in his features. He was dressed richly, but far from extravagantly, and in a fashion some years old. His handsome brown hair hung in natural curls round his face, unconfined by any ribbon. His expression was at once more simple and less ardent than that of the young captain, at whom he gazed with affection, respect, and admiration. Luc looked from one to the other of these two fair faces, both so serene and loving in expression, and the paleness of his countenance increased, a lustre as of tears came into his eyes. He put his hand on to his father’s and clasped it so firmly that the signet ring was pressed into his palm. “No, not now,” he said--“not now.” “What not now?” smiled the old Marquis. “That is all I have to say, Monseigneur,” replied Luc, with a sudden air of weariness. “Tell me what has happened in Provence.” He turned his eyes on Joseph, who blushed and declared humbly that the news of Aix was not worth offering to one who had seen Paris and foreign countries. “But heretics are spreading ever among us,” put in the older M. de Vauvenargues. “And we very often hear the pernicious name of Voltaire.” The captain’s hazel eyes dropped; he held his father’s hand even more firmly. “If there is a man who should be burnt in the market-place it is M. de Voltaire,” continued the old Marquis. “He and his books and his doctrines burnt--together.” Luc removed his hand and rose; he asked if his mother would not soon return, then raised his hitherto untouched glass of amber white wine and drank it slowly. Joseph had a delicate feeling that his brother would like to be alone with their father. “I will see if your chamber is set,” he excused himself, and left them quietly. The Marquis was following him, but Luc set down his glass sharply and said, “Father!” The old man turned. He thought that this was the explanation of the “not now” of Luc. He closed the door and returned to the table. Luc stood with his head a little bent on his bosom, the sun, that filtered through the beech leaves without, setting his silver broideries aquiver with light and sparkling in the loosened threads of his brown locks. “My poor boy,”--his father took him gently by the shoulders--“you are ill.” Luc raised steady and beautifully smiling eyes. “No, Monseigneur, not ill.” He paused a moment, then added, “But not strong--not strong enough for a soldier.” The Marquis did not comprehend. Luc laid his hands on his father’s breast and a look of faintness came over his face, but his eyes glowed more ardent and brilliant than ever. “I must leave the army, father. I must send in my resignation to-night. Bohemia broke my health. France--France has no further need of me.” “Luc!” The old man stepped back and stood rigid, as if the words were so many arrows to pinion him. The young soldier took hold of the back of the dark mahogany chair in which he had been sitting.