CHAPTER XV. — AN OLD PRIEST AND A YOUNG ARTIST.—THE CHANGELINGS.
As a thoroughfare of all nations, nothing excels the matchless Louvre. Though the fatal year of 1870 summons the legions of France under the last of the Napoleons to defeat, Paris, queen of cities, has yet to see its days of fire and flame. The Prussians thunder at its gates. It is "l'annee terrible." Dissension and rapine within. The mad wolves of the Commune are yet to rage over the bloody paths of the German conqueror.
Yet a ceaseless crowd of strangers, a polyglot procession of all ages and sexes, pours through these wonderful halls of art.
In the sunny afternoons of the battle year, an old French priest wanders through these noble galleries. Pale and bowed, Francois Ribaut dreams away his waning hours among the priceless relics of the past. These are the hours of release from rosary and breviary. The ebb and flow of humanity, the labors of the copyists, the diverse types of passing human nature, all interest the padre.
He has waited in vain for responses to his frequent letters to Judge Hardin. Perhaps the Judge is dead. Death's sickle swings unceasingly. The little heiress may have returned to her western native land. He waits and marvels. He finally sends a last letter through the clergy at Mission Dolores. To this he receives a response that they are told the young lady has returned to America and is being educated in the Eastern States.
With a sigh Fran‡ois Ribaut abandons all hopes of seeing once more the child he had baptized, the orphaned daughter of his friend. She is now far from him. He feels assured he will never cross the wild Atlantic again.
Worn and weary, waiting the approach of old age, he yet participates, with a true Frenchman's patriotism, in the sorrows of "l'annee terrible." Nothing brightens the future! Human nature itself seems giving way.
All is disaster. Jacques Bonhomme's blood waters in vain his native fields. Oh, for the great Napoleon! Alas, for the days of 1805!
As he wanders among the pictures he makes friendly acquaintance with rising artist and humble imitator. The old padre is everywhere welcome. His very smile is a benediction.
He pauses one day at the easel of a young man who is copying a Murillo Madonna. Intent upon his work, the artist politely answers, and resumes his task. Spirited and artistic in execution, the copy betokens a rare talent.
Day after day, on his visits, the padre sees the glowing canvas nearing completion. He is strangely attracted to the resolute young artist.
Dark-eyed and graceful, the young painter is on the threshold of manhood. With seemingly few friends or acquaintances, he works unremittingly. Padre Francisco learns that he is a self-supporting art-student. He avows frankly that art copying brings him both his living and further education.
Fran‡ois Ribaut is anxious to know why this ardent youth toils, when his fellows are in the field fighting the invaders. He is astonished when the young man tells him he is an American.
"You are a Frenchman in your language and bearing," says the priest doubtfully.
The young artist laughs.
"I was educated here, mon pere, but I was born in Louisiana. My name is Armand Valois."
The old priest's eyes glisten.
"I knew an American named Valois, in California. He was a Louisianan also."
The youth drops his brush. His eyes search the padre's face. "His name?" he eagerly asks.
"He was called Maxime Valois," says the priest, Sadly. "He went into the Southern war and was killed."
The artist springs from his seat. Leading the priest to a recessed window-seat, he says, quietly:
"Mon pere, tell me of him. He was my cousin, and the last of my family. I am now the only Valois."
Padre Francisco overstays his hour of relaxation. For the artist learns of the heroic death of his gallant kinsman, and all the chronicles of Lagunitas.
"But you must come to me. I must see you often and tell you more," concludes the good old priest. He gives Armand his residence, a religious establishment near Notre Dame, where he can spend his days under the shadows of the great mystery-haunted fane.
Armand tells the priest his slender history.
Left penniless by his aged father's death, the whirlwind of the Southern war swept away the last of his property. Old family friends, scattered and poor, cannot help him. He has been his own master for years. His simple annals are soon finished. He tells of his heart comrade, Raoul Dauvray (his senior a few years), now fighting in the Army of the Loire. The priest learns that the young American remained, to be a son in the household, while Raoul, a fellow art-student of past years, has drawn his sword for France.
