"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.