J: WILLIAM FOSDICK ART. IN FICTIC COLL. U. | er a al ; The Honor of the Braxtons Alina Durlan. The HONOR OF | THE BRAXTONS A NOVEL By J. WILLIAM FOSDICK Author of ‘47HE MASTERPIECE OF MONSIEUR BLANC” and ' OTHER STORIES NEW YORK J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY 1902 The HONOR OF THE BRAXTONS Chapter I CC . ND she is going to Paris of all places!” The widow looked up from her novel des- pairingly. A noisy group of horse-billiard players were shuffling wooden disks along the smooth deck of the Champagne. The object of the widow’s remarks, the only woman in the group, was young, pretty and wore a golf suit. The widow of banker Van Kleer was fashionable and worldly wise. The young lady in question who was going to Paris to study painting, possessed neither of these qualities. Chance brought them together in “ room 56.” The widow had read the girl’s name plainly lettered on her steamer trunk—Alina Durlan, Montclair, N. J. “Provincial!” she thought, “alone! unprotected! I must chaperone her!” but she met with poor success. The young woman went about her affairs and chose her associates in a way that often shocked her room- mate. With the innocent, exuberant, self-reliance of youth, she paid but little heed to Mrs. Van Kleer’s. conventional advice. As the players finished their game the widow dropped her book and joined Miss Durlan. Linked arm in arm I The HONOR of th BRAXTONS they walked for some time, battling with the roystering north wind. They broke into peals of laughter at the comical plights in which they were left by this imperti- nent breeze. | Once they found themselves clinging to the railing while they watched the steerage passengers at their rough games upon the deck below. A half score of Italian laborers were dancing to the music of an accordion. Grouped about them was a heterogeneous company such as cosmopolitan New York alone could put aboard a steamer. The Italians looked contented. They had served their time digging the trenches of New York and were going back to Italy with well filled pockets. “Look at that hoary old Jew,” said Miss Durlan, “ see how his white locks sing against that pile of cordage.” Not far from the old man were two French peasants. The man, a low browed, ill favored fellow, scowled at his wife with small, bead like eyes: “What a horrible face!” Miss Durlan turned to her companion. “The head of a murderer!” exclaimed the widow. “ He has struck her again!” Alina caught at the rail and gazed downwards, horrified. “I told the purser this morning that the brute ought to be put in irons. Think of striking a poor, sickly creature like that.” Two young men stood very near the peasants. One of them uttered a cry and sprang forward, but his friend seized his arm exclaiming—“ What is the use, old man! ” The widow gave vent to a sigh of relief as she saw the young man held in check by his friend. “He is 2 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS too fine a fellow to come within range of that beast, my goodness! What flaxen hair, it is almost white. Oh Alina!” A scream escaped her lips as the north wind bore Miss Durlan’s tam-o-shanter aloft and sent it scurry- ing seawards but it lodged in the shrouds high above the deck. Immediately the same young man was in the shrouds, climbing with cat-like agility. He caught the tam-o- shanter in his nervous grasp and in a twinkling was down again. Soon his active shoulders and bright young face ap- peared above the rail. There was respectful admiration in his glance as he quietly said. “No trouble at all!” in response to the young lady’s profuse thanks. As he swung himself down to the steerage deck Alina gathered up the golden brown strands which were lash- ing her cheek and fastening the tam-o-shanter firmly in place with a long hat pin bade defiance to the north wind, but Mrs. Van Kleer said it was too fresh on deck and they went below. In the saloon they found a party of amateur musicians rehearsing for the ship’s concert which was coming off that night. Poor little sailor’s orphans; if they but knew how the traveling public of two continents suffers for their sake. _ The concert itself was a warmed-over feast, for the rehearsing went on all the afternoon. Mrs. Van Kleer and her room-mate had been listening somewhat care- lessly when a sensitive touch upon the keys arrested their attention. Their eyes met in surprise for Alina’s flaxen 3 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS haired Bayard sat at the piano. His friend stood beside him and in an instant the cabin was filled with the vibra- tions of a sonorous barytone voice. Throwing herself upon the cabin seat, Alina stuffed a soft cushion behind her head and with half closed eyes became conscious that the mighty, sweeping melody was bearing her onwards—upwards with resistless cadence, away from the stuffy cabin with its ill assorted company. She was rudely awakened by the noisy hand clapping. She heard Mrs. Van Kleer exclaim “I do think the - Messiah grand! I wonder who they are?” The two musicians were modestly bowing their acknowledgments of the rapturous applause. “Two painters on their way to Paris!” volunteered a passenger at her elbow. “They are crossing in the steerage.” “Ugh!” exclaimed the widow. “ How can they? and they look like gentlemen too!” “They are heroes!” broke in Alina with glowing eyes. “Do you ever hear of doctors or lawyers or men of other professions sacrificing their pride to that extent?” No; the widow had never heard of such a thing. Peo- ple in the smart set never did such things. She failed to understand exactly why they were heroes. As the concert closed, Alina pressed forward to thank the two men for what they had done but the purser informed her that they had gone to the steerage. “Heroes! Well, I should say so!” she murmured as she recrossed the saloon and then shuddered at the memory of a visit once made to the steerage. 4 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS As the days wore on Mrs. Van Kleer vainly tried to satisfy her curiosity as to Miss Durlan’s antecedents, but back of her companion’s naive exterior she found a wall of reserve which no amount of clever questioning could penetrate. The little that she learned came through the avenue of the young woman’s profession which seemed to dominate her nature. One day Mrs. Van Kleer asked if she might see some of the girl’s work. In response Alina reached into her steamer trunk and unrolling an unstretched canvas, held it up for inspection. It was a faithful study of a mighty stallion with dilated nostrils and alert ears. “And this is your specialty?’’ Mrs. Van Kleer looked at her in amazement. “Yes; I had rather paint a horse than any living thing. They are more beautiful than anything else.” “But aren’t you afraid of them?” “Afraid of them!” Miss Durlan laughed. “ Afraid of my best friends? I should say not. I trust them more than most people.” The widow was not sensitive and drew no invidious conclusions. She found her room-mate an indefatigable worker. As the lazy ocean days droned along Alina sketched incessantly. When not engaged in drawing her fellow passengers, she would station herself up forward with a little Skye terrier whom she called Jack curled up at her feet and make color sketches of clouds and sky with the vast expanse of rolling sea beneath. ‘At last, on a sunny day, the two white light-houses . The HONOR of the BRAXTONS of Havre were descried by the passengers of the Cham- pagne—mere spots of white upon the coast line. As the ship came to a stop before the port, the white sands of Trouville could be seen shining in the sunlight. Alina, standing alone far forward with half closed eyes and head tilted to one side, took in the long sweep of shore, noting the purplish blue shadows and luminous, vaporous sky. “Tf France is like this what must Venice be?” she thought turning to watch a clumsy, red-sailed fishing boat, battling with the many currents and eddies of the Seine’s great estuary. As the ship steamed into the avant port, she noticed the tiled roofs, quaint houses, and ponderous stone docks. There are many Americans, born in the midst of pain- fully new surroundings in whom there lies dormant such an intense thirst for anything really traditional or his- toric that when they first see one of these European ports they experience a warm heart glow not unlike that caused by a home coming after a long absence. Alina was one of these. The scent of wood fires, the cries and horn blasts of the fisher folks, the peculiar quality of sound in the tolling of a bell as it came over the water, the queerly bloused and bonneted peasantry running along the edge of the dock, gave her untold pleasure. Her reveries were brought to an abrupt termination by a commotion upon the deck below, where the steerage passengers were waiting ready to land, surrounded by their nondescript piles of luggage. 