Agitated by the discovery, Padre Francisco promises to visit the young man soon. It seems all so strange. A new romance! Truly the world is small after all. Is it destiny or chance?
In a few weeks, Fran‡ois Ribaut is the beloved of that little circle, where Josephine Dauvray is the household ruler. Priest and youth are friends by the memory of the dead soldier of the Confederacy. Armand writes to New Orleans and obtains full details of the death, in the hour of victory, of the gallant Californian. His correspondent says, briefly, "Colonel Henry Peyton, who succeeded your relative in command of the regiment, left here after the war, for Mexico or South America. He has never been heard from. He is the one man who could give you the fullest details of the last days of your kinsman—if he still lives."
Thundering war rolls nearer the gates of Paris. The horrible days of approaching siege and present danger, added to the gloom of the national humiliation, make the little household a sad one. Padre Francisco finds a handsome invalid officer one day at the artist's home. Raoul Dauvray, severely wounded, is destined to months of inaction. There is a brother's bond between the two younger men. Padre Francisco lends his presence to cheer the invalid. Father and mother are busied with growing cares, for the siege closes in.
The public galleries are now all closed. The days of "decheance" are over. France is struggling out of the hands of tyranny under the invaders' scourge into the nameless horrors of the Commune.
It is impossible to get away, and unsafe to stay. The streets are filled with the mad unrest of the seething population. By the side of the young officer of the Garde Mobile, Fran‡ois Ribaut ministers and speeds the recovery of the chafing warrior. Thunder of guns and rattle of musketry nearer, daily, bring fresh alarms. Armand Valois has thrown away the palette and is at last on the ramparts with his brother artists, fighting for France. The boy has no country, for his blood is as true to the Lost Cause as the gallant cousin who laid down his life at Atlanta. He can fight for France, for he feels he has no other country now. It has been his foster-mother.
Bright and helpful, demure and neat-handed, is the little nurse, who is the life of the household. Padre Francisco already loves the child. "Louise Moreau" is a pretty, quiet little maiden of twelve. Good Josephine Dauvray has told the priest of the coming of the child. He listens to the whole story. He sighs to think of some dark intrigue, behind the mask of this poor child's humble history. He gravely warns Josephine to tell him all the details of this strange affair. The motherly care and protection of Josephine has rendered the shy child happy. She knows no home but her little nest with the Dauvrays. Her education is suited to her modest station in life. The substantial payments and furtive visits of the woman who is responsible for her, tell the priest there is here a mystery to probe.
Josephine casts down her eyes when PŠre Fran‡ois asks her sternly if she has not traced the woman who is the only link between her charge and the past. Interest against duty.
"I have followed her, mon pere, but I do not know her home. She comes irregularly, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a carriage. I have always lost all traces. She must have friends here, but I cannot find them, for she was sent to us by others to give this child a home."
"This must be looked into," murmurs the priest.
He interrogates the soldier and also Armand when he returns from the lines, as the siege drags slowly on. They know nothing save the fact of the child's being friendless. It may be right; it may be wrong. "Voila tout." It's the way of Paris.
The priest is much disturbed in mind. Since his conversations with Armand Valois he feels a vague unrest in his heart as to the young artist's rights in Lagunitas. Does none of that great estate go to Armand? Is this equitable? There must be some share of the domain, which would legally descend to him. In the days of the convalescence of Raoul Dauvray, the two friends of the soldier-artist, now waiting the orders for the great attack, commune as to his rights. It would not be well to disturb him with false hopes.
The gentle old priest tells Raoul the whole story of Lagunitas.
"Mon pere," says the sculptor, "I think there is something wrong with the affairs of that estate. This great Judge may wish you out of the way. He may wish to keep Armand out of his rights. He is deceiving you. It would be well, when brighter days come, that Armand should go to the western land and see this man."
"But he is poor," Raoul sighs, "and he cannot go."
