PROLOGUE
The boy was sitting in a corner of the shabby room. The mother watched him from her pillow.
“What are you doing, dear?”
“Drawing, Mother Lovely.”
“Strange! Always drawing. Did I ever tell you that your father was an artist?”
The boy looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes were like her own, dark and velvety; but his sunny hair contrasted with her black braids.
“No, Mother Lovely. Had I a father?”
“Yes, dearest. He died just before you were born. I came here hoping that his people, so rich, so proud, would be glad to see you. But, no, they cannot understand.... We’ll go home together, you and I, to my home.”
“Where is that, Mother?”
“Monaco, the great rock that rises from the sea, where my family has lived for generations. Listen, little son ... if I should not be able to go with you, you must go alone. You will find the house where lives my mother, a plain, quiet house with brown shutters near the Cathedral. In front four pepper-trees shield it from the sun, and through the pines one can see the blue glimmer of the sea....”