6 The Port of Havre. x The HONOR of the BRAXTONS At first she saw little else than a tangled mass of hu- manity surging about some invisible object. The crowd suddenly lurched towards her and parted for a moment. Two struggling figures rolled into view; one, a brutal, un- couth French peasant whose eyes seemed starting from their sockets with fear and strangulation. Over him with both hands clutched tight about his victim’s throat, with a knee embedded in the fallen man’s chest was the flaxen haired American. “You beast!” he hissed between clinched teeth, “I'll - teach you to beat a poor, sick woman!” With parted lips and horror struck face Alina leaned far out over the rail. As the two figures writhed back- wards and forwards the motley crowd now closed in on them, now retreated. The American’s quick attack had stunned the hulking peasant into temporary submission, but his antagonist’s face was growing white and he could feel the slender fingers relaxing their hold upon his throat. Gradually, by a supreme effort he squirmed and braced his heavy body against the deck house. Then there fell upon Alina’s ears a savage cry of victory. The Ameri- can was down. “Quick! Help! he will kill him!” She shuddered as she covered her face with her hands but only for a moment. When she looked down again the Frenchman lay sprawling in the port scuppers and the American's companion, the singer of the Messiah was hurling over- board the knife that he had wrested from the ruffian’s hand. 7 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The strangely assorted company, man, woman and child, watched the blade as it described a half circle over their heads and fell into the water with a sharp splash, then pandemonium reigned. In its midst stood the two Americans, one pale, ex- hausted, distraught. The other ruddy and strong, his arm thrust protectingly through his friend’s, a fierce look about his jaw and mouth, but in his eyes an expression of solicitude so tender, so true that Alina longed to grasp the strong right hand that had saved her Bayard. As though by some subtle telepathy he raised his head and their glances met. She never could have told in words what her glowing, grateful face expressed at that moment. The rich color mounted to his temples as he turned to speak to his companion, then the two faces were turned upwards as with uncovered heads they modestly acknowl- edged the applause of the first cabin passengers who crowded against the promenade deck rail. Evidently ill at ease beneath the stare of so many curious eyes the men disappeared between decks. In an hour’s time, after they had passed through the annoyances and confusion of landing, Alina and the widow were seated in a first class compartment of the rapide speeding southwards, the ever changing panorama of winding river, wooded islands and thatched huts en- grossing their attention. Every now and then the two Americans would come between Alina and the fleeting landscape with peculiar poignancy. She could see their gentle intelligent faces 8 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS looking up at her so bravely, hemmed in by the sea of dogged ignorant humanity. She wondered from whence they had come and whether she would ever see them again. As they approached Paris, Mrs. Van Kleer gave Miss Durlan her card. “If you ever need a friend don’t fail to call on me! Come and see me at all events!” “Thanks!” said Alina with her straightforward smile —“O, never fear, I shall be all right! There will be no trouble! ” Chapter II obesity. Her name would have better suited her twenty years before, when she was a mil- liner’s pretty assistant in the Rue de la Paix. Having passed through the highly-colored career of a Parisian grisette she had at last, like so many of her class, found a com@ortable position as the wife of a concierge. As she often said to Monsieur Papillon, the position of door-keeper, if humble, is not to be despised. Was not their little office home at 25 Quai St. Michel with its glass doors a small kingdom of itself? Could the keeper of a feudal draw-bridge have more power? The position, however, had its annoyances; the large painter’s studio on the top floor had remained unrented all summer and Madame Papillon had suffered mentally and physically, as day after day she had dragged herself up the six long flights with the hope that the stranger following in her ample wake might take the studio. On a warm afternoon Madame Papillon had just made one of the fruitless ascents, and, seated in her low chair before the house door was fanning her hot shining cheeks with her apron. The inclination of her beetling eye- brows was far from: reassuring to the passer by. From her position she could easily see all that trans- pired on the street. The familiar nods which she re- ceived from the cheese vendors, bed makers and dog 10 Mts PAPILLON’S fatness approached The HONOR of the BRAXTONS shearers indicated that she was one of the fixtures of the quarter. An omnibus came rumbling down the street, with a complement of inside passengers and but two on the roof. As it thundered past the door, one of the outside passengers sprang to his feet and pointing at the little notice over Madame Papillon’s door which read— “ Atelier a Louer,’ rapidly descended to the ground while his companion followed more deliberately. Madame Papillon knew only too well what this meant, so she sullenly settled her ample form into the chair. The young man approached, rapidly uttered a few words in some foreign tongue and pointed to the sign above the door. Madame’s only response was to raise her shoulders and eyebrows as she muttered—“ Je ne comprends pas”’ whereupon the other stranger produced a letter from his pocket and handed it to her with an air of deferential politeness. Madame tore it open and read. The effect was electri- cal. She sprang to her feet—‘‘So you are friends of Monsieur Thomas!” she exclaimed. “A bon garcon Monsieur Thomas! He occupied the studio three years. | Yes! Yes! I will certainly show the studio, if the Mon- sieurs will take the pains to mount with me.” . She talked rapidly as they climbed the stairs, quite ignoring the fact that the young men spoke but little French and understood less. As they reached the top landing, Madame Papillon reeled against the iron railing and pointed at a low door II The HONOR of the BRAXTONS at the end of a dark corridor—“ Here is the key” she gasped in a hoarse whisper—‘ I will not keep you wait- ing—open it yourselves.” They fumbled at the lock for a moment and when the door suddenly opened, found themselves blinded by a flood of light which came from a lofty, uncurtained studio window. Both men uttered an exclamation of surprise. The low, tunnel-like passage and door made the studio appear high and spacious. By this time Madame Papillon had recovered her breath. She rapidly recited the many advantages which the place afforded. The young men seemed pleased from the first and she finally descended to her little office, with a light heart. They had taken the studio, a great, dusty, bare place with a small bedroom leading off from it. The whole a dingy slate gray, spotted with nail holes; yet it represented the heart’s desire of these two young men. Incomprehensible though it may seem to most people, it represented the realization, the laying hold upon that for which they had hoped and striven for many years. The place was old and in bad repair, but what did it matter? They were in the Latin Quarter of Paris and that sufficed. They had only to step out upon the wide balcony which extended across the entire front of the studio to see the Palace of the Louvre rising above the Pont Neuf and river mists down-stream, while up-stream gray old Notre Dame loomed skywards, a marvel of Gothic lace work bathed in the afternoon sunlight, and what sunlight! I2 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Felix Braxton said he had not seen any like it since he left Virginia. As he leaned out over the railing to gaze still further up-stream, the sunlight touched his blonde hair which a little breeze had tossed into a tangle. His friend involun- tarily tipped his head on one side as he rolled a cigarette and lighted it murmuring—‘ Stunning! simply stun- ning!” Standing upon the sunlit balcony with Paris stretch- ing out before them, the two young men forgot in this . supreme moment the many obstacles against which they had pitted their youthful courage. Years of careful saving, the breaking of home ties, their doubts and fears, the loathsome steerage were all of little consequence now. A new life loomed before them, gigantic with possibilities. They were in Paris—great, glorious Paris! How often during the “rests” of the model at the Boston Art School had the men talked of this moment. In the musty atmosphere of the old carved oak room in the Art Museum, a small piece of the old world which they loved, it was resolved time and time again that one or the other must carry off the Chanler scholar- ship, to which Cushing would add the small allowance doled out by his rich, but unwilling parent and they would share the common fund, crossing the Atlantic in the steerage if necessary. Millet, Bridgman, and Vonnoh had crossed in the steerage, why not they? So when Braxton took the scholarship, the pride of the Virginia cavaliers and that of the water side of 13 The HONOR of thee BRAXTONS Beacon Street was suppressed and in the steamship agent’s book were registered just below that of Antonio Moreno, Laborer, the names of Felix Braxton and Ben- jamin Cushing, Artists. 