"If he writes to the 'avocat,' the man will be on his guard."
PŠre Fran‡ois takes many a pinch of snuff. He ponders from day to day. When the fatal days of the surrender of Paris come, Armand returns saddened and war-worn, but safe. The victorious columns of the great German "imperator" march under the Arc de Triomphe. Their bayonets shine in the Bois de Boulogne. Thundering cannon at Versailles bellow a salute to the new-crowned Emperor of Germany.
The days of the long siege have been dreadful. Privation, the streams of wounded, and the dull boom of the guns of the forts are sad witnesses of the ruin of war.
When to the siege and the shame of surrender, the awful scenes of the Commune are added, each day has a new trial. Raoul is well enough to be out, now. The two young men guard the household. Aristide Dauvray is gloomily helpless at his fireside. Armand busies himself in painting and sketching. PŠre Fran‡ois' visits are furtive, for the priest's frock is a poor safeguard now. Already the blood of the two murdered French generals, Lecomte and Clement-Thomas, cries to heaven for vengeance against rash mutiny.
Raoul Dauvray foresees the downfall of the socialistic mob. After consultation, he decides to take a place where he can protect the little household when the walls are stormed. He escapes by night to the lines of the Versaillese.
For, maddened Paris is now fighting all France. In his capacity of officer, he can at once insure the personal safety of his friends when the city is taken.
The red flag floats on the Hotel de Ville. The very streets are unsafe. Starvation faces the circle around Aristide Dauvray's hearth. Mad adventurers, foolish dreamers, vain "bourgeois" generals, head the Communists. Dombrowski, Cluseret, Flourens, the human tigers Ferre and Lullier, Duval, Bergeret, and Eudes, stalk in the stolen robes of power. Gloomy nights close sad and dreary days. From Issy and Vanvres huge shells curve their airy flight, to carry havoc from French guns into French ranks.
Hell seems to have vomited forth its scum. Uncanny beings lurk at the corners. Wild with cognac and absinthe, the unruly mob commits every wanton act which unbridled wickedness can suggest. Good men are powerless, and women exposed to every insult. Public trade is suspended. Robbery and official pillage increase. The creatures of a day give way quickly to each other. Gallant Rossell, who passed the Prussian lines to serve France, indignantly sheathes his sword. He is neither a Nero nor a mountebank.
Alas, for the talented youth! a death volley from his old engineer troops awaits him at the Buttes de Chaumont. To die the dishonored death of a felon, a deserter!
Alas, for France: bright of face and hard of heart! Tigress queen, devouring your noblest children.
While Thiers proclaims the law, he draws around him the wreck of a great army. A bloody victory over demented brethren hangs awful laurels on the French sword: De Gallifet, Vinoy, Ducrot, L'Admirault, Cissey, D'Aurelle de Palladines, Besson and Charrette surround the unlucky veteran, Marshal McMahon, Duc de Magenta. General Le Flo, the Minister of War, hurls this great army against the two hundred and fifty-two battalions of National Guards within the walls of Paris. These fools have a thousand cannon.
Down in the Bois de Boulogne, the fighting pickets pour hissing lead into the bosoms of brothers. From the heights where the brutal Prussian soldiery grinned over the blackened ruins of the ill-starred Empress Eugenie's palace of St. Cloud, the cannon of the Versaillese rain shot and shell on the walls of defenceless Paris.
PŠre Fran‡ois is a blessing in these sad and weary days. Clad "en bourgeois," he smuggles in food and supplies. He cheers the half-distracted Josephine. Armand Valois keeps the modest little maiden Louise, fluttering about the home studio which he shares with Raoul. Their casts and models, poor scanty treasures, make their modest sanctum a wonder to the girl. Her life's romance unfolds. Art and dawning love move her placid soul. The days of wrangling wear away. An occasional smuggled note from Raoul bids them be of cheer. Once or twice, the face of Marie Berard is seen at the door for a moment.
