The Quest of Glory, Marjorie Bowen [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

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 brother’s

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.”

 

THE END