14 Siapter It) | HAT first Monday in Paris! They dressed by candle light and hurried through the cold gray mists to a little crémerie in the Rue St. Jacques. They gulped down their bowls of café au lait in haste for they had been told that it was necessary to be at the Academy early in order to secure good places. With rapid steps they crossed the two bridges, picked their way through the tangle of vegetable vendors at the Great Central Market and followed up the Rue Montmartre as far as the Grand Boulevard. They entered the glass roofed arcade known as the Passage des Panoramas. A strange place for a school, they thought as they passed toy shops, jewelers’ shops and a pipe establishment. Traversing almost the entire length of the arcade they turned into a smaller gallery and halted questioningly before a low doorway over which was nailed a stained pasteboard sign which read—“ Académie de Peinture.” The two friends looked at each other in mute disap- pointment. They had doubtless been misinformed. “The great Académie Julian over a pork butcher’s shop? No; surely not!” As they stood discussing the possibility of finding the real Académie Julian, a long haired French youth who wore a flat brimmed silk hat and flowing cravat accosted them in broken English. “What do the Messieurs look for? The Académie 15 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Julian? Yes—yes—it is here! If the Messieurs will mount with me au premier?” Yes, they would; so up the dirty, narrow staircase they stumbled, still under the impression that there must be a mistake somewhere. The student pushed them somewhat unceremoniously through a doorway upon the panels of which was painted a life size figure of a bald headed man making a salam to the visitor. They found themselves in a suffocating atmosphere, heavy with tobacco smoke. In an instant they felt the gaze of no less than fifty pairs of eyes, while a great un- intelligible shout deafened their ears. The door by which they had entered was behind the model platform upon which stood a nude Italian girl. Standing about or sitting upon rush bottomed stools of all sizes were the students, as unkempt a crowd of ruf- fians as they had ever seen. All wore paint bedaubed blouses which were in harmony with the walls of the room, where the scrapings of innumerable palettes had been plastered for many years. The swarthy skinned model had taken one pose after another, in vain attempt to suit the excited students who were wrangling like a lot of urchins at marbles. At sight of the two Americans, proceedings came to a sudden end. Then from all sides came first a low growl but ever increasing in volume, until the dingy glass sky- lights rattled with their frenzied shrieks, “ Punch! P-o-o-n-c-h! P-o-o-o-n-c-h! The nouveaus must pay a punch!” 16 ‘ They found themselves in a suffocating atmosphere heavy with tobacco smoke. Was this the great Académie Julian?” ail, o_o The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The Americans endeavored to assume an air of indif- ference as they crossed the room and hung up their overcoats and hats. As they turned to face the howling mob of students, a fusillade of breadcrusts commenced. Then there came a sudden lull as a big Frenchman mounted the platform and pushing the model aside, tacked a piece of drawing paper to the background upon which he scrawled with a bit of charcoal—* The Amert- cans must pay a punch!” So the Americans paid their punch which was served by a bushy headed Frenchman from the platform, while the nouveaux mounted high stools and sang each a comic song when comparative order was restored. The newcomers chose two easels at the back of the room and began their first day’s work in Paris, but oh; the sinking at the heart; the wonderment that this could be the Mecca of their pilgrimage. Was this the great Académie Julian? * **K *K * * On Wednesday the great Rovan would come to criti- cize. The two Americans had labored early and late that their work might be sufficiently advanced. A French student had offered to interpret for them as the master did not speak English. With what interest did the friends watch the keen gray eyes and vainly try to com- prehend the quick caustic utterances of the greatest critic in Paris, as he passed from student to student. Felix was the last to receive the master’s criticism. The exit of the professor from the class was usually the signal for 17 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS an outburst of pent-up spirits, but on this occasion the master’s footsteps could be heard for a full minute upon the stairs. Expectancy seemed to pervade the smoky air; utter silence prevailed. It was an intense moment for Felix. He had waited impatiently as the master slowly worked his way through the tangle of easels and students. He cursed the luck that had made him the last man of the last row and now that the master was gone he still waited, the nervous tension of the moment paling his cheek. He struggled to quiet the painful throbbing of his heart. Why did the interpreter hesitate? Was there anything to keep back ? “Well; what did he say?” he turned impatiently. _“Vot deed e say?” The little man raised his shoulders until they touched his long hair. “ E say you no good! E say you much better go back to l’Amérique! E say you never can draw!”’ There was the crash of an overturned paint box. An American student started forward with frightened face. Felix tottered forward white to the lips. The American student caught him by the arm with a fearful look. Surely he will fall. But no; Felix shakes him off and with sudden strength born of a burning wrath, tears his drawing in twain and hastens from the room. The jeer- ing laughter of the students rings in his ears, yes keeps on ringing long after he has crossed the Seine and is pacing the floor of his own silent studio, high above the noisy river traffic. Cushing failed to grasp the situation until Felix had 18 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS left the room. ‘Stop!’ he cried. “It’s a lie! Can’t you see that these damned monkeys are guying you?” But his voice was lost in the din which followed his friend’s exit. He started to follow Felix and bring him back. On second thought he turned to the interpreter. A hundred curious eyes were watching intently. As he seized the little man by the collar a great shout went up—‘‘ Coward! He fears a man of his size! A la porte! Put him out!” Dragging the Frenchman behind him he swept aside easels and stools and made straight for the model platform. | The yells were deafening as he discovered the bushy- headed bully of the atelier standing in his path. His arms were folded, a sinister, challenging smile was upon his lips. It was only the work of a moment. There was a terrible crash and the bully tried to extricate himself from a confusion of wrecked canvases, paint boxes and easels, while he nursed a half closed eye. Ben made history that morning at Julian’s. His un- erring “ left’ became one of the traditions of the atelier. Dropping the frightened interpreter upon a high stool he mounted the platform. With a backward throw of the shoulders he raised himself to his full height. A com- manding wave of the hand compelled silence. He spoke as he had struck; quickly, firmly, straight from the shoulder. “ Messieurs; I congratulate you! Your admirable joke has been most successful. It is quite possible that at this moment my friend is throw- ing himself into the Seine. What more could you want? 19 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS But mind! I1f I find him alive he will come back to the atelier and the first man who dares molest him must pay the reckoning here! here! Do you understand?” With clinched fist he struck his broad chest blow after blow. Turning quickly he grasped the interpreter by the collar and lifted him to the platform. “ Now you drivelling little ape; put that into good French and mind you tell them every word!” When the Frenchman had finished his harangue Ben stepped down from the platform. The students fell si- lently away as he quietly sought the door. The spell of that terrible “left”? was still upon them. * * x x * In the studio by the river Felix was suffering untold tortures. The humiliating thought that perhaps he could not draw after those years of work had all but driven him mad. When Ben came home he found him gazing into nothingness with a face so drawn and death-like that he stood for a moment horror struck. “Don’t look like that old man! It is all a lie, a beastly hoax!” He hastened to Felix’s side and put a kindly arm about him. “They were hazing us! That little rascal Boschet lied! Rovan said you had talent, lots of it! One of the Americans who understands French told me so.” 7 “Talent?” Felix started up eager, hungry for just such words. His face lighted as Ben cried “ Indeed he did! It is the first time he has praised a nouveau this season!” 20 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS But Felix’s face clouded again. He clutched the table edge fiercely. “Talent, yes; but they insulted me! Of what use is talent to me now?” “You will go back to the academy Monday!” Felix was pacing the floor excitedly but came to a sudden halt before Ben. “Do you take me for an ass, Ben. Do you think I have no pride? Do you want me to kill that little cur?” “O bother Boschet!’’ Cushing bit his pipe stem and tried to restore a faint spark within to a glow while he executed a counter march with Felix. “He was only hazing you. You let that nasty South- ern temper of yours run away with you. It was all a huge joke, can’t you understand?” “No; I can’t! And you New Englanders can never understand a Southerner’s sense of honor!” Felix halted suddenly. “ Jsuppose it is for policy’s sake and be- cause you won't allow your business to be interrupted, that you overlook an insult now and then and forget that you are less a gentleman on that account. I tell you I was not brought up that way! No sir! A Braxton has too fine a sense of honor to tolerate such a thing!” He swung back his arm with a gesture of contempt. “Come—Come!” Ben was pleading in earnest. “You forget that in Paris you are only an ordinary foreigner. You assume too much when you expect Boschet and his friends to act like Virginians in Vir- ginia. You are in Paris not Braxton County. Great 21 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS heavens man! Have you a century to live that you can afford to squander time in this way?” Felix started. He glanced up at Ben from the chair into which he had thrown himself. “A century? Heaven knows I haven’t! I—I—am the biggest fool in all Paris! I will go back to-morrow! ” 22 Chapter IV 66 ] / ON DIEU Charles! Have we another Commune? Allons! Quick! Put out the light! Close the shutters!” Madame Papillon hurried to the porte cochére and looked up the Quai St. Michel. A hooting mob was coming her way. She slammed the door and opening the little grated window peered out with bated breath. | The cat calls and shrieks came nearer and nearer. She heard the sound of wheels and cries of “ A bas Duchdatel! To the guillotine!” A two-wheeled butcher’s cart drawn by a score of men passed the door. In it stood a young man. His face was pale. His dark frightened eyes were cast down- wards. His arms were tied behind him with a hempen rope. “Down with Duchatel! Long live the models! Long live the Realists!” The quay resounded with their cries. “Duchatel again! Will they give the man no peace? These students are gamins—canaille!”’ Madame Pa- pillon shrugged her fat shoulders and opening the door watched the crowd until it turned into the Rue St. Jacques. “ All because he paints without models—and why not? Does not Francois, the bedmaker’s son, paint without models every day at the Fete de Neuilly? Duable —and he has great talent too! Why all this fuss about Duchatel ? ”” 23 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “ They say it is his paper. He is editor you know!” Monsieur Papillon dragged out two chairs and they seated themselves before the door. “Comment sappelle vil?” The Ec—Ecstasist! Ah yes; I recall it now! I read of it only yesterday in the Petit Journal. Mon Dieu! Here they come again!” The little man retreated in doors. Madame scowled and settled herself in her chair, but started to her feet at sight of flashing sabers and uniforms. The crowd retreated from the Rue St. Jacques across the bridge and melted away beneath the shadow of Notre Dame. “The police! Enfin the gamins like to play with them —Tiens! Some one arrested? Ho there!” She ac- costed a student of the neighborhood who came hurry- ing towards her “ Who is he?” she nodded her head to- wards a man whom a number of policemen were escort- ing along the quay. “Do you not know him Madame? That is Rouvier the great novelist—anarchist! It was he who started the riot. He hates Duchatel. Duchatel was once a priest. Rouvier detests the priests. Ma foi it was droll! Du- chatel will have nothing of the models. He damns them in his journal. They found Octavie the model in the little Rue St. Jacques—she poses at Julian’s. ‘A la voi- ture! ‘A la voiture!’ cries Rouvier and up beside Du- chatel they put her. Then—ah then—ma foi it was funny—they bind her arms about him comme cela!” The man shrieked with laughter as he threw his arms about Monsieur Papillon’s neck. “They drive down the Boulevard to the Place Maubert 24 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS —the wagon stops—O—la—la! What a dance—all around the cart, then ” He opened his hands out- wards, shrugged his shoulders and jerked his head to- wards the departing squad of police. “ Bonsoir Madame! Bonsoir Monsieur!” He raised his hat and hurried on. Except for the distant rumble of a cab the quay was quiet once more. The woman knitted a coarse blue stocking in silence. Monsieur Papillon folded his hands across his waist- coat. His chin sank into his chest. He was soon in a land where the concierge spends much of his time. A spare, drooping figure came along the quay with dragging steps. He hesitated before the stone stair- way leading down to the canal, then hurried on at sight of the Papillons. “Hist!” Monsieur Papillon started to a bolt upright. His scull cap rolled to the pavement. Madame Papillon caught him by the arm. “ Did you see him?” “Who—imbécile? By the saints of Dijon, would you frighten me to death?” “Duchatel! See there he goes! It is he!” * * a.) * cd “ Sapristi! But he could paint! See how the master modelled that cheek and how one feels the bone beneath the skin. What chance, my friends, to breathe the atmos- phere surrounding such a chef-d’euvre. You do well to come from America to gaze upon this picture aione.” 25 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS In the silence which followed these words a young woman engaged in copying Paul Potter’s ‘ White Horse” turned from her work with questioning eyes in which there was a look of recognition, but such was the abstraction of the students that she was passed unnoticed. The speaker was small, a mere pigmy as he stood between the two young men whom he called “ friends.” With arms interlocked the trio left the Van Dyck por- trait and passed on to a Frans Hals at the end of the long gallery of the Louvre. The Frenchman talked volu- bly while the other two listened with respectful atten- tion. : It was easy to recognize Braxton and Cushing al- though during a few months the men had made radical changes in their dress. Felix’s responsive Southern nature had already wel- comed the easy going ways of the Latin Quarter. With corduroy suit, flat brimmed tall hat, huge flowing cravat and clustering locks he looked the genuine Bohemian. Cushing on the other hand had cast aside his “ bell top” for a soft Alpine and wore a rough English tweed suit. He still looked an Anglo-Saxon and always did to the end of his days. Boschet, for the third man was none other than he, had become a welcome companion in their pilgrimages to the; Louvres.) After his return to the academy, Felix worked with fanatical zeal and accomplished wonders. He instinc- tively avoided Boschet, who in his turn left Felix to him- self. He had not forgotten Ben’s gladiatorial speech. 26 ‘Students at play. Académie Julian.” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS One day while the model was resting, Felix left his work and crossing the room chatted with an American student who presently called his attention to the fact that Boschet was standing before Felix’s easel. Felix glanced across the room with contracted brows. “What deviltry is the little monkey up to now?” he muttered. A crowd of curious students had gathered about Beschet. Felix’s companion had followed their example to return shortly with a radiant face. “I congratulate you Braxton!” he said, holding out his hand. ‘“ Boschet has been saying fine things of your work!” “Bah!” said Felix bitterly. “ Does it make an atom of difference one way or the other what Boschet thinks of my work?” “I should say yes, most emphatically!” replied his companion. “ That is if you care for the praise of the strongest student in the Academy, in Paris for that matter. Boschet ranked second in the concours for the Prize of Rome last year and is sure to come in first this year. He isn’t much to look at, but he can paint!” All of this Felix found to be true; furthermore that this grotesque little man who could stoop to any devil- try for a moment’s amusement had a warm impulsive heart and a technique which was the envy of all. As for Cushing. he had a good laugh one day, having discovered that he had not only been guilty of jerking the Prize of Rome winner about by the collar, but had ‘called Boschet, the already great Boschet, the finest draughtsman in the academy “a drivelling ape.” 27 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS After the three men had spent some time before the Frans Hals they retraced their steps to stop once more before the Van Dyck. As Felix glanced from the por- trait to the lower line of pictures, he noticed the copyist at work before the Paul Potter. Instantly his eyes sought Ben’s who nodded back a recognition. Felix never forgot a striking face and this one possessed the added charm of beauty. He remem- bered so well the picture she made clinging to the hurri- cane deck rail; how the strong ocean breeze tugged at her fluttering garments revealing the lines of a young, supple figure. 