Thrusting a packet of notes in Josephine's hand, she bids her guard the child and keep her within her safe shelter.
The disjointed masses of Communists wind out on April 3d of the terrible year of '71, to storm the fortified heights held by the Nationalists.
Only a day before, at Courbevoie, their bayonets have crossed in fight. Mont Valerien now showers shells into Paris. Bergeret, Duval, and Eudes lead huge masses of bloodthirsty children of the red flag, into a battle where quickening war appalls the timid Louise. It makes her cling close to Armand. The human family seems changed into a pack of ravening wolves. Pouring back, defeated and dismayed, the Communists rage in the streets. The grim fortress of Mont Valerien has scourged the horde of Bergeret. Duval's column flees; its defeated leader is promptly shot by the merciless Vinoy. Fierce De Gallifet rages on the field—his troopers sabring the socialists without quarter.
Flourens' dishonored body lies, riddled with bullets, on a dung heap at St. Cloud.
Eudes steals away, to sneak out and hide his "loot" in foreign lands. Red is the bloody flail with which McMahon thrashes out Communism.
The prisoned family, joined by PŠre Fran‡ois, now a fugitive, day by day shudder at the bedlam antics and reign of blood around them.
Saintly Archbishop Darboy dies under the bullets of the Communists. His pale face appeals to God for mercy.
Vengeance is yet to come. The clergy are now hunted in the streets! Plunder and rapine reign! Orgies and wild wassail hold a mocking sway in the courts of death. Unsexed women, liberated thieves, and bloodthirsty tramps prey on the unwary, the wounded, or the feeble. On April 30th, the great fort of Issy falls into the hands of the government. Blazing shells rain, in the murky night air, down on Paris. Continuous fighting from April 2d until May 21st makes the regions of Auteuil, Neuilly, and Point du Jour a wasted ruin.
Frenzied fiends drag down the Colonne Vendome where the great Corsican in bronze gazed on a scene of wanton madness never equalled. Not even when drunken Nero mocked at the devastation of the imperial city by the Tiber, were these horrors rivalled.
Down the beautiful green slopes into the Bois de Boulogne, the snaky lines of sap and trench bring the octopus daily nearer to the doomed modern Babylon. Flash of rifle gun and crack of musketry re-echo in the great park. It is now shorn of its lovely trees, where man and maid so lately held the trysts of love. A bloody dew rains on devoted Paris.
A fateful Sunday is that twenty-first of May when the red-mouthed cannon roar from dawn till dark. At eventide, the grim regulars bayonet the last defenders of the redoubts at the Point du Jour gates. The city is open to McMahon.
The lodgment once made, a two nights' bombardment adds to the horrors of this living hell.
On the twenty-third, Montmartre's bloody shambles show how merciless are the stormers. Dombrowski lies dead beside his useless guns. All hope is lost. Murder and pillage reign in Paris.
Behind their doors, barricaded with the heavier furniture, the family of Aristide Dauvray invoke the mercy of God. They are led by PŠre Fran‡ois, who thinks the awful Day of Judgment may be near. Humanity has passed its limits. Fiends and furies are the men and women, who, crazed with drink, swarm the blood-stained streets.
In their lines, far outside, the stolid Prussians joke over their beer, as they learn of the wholesale murder finishing red Bellona's banquet. "The French are all crazy." They laugh.
The twenty-fourth of May arrives. Paris is aflame. Battle unceasing, storm of shell, rattle of rifles, and cannon balls skipping down the Champs Elysees mark this fatal day. A deep tide of human blood flows from the Madeleine steps to the Seine. The river is now filled with bodies. Columns of troops, with heavy tramp and ringing platoon volleys, disperse the rallying squads of rebels, or storm barricade after barricade. Squadrons of cavalry whirl along, and cut down both innocent and guilty.
After three awful days more, the six thousand bodies lying among the tombs of PŠre la Chaise tell that the last stronghold of the Commune has been stormed. Belleville and Buttes de Chaumont are piled with hundreds of corpses. The grim sergeants' squads are hunting from house to house, bayoneting skulking fugitives, or promptly shooting any persons found armed.
