“Is this Voltaire’s charity?” he cried.
Luc lifted his head, and smiled.
“No. I sold my sword this morning. So you see I can pay for my own coffin, Joseph.”
He sat down again and hid his face in his two hands, as if he was greatly fatigued, and wished to compose his thoughts. There was a dignity about this movement and pose, as if he had withdrawn himself into final silence. Joseph had no more weapons; his wrath flared impotently. He stared fiercely at his brother, and set his scarlet heel on the book he had flung on the floor; then, in white haughtiness and bitter speechlessness, left the garret.
“I am tired,” said Luc to himself; “tired—tired.”
He dropped his hands, and rose and looked round for the crushed volume Joseph had spurned with his foot. As he stooped to pick it up he heard a soft yet swelling crash of music.
“Soldiers,” he murmured, “going to the—war.”
The music gathered in strength until it culminated in an almost intolerable crescendo of passionate exaltation. It seemed to be very near, almost in the room. Luc found himself on his knees, quivering in the sound of it. The music began to paint pictures in the garret, and Luc’s blindness did not prevent his seeing them: gorgeous banners draped the bare rafters, and a procession with flags, shields, and drums crossed the humble floor, and broke away the mean walls, and let in the great clouds and the strong sunbeams, and showed a vast span of pure light that dazzled into the infinite distance.
A company with sublime tread was passing over this bridge, and they smiled at Luc.
He felt the clouds closing round him and the light enveloping him. One of the martial figures was a woman who looked at him with royal eyes.