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."