The noise of battle slowly sinks away. Flames and smoke soar to the skies: the burnt offering now; the blood offering is nearly over.
Thirty superb palaces of the municipality are in flames. Under Notre Dame's sacred roof, blackened brands and flooded petroleum tell of the human fiends' visit.
The superb ruins of the Tuileries show what imperial France has been. Its flaming debris runs with streams of gold, silver, and melted crystal.
Banks, museums, and palaces have been despoiled. Boys and old crones trade costly jewels in the streets for bread and rum. The firing parties are sick of carnage.
Killing in cold blood ceases now, from sheer mechanical fatigue.
On the twenty-eighth, a loud knocking on the door of the house brings Aristide Dauvray to the door. A brief parley. The obstructions are cleared. Raoul is clasped in his father's arms. Safe at last. Grim, bloody, powder-stained, with tattered clothes, he is yet unwounded. A steady sergeant and half-dozen men are quickly posted as a guard. They can breathe once more. This help is sadly needed. In a darkened room above, little Louise Moreau lies in pain and silence.
Grave-faced PŠre Fran‡ois is the skilful nurse and physician. A shell fragment, bursting through a window, has torn her tender, childish body.
Raoul rapidly makes Armand and his father known to the nearest "poste de garde." He obtains protection for them. His own troops are ordered to escort drafts of the swarming prisoners to the Orangery at Versailles. Already several thousands of men, women, and children, of all grades, are penned within the storied walls. Here the princesses of France sported, before that other great blood frenzy, the Revolution, seized on the Parisians.
With a brief rest, he tears himself away from a mother's arms, and departs for the closing duties of the second siege of Paris. The drawing in of the human prey completes the work.
Safe at last! Thank God! The family are able to look out to the light of the sun again. They see the glittering stars of night shine calmly down on the slaughter house, the charnel of "Paris incendie." The silence is brooding. It seems unfamiliar after months of siege, and battle's awful music.
In a few days the benumbed survivors crawl around the streets. Open gates enable provisions to reach the half-famished dwellers within the walls. Over patched bridges, the railways pour the longed-for supplies into Paris. Fair France is fruitful, even in her year of God's awful vengeance upon the rotten empire of "Napoleon the Little."
PŠre Fran‡ois lingers by the bedside of the suffering girl. She moans and tosses in the fever of her wound. Her mind is wandering.
A slender, girlish arm wanders out of the coverlid often. She lies, with flushed cheeks and eyes strangely bright.
Tenderly replacing the innocent's little hands under the counterpane, Fran‡ois Ribaut starts with sudden surprise.
He fastens his gaze eagerly on the poor girl's left arm.
Can there be two scars like this?
The sign of the cross.
He is amazed. The little Spanish girl, from whose baby arm he extracted a giant poisonous thorn, bore a mark like this,—a record of his own surgery.
At far Lagunitas, he had said, playfully to Dolores Valois:
"Your little one will never forget the cross; she will bear it forever."
For the incision left a deep mark on baby Isabel Valois' arm.
The old priest is strangely stirred. He has a lightning flash of suspicion. This girl has no history; no family; no name. Who is she?
Yet she is watched, cared for, and, even in the hours of danger, money is provided for her. Ah, he will protect this poor lamb. But it is sheer madness to dream of her being his lost one. True, her age is that of the missing darling. He kneels by the bed of the wounded innocent, and softly quavers a little old Spanish hymn. It is a memory of his Californian days.
Great God! her lips are moving; her right hand feebly marks his words, and as he bends over the sufferer, he hears "Santa Maria, Madre de Dios."
Fran‡ois Ribaut falls on his knees in prayer. This nameless waif, in her delirium, is faltering words of the cradle hymns, the baby lispings of the heiress of Lagunitas.
A light from heaven shines upon the old priest's brow.
Is it, indeed, the heiress!