7 The trio passed on, Felix trying to draw conclusions as to the intentions of a swarthy Italian painter who came up at the moment and engaged the girl in a lively conversation. “Charming! si joli!”” exclaimed Boschet with a mean- ing smile. ‘ The Italian finishes her copy. They dine & la Bohéme at Suresnes—Enfin—you know the rest.” He shrugged his shoulders but winced as he felt his arm in a vice-like grip. “Stop! You forget. She is an American!” There was a look in Ben’s face that Boschet had seen before and feared. “Ah, outi—oui, American to be sure! Your Ameri- can girls are wonderful, beautiful, clever, virtuous, there are none like them. They come, they go, they dine without chaperons. They even smoke cigarettes and one sees them sipping absinthe at the Café de Paris. 28 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS They go with their gentlemen friends to the Bullier, the Moulin Rouge—Ah yes, your American girls are wonderful.” Again Boschet smiled, this time a quizzical, puzzled smile. Felix laughed as he thrust his arm into the French- man’s. ‘Come Boschet; you will lose the Priv de Rome if you try to understand the American girl. It is an all summer’s job—eh Ben? ” “There are girls and girls,” was the latter’s only response as he released Boschet’s arm. As they passed below the “ Winged Victory” Felix laughingly declared that she symbolized the American girl in all her freedom. They descended the broad staircase to the court and the Place du Carrousel. Out into the sunlight they strolled, their footsteps echoing under the great archways as they passed on to the river—that wonderful river with the traditions of centuries buried in its turbulent bed. Fascinating and terrible; lovely and hideous; as the teeming life along its banks chances to make it; always interesting to the student of art for here he finds color, atmosphere, life. They loitered upon the middle span of the bridge, the noisy procession of cabs and busses at their backs, the swirling spring torrent below. The little steamers were making a brave struggle against the fierce current. The floating bath houses were trebly chained. The fishermen idling along the lower quays might just as well have been at home. What fish 29 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS would ever be so foolish as to stem this current for a bite at a stale worm? As the three students reached the opposite bank, they turned to the old book boxes ranged along the stone — parapets as naturally as ducks turn to water. The painter collects instinctively. He may live in a tiny attic room at ten francs a month, but there you will find him surrounded by scraps of ancient tapestries, bits of old brass, curious old leather bound books, stray plates from rare editions on costume, ornament, archi- tecture, the latter bought for a few centimes at these very book stalls. The mode of attack reveals the man. Ben unearthed a copy of Emerson’s Essays and quickly was lost to the outside world. Felix dipped into the boxes in a desultory way laughing aloud at the caricatures in a pile of comic journals. He fiercely attacked a pile of anatomy plates fully intending to buy a score, but ended by throwing them into a corner as he leaned over the stone parapet to watch the amateur fishermen who had ceased their angling and were grouped about some object of com- mon interest. Boschet was rummaging through a pile ot brochures. “ Aha!” he cries, his face lighting with cunning mischief. ‘“ Here is a copy of ‘ The Ecstasist.’ Mon Dieu! but Duchatel is an <«nbécile! Listen Felix!” and he reads aloud with mock seriousness— “The Ecstasists are a school of painters far in advance of their times. The painter of the future will, like the Eestasists, paint without models i 30 ” ways. “Under the great arch * nal = 7 : ‘ of a f 4 “ 3 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “Without models!” Felix broke in with a cry of derision. ‘Poor fool of a Duchatel! As soon expect us to paint without eyes!” “The French School” continued Boschet “ grovels in gross sensualism—the slave of models gathered from the pavements and brothels of Paris. Rot! Rot! Rot!” Boschet emphasized each repetition of the Eng- lish slang word with a vicious tear at the offensive sheet. “Va!” He cast the fragments riverwards. The March wind swept them down to the lower quay where they were caught in the wheels of a black painted push cart which was being trundled towards the group of fishermen. The group parted as the cart drew near and the students saw them load on its grewsome freight. “Another suicide! Most likely an Ecstasist!”’ Bos- chet laughed ironically. “Who is it?’ He accosted a fisherman who ap- proached, reeling up his line as he walked. The man greeted his question with a conscienceless smile. “ No- body in particular! Only another imbécile painter. They called him Du—Du—Duchatel.” “Duchatel?” The three men uttered the name in unison as they looked into one another’s faces. Felix paled. Even Boschet cast a guilty look at the push cart as it passed them but he shrugged his shoul- ders as he paid the book vendor for the destroyed copy of “ The Ecstasist ” and muttered “ Enfin—what is to be expected of one who scorns realism, truth, the very aL The HONOR of the BRAXTONS foundation of our great academy, the model? What is to be expected of an emasculated art?” Then with the volatility of his race he smiled as they turned from the quay into the Rue de Seine. “A happy thought! Allons mes amis! To the Café des Ecoles! Let us drink to our confréres the models!” 32 Chapter V Ben stood in the doorway of the studio, | dress suit case in hand. It was the Mardt- Gras, and he had been invited to a house party at Fon- tainebleau. Although they had been nearly two years in Paris, he had only just presented the letter of intro- duction which brought about this invitation. Felix looked up from his easel over by the window, his face rather drawn and tired. “ Yes; I shall have a right good time, a sure enough frolic; I shall dine at Mootz’s to-night.” Dining at Mootz’s suggested so many convivial things that Ben gave a significant chuckle and calling another good-by, slammed the door. Felix worked as an artist works when he sees his ideals gradually taking form. To be sure it was only an ébauche, a mere sketch of what he hoped to do later on with the aid of a model. The silence of the studio was only broken by his deep breathing or his foot falls as he occasionally walked back to regard his work at a distance. Strange noises came up from the street below. The blast of tin trumpets, noisy kazoos, boisterous shouts, and occasionally the call of a melodious hunting horn. He had totally forgotten that it was the Mardi-Gras. At last the light began to fade and Felix reluctantly laid aside his palette with a long, deep sigh. He me- chanically rolled and lighted a cigarette and stepped oo cc (Go old man! Amusez vous bien!” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS out on the balcony. For months he had carried about in his mind a Psyche of such purity that he had searched all Paris in vain for a model. As he sat on the iron railing gazing off into space he could trace her oval face with the star-like eyes looking into his. Ah, yes; he must search and search until he found the right model. As he fell to pacing the balcony a reaction set in and then a look of secret dread which Ben had often noticed passed across his sensitive face. Would he be able to finish it after all? From below, echoing across the canal came a rollick- ing, familiar song of the atelier. TF elix’s face bright- ened and his whole being seemed to catch the rhythm of the somewhat diabolical refrain. He had come to love these happy-go-lucky classmates. He never thought of himself or his fears when in their company. All the sunlight of ‘his southern nature shone forth when brought out by their companionship. The students down below were waving, motioning him to come. He seized his hat and cane and sprang down the stairs two at a time, singing the atelier refrain as he went. The spell of the carnival was in the air. Hoodlums in grotesque attire were skylarking on the pavements, but it was only a foretaste of what followed when day- light fled. | The day was warm. There was a touch of spring in the air, that magic touch which transforms Paris from a damp, draughty, comfortless city into a budding para- dise bathed in seductive sunlight. So it seemed to Felix 34 ei Bes felix Braxton. The HONOR of the BRAXTONS as he sauntered along the Boulevard with his fellow students. The freedom of this out-of-door life was doubly intoxicating to one born in a southern climate. This delicious lazy feeling of irresponsibility always acted as a panacea to his responsive, sensuous tempera- ment. All Paris was out of doors. The little tables before the cafés were crowded with merry-makers. Now and then Felix and his friends would stop to banter a party of students. As they approached the Café Voltaire, an entire company of students rose to their feet and uncov- ering their heads cried with great gusto—* Vive le Prince de Galles!” One of Felix’s company whom the students had dubbed the Prince of Wales because of his strong re- semblance to the Prince, lifted his hat with mock dig- nity bowing to right and left, but suddenly a number of French students from the Academy of Medicine over the way cried “A bas les Anglais!” and attacked the English group with canes and chairs. The Prince of Wales however, whose feats as a boxer are still talked of at Julian’s, quickly routed the enemy and