  A girl in a straight white muslin gown, and a cap with green ribbons, was seated on the brim of a fountain in the garden of a house in Aix, listening dutifully to an old man, who, with the self-absorption of extreme age, was talking of the past in a low, slightly fretful voice. ClÉmence de Fortia disguised a wandering attention. She had a letter in the bosom of her gown that she wished to read and re-read in private—a letter from a young deputy in Paris, full of the wonders, the scandals, the terrors of these last years of the century and first years of the French Republic. It was midsummer, and the garden was knee-deep in flowers, all coloured by the sun and shaken by the warm breeze. The old man sat on a wicker chair under the tree that shaded the fountain with a rug about his knees. He must have been over eighty years of age, and he was dressed in the fashion of that period that was now completely over, and in the style of that aristocracy that had lately fallen, terribly and for ever. “Your grandmother was betrothed to my elder brother once, Mademoiselle ClÉmence,” he said, taking up his broken talk after a pause. “Why, I did not know that you ever had a brother, Monsieur,” she answered, interested. A look of distress and regret passed over the fine old face. “He died fifty years ago,” he murmured, “in Paris—in the arms of M. de Voltaire. Fifty years! I have lived too long.” “Ah, no!” smiled the young girl brightly. “The times have been very terrible, but I cannot help thinking that all is very new and glorious now.” “Your grandmother would never have said that.” The old Marquis de Vauvenargues fixed her with sad eyes. “But you are a child of your generation, despite the blood in your veins.” “Things have changed so!” she said, humouring him. “Ah, yes!—things have changed!” he repeated. And his chin sank on the lace ruffles on his breast. “I meant that when I said I had lived too long. I should have wished to die before I saw the things I have seen in France.” 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 |
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