He can hear his own heart beat.
The wearied, hunted priest feels the breezes from the singing pines once more on his fevered brow. Again he sees the soft dark eyes of Dolores as they close in death, beautiful as the last glances of an expiring gazelle. Her dying gaze is fixed on the crucifix in his hand.
"I will watch over this poor lonely child," murmurs the old man, as he throws himself on his knees, imploring the protection of the Virgin Mother mild.
Sitting by the little sufferer, softly speaking the language of her babyhood, the padre hears word after word, uttered by the girl in the "patois" of Alta California.
And now he vows himself to a patient vigil over this defenceless one. Silence, discretion, prudence. He is yet a priest.
He will track out this mysterious guardian.
In a week or so, a normal condition is re-established in conquered Paris. Though the yellowstone houses are pitted with the scourge of ball and mitraille, the streets are safe. Humanity's wrecks are cleared away. Huge, smoking ruins tell of the mad barbarity of the floods of released criminals. The gashed and torn beauties of the Bois de Boulogne; battered fortifications, ruined temples of Justice, Art, and Commerce, and the blood-splashed corridors of the Madeleine are still eloquent of anarchy.
The reign of blood is over at last, for, in heaps of shattered humanity, the corses of the last Communists are lying in awful silence in the desecrated marble wilderness of PŠre la Chaise.
The heights of Montmartre area Golgotha. Trade slowly opens its doors. The curious foreigner pokes, a human raven, over the scenes of carnage. Disjointed household organizations rearrange themselves. The railway trains once more run regularly. Laughter, clinking of glasses, and smirking loiterers on the boulevards testify that thoughtless, heartless Paris is itself once more. "Vive la bagatelle."
Fran‡ois Ribaut at last regains his home of religious seclusion. Louise is convalescent, and needs rest and quiet. There is no want of money in the Dauvray household. The liberal douceurs of Louise Moreau's mysterious guardian, furnish all present needs.
"Thank God!" cries Pere Francois, when he remembers that he has the fund intact, which he received from the haughty Hardin.
He can follow the quest of justice. He has the means to trace the clouded history of this child of mystery. A nameless girl who speaks only French, yet in her wandering dreams recalls the Spanish cradle-hymns of lost Isabel.
Already the energy of the vivacious French is applied to the care of what is left, and the repair of the damages of the reign of demons. The rebuilding of their loved "altars of Mammon" begins. The foreign colony, disturbed like a flock of gulls on a lonely rock, flutters back as soon as the battle blast is over. Aristide Dauvray finds instant promotion in his calling. The hiding Communists are hunted down and swell the vast crowd of wretches in the Orangery.
Already, all tribunals are busy. Deportation or death awaits the leaders of the revolt.
Raoul Dauvray, whose regiment is returned from its fortnight's guard duty at Versailles, is permitted to revisit his family. Peace now signed—the peace of disgrace—enables the decimated Garde Mobile to be disbanded. In a few weeks, he will be a sculptor again. A soldier no more. France needs him no longer in the field.
By the family Lares and Penates the young soldier tells of the awful sights of Versailles. The thousand captured cannon of the Communists, splashed with human blood, the wanton ruin of the lovely grounds of the Bois, dear to the Parisian heart, and all the strange scenes of the gleaning of the fields of death show how the touch of anarchy has seared the heart of France. Raoul's adventures are a nightly recital.
"I had one strange adventure," says the handsome soldier, knocking the ashes from his cigar. "I was on guard with my company in command of the main gate of the Orangery, the night after the crushing of these devils at Montmartre. The field officer of the day was away. Among other prisoners brought over, to be turned into that wild human menagerie, was a beautiful woman, richly dressed. She was arrested in a carriage, escaping from the lines with a young girl. Their driver was also arrested. He was detained as a witness.
