“No,” added the younger brother reproachfully, “you never wrote to us, Luc.”
Luc admitted that he had not, beyond the first letter that told of his return from Bohemia.
“I did not know if I should be able to come to Aix,” he said, “forgive me, Monseigneur.”
“You have got leave now, my child?” cried the old Marquis, grasping his shoulder.
“Yes, my father, I have some leisure now,” he answered rather sadly.
“Come into the house,” said his brother, who was much moved. “I can hardly believe it is you—you have changed a great deal in nine years.”
They entered the house—the Marquise was abroad; the servants were roused. Luc heard the orders for the preparation of his chamber and the stabling of his horse with a thrill of pure pleasure; it seemed that he had been very long away from home.
His father made him sit by his right at the long black table that was now covered with wine glasses and dishes of fruit, and kept his eyes fixed on him with an earnest look of affection.
“You are very pale and thin,” he said.
The brother touched the young soldier’s hand lovingly. “Have you been ill, Luc?” he asked.