Ethel made a motion to take her leave. The empress rose painfully.
“Madame,” Ethel began.
“Allow me; I wish to accompany you,” Eugénie insisted. “Your visit has done me good.”
She leaned lightly on Miss Rowrer’s shoulder as she crossed the room.
“Miss Rowrer, I am going to tell you a great secret,” said the empress, as she was taking leave; “but one must have been an empress to appreciate it rightly. It is this: remain always simple and artless as you were at fifteen. That is the secret of happiness; there is no other, believe me! Adieu, mademoiselle. I wish you all happiness in life.”
Ethel retained through life the vision of this woman in her mourning garments, with the white hair crowning her forehead. She recalled her gentle voice, her refined features—still resembling the portraits of other days, but without the adorable smile.
“Our people,” Ethel said to her grandmother, “interest themselves only in Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe. I wish to make a collection concerning the Empress Eugénie—photographs, statuettes. And I will take back to Chicago her portrait in oils. I’ll have it done here in Paris under my direction. Who is this Phil who, they say, has so much talent, and has painted so fine a portrait for the Salon—a young girl seated among flowers with doves around her? Cecilia Beaux admires it immensely. He has had a second medal, I believe—he has everything he needs to succeed; and he is an American, they say, and poor and ambitious.”
“He is poor and ambitious? Give him a chance,” replied grandma.
CHAPTER XI
AN APARTMENT IN THE LATIN QUARTER
Nothing remained for Ethel but to meet her artist. An opportunity soon offered itself at the Comtesse de Donjeon’s five-o’clock tea, at which she was often present.