"She had not been searched, but was sent over for special examination. She was in agony. I tried to pacify her. She declared she was an American, and begged me to send at once for the officers of the American Legation. It was very late. The best I could do was to give her a room and put a trusty sergeant in charge. I sent a messenger instantly to the American Legation with a letter. She was in mortal terror of her life. She showed me a portmanteau, with magnificent jewels and valuables. I calmed her terrified child. The lady insisted I should take charge of her jewels and papers. I said:
"'Madame, I do not know you.'
"She cried, 'A French officer is always a gentleman.'
"In the morning before I marched off guard, a carriage with a foreign gentleman and one of the attach‚s of the United States Embassy, came with a special order from General Le Fl“ for her release. She had told me she was trying to get out of Paris with her child, who had been in a convent. It was situated in the midst of the fighting and had been cut off. Passing many fearful risks, she was finally arrested as 'suspicious.'
"She persists in saying I saved her life. She would have been robbed, truly, in that mad whirl of human devils penned up there under the chassepots of the guards on the walls. Oh! it was horrible."
The young soldier paused.
"She thanked me, and was gracious enough not to offer me a reward. I am bidden to call on her in a few days, as soon as we are tranquil, and receive her thanks.
"I have never seen such beauty in woman," continues the officer.
"A Venus in form; a daughter of the South, in complexion,—and her thrilling eyes!"
Gentle Louise murmurs, "And the young lady?"
"A Peri not out of the gates of Paradise," cries the enthusiastic artist.
"What is she? who is she?" cried the circle. Even PŠre Fran‡ois lifted his head in curiosity. Raoul threw two cards on the table. A dainty coronet with the words,
{Madame Natalie de Santos, 97 Champs Elysees.}
appeared on one; the other read,
{Le Comte Ernesto Villa Rocca, Jockey Club.}
"And you are going to call?" said Armand.
"Certainly," replies Raoul. "I told the lady I was an artist. She wishes to give me a commission for a bust of herself. I hope she will; I want to be again at my work. I am tired of all this brutality."
That looked-for day comes. France struggles to her feet, and loads the Teuton with gold. He retires sullenly to where he shows his grim cannons, domineering the lovely valleys of Alsace and the fruitful fields of Lorraine.
Louise Moreau is well now. The visits of her responsible guardian are resumed. Adroit as a priest can be, PŠre Fran‡ois cannot run down this visitor. Too sly to call in others, too proud to use a hireling, in patience the priest bides his time.
Not a word yet to the fair girl, who goes singing now around the house. A few questions prove to Fran‡ois Ribaut that the girl has no settled memory of her past. He speaks, in her presence, the language of the Spaniard. No sign of understanding. He describes his old home in the hills of Mariposa. The placid child never raises her head from her sewing.
Is he mistaken? No; on her pretty arm, the crucial star still lingers.
"How did you get that mark, my child?" he asks placidly.
"I know not, mon pŠre; it has been there since I can remember."
The girl drops her eyes. She knows there is a break in her history. The earliest thing she can remember of her childhood is sailing—sailing on sapphire seas, past sculptured hills. Long days spent, gazing on the lonely sea-bird's flight.
The priest realizes there is a well-guarded secret. The regular visitor does not speak TO the child, but OF her.
PŠre Fran‡ois has given Josephine his orders, but there is no tripping in the cold business-like actions of the woman who pays.
PŠre Fran‡ois is determined to take both the young men into his confidence. He will prevent any removal of this child, without the legal responsibility of some one. If they should take the alarm? How could he stop them? The law! But how and why?
Raoul Dauvray is in high spirits. After his regiment is disbanded, he is not slow to call at the splendid residence on the Champs Elys‚es. In truth, he goes frequently.
The splendors of that lovely home, "Madame de Santos'" gracious reception, and a royal offer for his artistic skill, cause him to feel that she is indeed a good fairy.
A modelling room in the splendid residence is assigned him. Count Villa Rocca, who has all an Italian's love of the arts, lingers near Natalie de Santos, with ill-concealed jealousy of the young sculptor. To be handsome, smooth, talented, jealous—all this is Villa Rocca's "m‚tier." He is a true Italian.