THE band was playing on the “Place” at Hivèritz; it was a beautiful spring-like afternoon, though only the middle of January. A goodly number of the visitors, and many of the residents too, were to be seen promenading up and down, or sitting at the open windows of the hotels and other large houses which overlooked the square,—the West End of the little town.
A girl of twelve years old, or thereabouts, was crossing the quieter and less frequented side of the place with a young lady in deep mourning; the young lady was tall and slight, fair hair peeped out from under her crape-trimmed black hat, she had blue eyes, and a pale clear complexion.
“English, of course; I don’t think I have seen her here before,” said an American lady to the gentleman she was walking with, as they passed the fair-haired girl.
“New-comers, I dare say,” replied the gentleman carelessly. “Rather pretty, isn’t she?”
“I didn’t notice her much. They cannot be anything particular,—not people of rank, that is to say,” said the daughter of the nation where rank is supposed to be unknown, with some contempt in her tone, “or we should have heard of their arrival.”
But the blue-eyed English girl, innocent of being classed among the nobodies of conceited little Hivèritz, walked on quietly, enjoying the sweet air and the sunshine, the mountains in the distance, the music near at hand.
“C’est bien ici, ma cousine, n’est-ce pas?” said her little companion. “Will you not stay for a few minutes? We can get chairs for a sou each; it is so seldom I can hear the music.”
She looked up entreatingly. She was not a pretty child, but her face was frank and merry, her dark eyes bright and honest.
“I don’t mind staying a little, if your mother will not be wondering what has become of us,” said the young lady. “Don’t you often come here when the band plays, Eudoxie?”
Eudoxie shook her head. “Mamma is quite pleased for me to come,” she said, “but it is not often there is any one to bring me. When Geneviève was at home, she often came to the Place, but she would not let me come; she said children were tiresome. She came with Stéphanie Rou sille, or the Demoiselles Frogé. I am not sorry that Geneviève is married and away, ma cousine; she sends me pretty presents now, and I like you better for my sister.”