“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.”
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