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!”