before the infuriated waiters had righted their chairs and tables, the Prince and his followers had disappeared into the Rue de Seine and from thence into the Rue de Buci. They stopped before a door over which hung a trans- parency which read—“ The ‘American’s Rendegvous! Kept by M. Mootz.” Barely within the door they were again attacked. Felix was seized and borne aloft upon the shoulders of 35 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS his comrades, up and down the room to cries of “ Vive Felix! V-i-v-e F-e-l-1-x!” “What is this all about?” cried Felix, as soon as his voice could be heard. “Why, bless your heart, old boy,” cried “ Stumpy ” of St. Louis, “ you have won another concour! Now, boys! Who is Felix Braxton?” The American’s Rendezvous fairly trembled as they shouted in unison, * First in war! “ First in peace! “ First in all the concours “At Ju-li-an’s!” The spirit of the Carnival was at Mootz’s that night. The long, tunnel-like room was filled with students of all nationalities. Their shouts and songs reverberated between the smoky walls, but above the din could be heard the clarion voice of Monsieur Mootz, calling orders from a platform where he sat corpulent and florid, like Bacchus enthroned. | Two waiters scampered about, also calling orders and serving customers. At the furthermost end of the room a vista of copper pans could be seen through a haze of fatty vapor and tobacco smoke. Here the cook was hard at work echoing orders in stentorian tones. Mootz was a prime favorite with the students, not only because he allowed them almost unlimited credit, but singular to relate, he had commanded a company of 36 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS volunteers in the Franco-Prussian War in which their great master Rovan had been a private. The students had naturally promoted him to a general- ship, but he never resented this, and would always an- swer their salute of “ Bonjour Monsieur le Général!” with “ Bonjour mes camarades!”’ He had been forced to take many a painting in pay- ment for dinners which had gone the way all good things go with half-starved students, and the dingy walls were lined with canvases of all sizes and shapes, some bear- ing the names of men already great in the art world, while others were grotesque caricatures of students who frequented the place. The spontaneous piece of horse play which the en- trance of Felix had provoked, evidenced how the young Virginian’s joyous nature had won the good will of his fellow students. He had worked with feverish, tireless energy which his more sedate companions said would burn out his life if he did not spare himself. He had appeared at Julian’s unknown, a stranger to all, to become in a few months the most popular American and brilliant worker in the class. Felix found the ovation at Mootz’s almost as intoxicat- ing as the bad wine which Mootz opened in his honor. Is it to be wondered that his spirits burst their bonds in wild, hilarious song, his comrades joining in until the clarion voice of General Mootz was lost in the tumult? Yes; the spirit of the Carnival was abroad at Mootz’s 37 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS that night. They sallied forth like all the world on mis- chief bent, the whole of Paris their hunting ground. Like the Indians on their native plains they marched in Indian file disguised in leering masks and outlandish noses. Many an American tourist was startled into a sur- prised state of patriotism when he heard the stirring refrain of “ Marching through Georgia’ come up to him trom the surging crowd below. In and out, like a huge, restless reptile, the Indian file wound its way through the crowds of masqueraders, halting only for refreshments, which was far too often, - or to join other masqueraders in a wild reel upon the smooth asphalt. It was very late when the blazing lights of the Students’ Ball appeared ahead. With riotous shouts they plunged into the vortex of frenzied revelry. A noisy band was playing a madden- ing air of the quarter. Through the heavy pall of to- bacco smoke “La Goulu” could be seen dancing a gro- tesque figure with her cadaverous, loose-jointed partner from the Exterior Boulevard. Suddenly a savage yell rent the air and there was a rush to the center of the hall. An Indian chief in war paint and feathers was performing a wild war dance, while about him whirled a huge circle of American students. Two or three cow-boys, some more Indians, and a number of models joined them. With terrific momentum, the nondescript ring of dancers spun about the hall. The Americans had taken 38 ‘(The spirit of the Carnival was abroad.” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS the floor by force, much to their delight, but they had provoked the ire of the burly floor manager who sallied forth to break the ring. Staggering with the vertigo of motion, Felix felt a hand at his coat collar and found himself curveting off at a tangent. His head struck something hard; there was the crash of an overturned table and broken glass, then he heard and saw nothing for an instant. When he scrambled to his feet the scene swam before him. The familiar voice of a woman accosted him in bantering tones “ O ho; Felix my boy! You have spilled our beer and must make it good!” But Felix never answered. He stood with his eyes riveted upon her companion. “How strange!” he muttered, “marvelous!” He had searched all Paris for weeks for his own particular Psyche, and to-night in the midst of this pandemonium he finds himself at her feet, while she looks shyly out at him with frightened eyes. She is dressed as a Norman peasant and sits beside Octavie the model who has posed for a half score of Venuses, two of which are in the Luxembourg. “Voyons Felix!” cried Octavie—“ You are very po- lite! Why do you stare a shy country girl out of coun- tenance? Ho; Garcon! More beer! Eh bien Felix, how do you like me as Columbine? ” “Charming! But I have always found you more ravishing as Venus!” cried Felix with a merry laugh 39 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS as he righted the table and chairs. ‘ But you too, are impolite Octavie! May I not know your friend? ”’ “Ah yes;” exclaimed Octavie apologetically, “my cousin has come from Rouen to pose. Lili! this is Monsieur Felix, the distinguished American painter!” Lili’s dark fringed, lustrous eyes had rested upon Felix with half frightened admiration from that first moment when he came crashing headlong within their line of vision. He took her proffered hand in his and raised it to his lips with an undefinable grace. She thought him a god. Still retaining her hand in his nervous grasp, his ardent eyes met hers. The dark lashes fell, but not until the brown orbs had flashed back an answer that made the blood course madly through his veins. The air pulsated with the fever of an inviting waltz. Yielding to an uncontrollable impulse he quickly drew her to him and they whirled away into the sea of frantic dancers. On they sped, round and round the great hall. Sud- denly she uttered a cry of pain and clung closely to Felix. A hulking fellow in sabots had stepped on her foot. Lifting her lightly in his arms he carried her to one of the little arbors in the garden where it was dusky and cool. As he tried to place her upon the bench beside him, her arm closed tight and warm about his neck. For an instant he sensed her throbbing heart against his own. 40 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS He felt her warm breath as she nestled in his neck, then he drew her face up to his. It flushed pink again. “Lili, I love you!” he whispered. Her half closed eyes were swimming. “And you, Monsieur, I adore!” she murmured passionately. AI Chapter VI as WW" have I seen you before?” “Think hard and see if you can’t re- member!” said Ben Cushing to the pretty widow beside him. She pressed a forefinger to her temple with a puzzled look. “ Ah!” she cried, ‘‘ Now I remember! On board the Champagne of course!”’ It required quite a piece of mental conjuring to juggle a man from the steerage of the Champagne to the top of this smartly equipped coach which was bowling along through the Forest of Fontainebleau and Ben looked entirely at home there in his stylish English suit and silk hat. | “But what in heaven’s name possessed you to cross in that way?” asked Mrs. Van Kleer in amazement. “ Devotion to my art. and a very dear friend who couldn’t afford to come any other way. Neither could I for that matter. You see my father absolutely refused to make an artist of me, so I took matters into my own hands.” “Ugh! how horrid it must have been. Ah yes; I do remember your friend, he saved Miss Durlan’s tam-o- shanter from a watery grave—poor Alina; I wonder where she is now.” “T saw her only yesterday copying in the Louvre.” “T hope she was in good company,” said the widow with emphasis. 42 Fontainebleau. v The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “In good company?” wonderingly. “Yes; you know one night this winter my brother and I were driving home from the Opera. There was a blockade; we were wedged in close to the pavement. I was nervous and wanted to get out, so my brother tried to amuse me by calling my attention to the people sitting about the café tables and would you believe it, the first person I beheld was Miss Durlan at a table in the full glare of the electric light with—with a—well he - might have been an organ grinder or a ” She hesi- tated for lack of a word strong enough to express HR disgust. “An artist!’’ suggested Ben with suppressed merri- ment. Ben found the house party at Fontainebleau so enter- taining, that before he was aware of it he had whiled away nearly two weeks. What wonder in the midst of the great historic forest, each gnarled oak of which could whisper legends of the hunt, the fleeing stag and wild boar. Whenever an opportunity presented itself he would mount one of his host’s thoroughbreds for a brisk canter over to Barbizon where he spent an occasional hour with the artists at Siron’s. On the last of these occasions a man just down from Paris told him that his portrait of Felix had been ac- cepted at the Salon. When he galloped back to tell his friends of his good fortune, he found the official noti- fication awaiting him, also a telegram from his parents who were in London. 43 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ‘‘How strange,’ he mused as he read the dispatch asking him to meet his father in Paris the next night. “He crosses the Atlantic to win me away from my art, and here by the same delivery is something that I can wave before his dear old eyes. He is a business man and wants cold hard facts. Well here they are.” He stored the precious document away in his pocket for further use and sent a few lines to Felix explain- ing his prolonged absence, and asked him to send a satchel of clothing over to the Continental Hotel, as he would probably be detained there several days, possibly a week. Upon arriving in Paris Ben found his parents on tour- ing bent with the itinerary of a month in Italy all mapped out. There was much shopping and sight seeing to be at- tended to before leaving and a week passed before he had an hour at his disposal. He hailed a passing cab and drove to the Quai St. Michel, hoping to find Felix at home, but in this he was disappointed. However, Madame Papillon handed him the pass key and he climbed the stairs humming a fa- miliar air. “Ah;” he thought. “ Now for a good smoke in the dear old place.” As he entered the studio the glare of the window at first blinded him. He started for his pipe rack, but halted with a jerk—“ Great Scott!” he uttered vehe- mently as he shaded his eyes to make sure that he was not mistaken. 44 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS No; it is not the same old place by any means. Something has happened in his absence. His eyes wander wonderingly over the room. He shakes his head, heaves a long sigh and starts again for his pipe rack. His foot strikes something. He stoops to pick it up and holds it somewhat gingerly between his fingers with an odd, amused expression. A woman’s shoe; a dainty Louis Quinze affair with arching instep and high heel. He places it upon a shelf hard by, and jamming a wad of tobacco fiercely into his pipe mutters under his breath —‘ Poor Felix!” When the dense cloud of smoke caused by rapid and continuous puffing had cleared away, he turned to go out on the balcony. He and Felix had solved many hard problems out there. His steps were however again ar- rested. Face to the wall was Felix’s easel and on it a large canvas. Yielding to impulse he crossed the room and wheeled it into the light. “Ah! Felix has found his Psyche at last.” Only the head and shoulders were finished; the youth- ful, nude figure and leafy background were merely sug- gested in charcoal. He stood for a long time motionless. Here was the Psyche which Felix had so often described to him as they smoked their pipes in the gloaming. He continued to stand, held by the marvelous beauty of eyes in which glowed the light of love. “Great Heavens!” he thought as he turned the easel to the wall “If I could only paint like that.” 45 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS He stepped out on the balcony and paced back and forth in the sunlight pulling away at his briarwood. He was trying to settle a problem which would not have been possible a year ago—or two weeks ago. Would the end—in Felix’s case—justify the means? Must he destroy this day dream of Felix’s? That was the problem. The grand beginning of the painting inside had com- pletely overwhelmed him. As he drank in the beautiful message of the canvas he found himself thinking “ Had any man the right to break the spell that was giving the world such a master-piece? ” “No!” he ejaculated as he entered the studio and picked up his hat—‘ I can’t—at least not to-day—I will write him from Italy.” 46 Chapter VII 14 Y dear old Ben: Your letter offended me. M I thought it hypocritical, unsympathetic, grandfatherly. I was in a rage. You have seen me in that state of mind so often that I will not use up paper and ink describing it. Your argument is all wrong. In the first place I never in my life lived until now. The life now linked with mine makes living possible. In the second place I never painted until now. You admitted as much in your letter. Your point of view is all wrong. You seem to think that 1 am going the way of all those licentious fellows of the Quarter—that the end will be as you say it al- ways is. Ah, old man; you don’t know what true happiness means. You don’t know what it is to have your cares swept away in an instant by the soft, sweet touch of loving lips. At work or at play to have a pair of long- ing trustful eyes ever looking into yours. J shudder at the barrenness of my life before she came to me. The touch of Lili’s fingers transforms everything that they come in contact with. There are curtains and plants in the little bed room window now, and a canary singing merrily on the balcony. If you could see the pretty little dinners that Lili and I have out on the balcony, with Lili in her pretty pink gown (which she made herself) making salad and daintily 47 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS biting off a bit with her pearl white teeth to see if it were all right, you would pronounce Venice, Florence and the rest banal and uninteresting. And now I will tell you why you are all wrong in your premises. Lili is my wife. To be sure we have not gone through the usual forms, but the solemn covenant of eternal union was made one lovely day under a big spreading oak tree in the woods at Versailles and she now wears my plain gold ring, the one I always wore. Do you remember those dark days, those awful mis- givings which so often haunted me? They have not been possible since Lili came into my life. No! I shall not return to America until my affairs enable me to take Lili there as my lawful wife. When the scholarship ex- pires I shall eke out an existence somehow. It will be easy with Lili always beside me. I am lonely this after- noon; she has gone for a few hours to visit an aunt at Auteuil. That aunt is my béte noir, she keeps Lili there far too many hours, but Lili says that when the old lady dies she will bequeath all to her, so I bear it for Lili’s sake. 7 Ah; old boy you can never know how it is until you have loved. When do you return to Paris? Come to the old home when you do and see how it is changed. In the mean- time don’t be hard on your old chum. FELIX.” It was sundown on the lagoon. The sound of bells stole musically across the wide, glassy surface of the 48 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS water. The tolling of the bells of big campaniles, the constant tinkling of far away church bells in distant towers seemed to burden the air with melody. The letter was opened at an opportune moment. Felix himself could not have chosen a better time. A gentle swell rocked the gondola. ‘The bells ceased ringing and now and then a few bars of a passionate old Italian love song was wafted over the lagoon by a lazy little breeze which fanned Ben’s cheek. He sat for a long time in a brown study, the open letter still in his hand; then he bade the gondolier row him far out into the Adriatic, where he drifted he never knew how long, trying to settle that question for Felix. It had confronted him when he first saw the Psyche. It still perplexed him “Would the end justify the means?” Felix had said that he—Ben—had never loved, that he was incapable of judging p “Antonio!’’ His gondolier’s cigarette fell into the sea with a sharp hiss, so suddenly had his voice broken the stillness of sundown. “Si Signor!” The voice was deep, musical, vibra- tive. “Are you married Antonio?” “Not yet Signor.” “But I heard you speak of your bambino only yester- day.” “True, Signor; and a happy home it is. Maria has been true to me for three years and we shall be married some day.” “ Ah—then you love your—wife and boy?” 49 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS “Si Signor; as I love the Holy Virgin and Infant Jesus!” | “Then you will be happy if you—marry.” “Happy?” There was a rich flush upon the gon- dolier’s bronzed cheek. His melodious laugh rang over the water—“ Happy Signor? The Princes of India are not happier than Antonio and Maria and little Tinto! ” “ Ah—I am glad!” Ben gave a sigh of relief. “To the hotel Antonio! The short route!” Then the thing was possible. Felix’s way might be a good way after all. He put the letter in his pocket and, although quite unconscious of the fact, hummed an air of the town, keeping time with Antonio’s vigorous strokes. The gondolier was pushing through a network of back canals. The way was narrow and tortuous. It was the quarter of the poor of Venice. Ben missed the fresh air of the sea. The teeming population oppressed him. Once he cast his eyes up- wards to the top story of a crumbling old palace, now an humble abode of the poor. A handsome young woman with a wealth of Titian hair was waving at him. No! Surely not at him! He looked again. A little baby boy in her arms was throw- ing kisses. “Tinto mio! Maria ma!” Antonio’s voice echoed loudly between the high walls. “Look! Look! Signor. There they are! My lovely Maria and my little Tinto! Are they not beautiful? Why need you ask if I am happy?” All was somber below. A single shaft of sunlight 50 ‘““ The gondolier was pushing through a network of canals.” = oo e of ; ae | . yi * on It * . f : i f « The HONOR of the BRAXTONS illumined the little balcony. The mother’s head seemed crowned with a nimbus of shimmering gold. Ben never forgot that picture. He never was able to separate it from the problem of Felix’s life. As Antonio swung the gondola about a corner, they both waved to the two figures on the balcony and Ben once more absently hummed the song of the town but as he bade Antonio “ good night” and ascended to his room he found himself murmuring—‘“ Poor, dear, old Felix!” « * * * * When Ben arrived in Paris, his first thought after settling his parents at the Continental was to see Felix and the woman who held his destiny in her hands. After all, he thought as he crossed the Pont St. Michel and turned into the quay of the same name, Felix’s case may be an exception to the rule and being settled in life may be the making of the man—then that glorious canvas will atone for all. Yes; the end must justify the means. Madame Papillon greeted him with the information that both Monsieur and Madame Felix were out, so he took the key and climbed the long, winding stairs. He knocked as a precautionary measure; she might be in. There was no response, so he turned the key and opened the door. Yes; he found everything as Felix had described it in his glowing letter. The cold gray place had become a warm, bright home. The canary was singing merrily 51 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS on the balcony. The little bed room with its bright tiny window garden; the cupboard and dining table all set in the studio. “Dear old Felix!’’ he murmured. ‘“ He never did things just like the rest of us and his way of settling himself for life may be best after all.’ Somehow Ben felt guilty of house breaking as he touched the bits of feminine wearing apparel hanging from the nails where his tweed suits used to hang. As he went on hunting for his patent leathers, his walking sticks and umbrella which had been hidden away in corners beneath and behind things, the feeling that he was an intruder and ought not to be there, troubled him more and more until he finally gathered up his belongings and started for the door only to stop again. The Psyche; how foolish of him to have forgotten her. There was the canvas with its face turned to the wall as he had left it on his last visit. He put down his — packages and swung the easel about so that the full light struck the canvas. He gazed long in amazed dis- appointment. It had not been touched since his last visit. He again remarked that the nude, girlish figure was but faintly indicated in charcoal. Again the marvelous beauty of that wonderful head with its lustrous loving eyes, enthralled him. All that was pure and noble in his nature was awakened. For the first time in his life a strange yearning seized him; a feeling that Felix possessed some- thing more than he. Was he ever to look into such a face and call it his own? There was a step outside. The door opened. 52 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS “Felix!” He was startled at what at first seemed an apparition, so wan and troubled did his friend appear. The cold, bluish light of the great studio win- dow exaggerated the unusual pallor of his face. He greeted Ben heartily, but hurriedly, with much of the old time ardor, but he seemed possessed for the moment with but one idea, his eyes wore a frightened look. He brushed past Ben and crossing the room turned the canvas face to the wall. As Ben tried to utter a little speech on the pleasures of having a home, Felix wheeled about waving him off with a nervous gesture at the same time sweeping his left hand across his eyes, a movement which Ben knew meant agony of mind. “No! No!” he cried quickly “not now! I can’t stand it!” He started to cross the room, but turned suddenly and putting his two hands upon Ben’s shoulders said with lowered eyes, a quaver in his voice—“I am in trouble old man! Won’t you help me?” Help him? Had Ben seen that head of flaxen hair in a sea of fire he would have gone to him. Felix seated himself upon a stool by the table where he remained in silence for some moments, his face pallid and suffering. “She is gone!” Bacone?.” wes; gone!” ’ Felix’s voice broke and his face sank into Hig! arms. A tiny café-noir cup—hers, fell to the floor with a sharp ringing crash. yo The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Ben relapsed into silence and filling his pipe went out on the balcony where he paced up and down smoking furiously. After a little Felix joined him as Ben knew he would, and told him all. How her visits to her aunt had become more and more frequent. How he had spent that first lonely night when she failed to come home, walking the streets of Auteuil and in the gray dawn going to the morgue fearing lest she might have met with some dread- ful accident. Now a week had passed and she had not returned. “T can’t eat—I can’t sleep! This place is a hell to me by night!” Felix shivered, there was a wild look in his eyes which Ben did not like. He placed a firm hand upon Felix’s shoulder. “Come; come; old man! You always excite yourself too much over things. Give her the benefit of the doubt. That aunt of hers may have spirited her away when she found that you were not a rich American. Confound them! You have only to say ‘I am an Amer- ican’ and the beating process begins. To them we are all millionaires. I will bet you that I have hit upon the cause of all the trouble. Now cheer up! I am coming back to-night to live with you awhile. To-morrow I will take you out to the Tennis Club where it is cool and quiet and by that time you will be in decent form to talk it over rationally. In the meantime you must have a long night’s sleep. Will you try?” “Yes old man; I will try.” When Felix awoke the next morning there was a genu- 54 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ine ring of hope in his voice. Ben’s healthy view of the situation had given him a night’s rest, the first for many. days. The offer of green trees, mossy banks, some cool spot where he could think and talk reasonably was grateful. They locked up the studio and climbed to the top of a Porte Maillot omnibus. How they had learned to love these huge omnibuses with their massive gray horses driven as the Roman charioteers drove, three abreast. Often when inspiration was at a low ebb, they had cast aside the tools of their profession and had ridden on the upper decks of these ships of the thoroughfares. As they ploughed through the sea of teeming life, the petty difficulties of their work would be forgotten and they would view life in a broader more generous way. Faces would come up to them from the crowds on the pavements, from the windows of the entresols, from the tops of passing omnibuses; faces that in one fleeting glance would reveal romances, tragedies, poems. One day as the omnibus on which they rode pulled up at St. Philippe de Roule, there came out of the gray, damp fog, a rugged, Titanic face; deep furrowed, grandly melancholy. Felix caught Ben by the arm. “See!” he uttered in an awed whisper. “Yes; I see him!” There was deep reverence in Ben’s tones. Only an old man gazing intently downwards from the roof of a passing omnibus, yet the other faces became 55 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS as putty or wood or the mist itself, such was the power of this gigantic personality. As the omnibus moved off and the massive, thoughtful face was lost in the mists, Felix seemed to hear the dron- ing of bees and locusts as he lay beneath the rhododen- dron bushes on the old Virginia plantation, reading “ Les Misérables” and “ The Toilers of the Sea.” _ This happened in the early days of their Parisian life, before Felix had fallen into the ways of the Quarter; be- fore the narcotic “truths ” of an absinthe inspired school had made havoc with his pet theories. He scoffs at Victor Hugo now. He is proud of the fact that he often dines only two tables from Guy de Maupassant at the Café of the Dead Rat, and that he has actually shaken Zola’s hand at Guilliamet’s studio. He also speaks proudly of being one of a crowd of ad- vanced thinkers over whom Rouvier presides, whose bi- weekly orgies at the Café des Ecoles are the talk of the Quarter. Yes; he even helped drag the butcher’s cart on the night of Duchatel’s chastisement. Even at this moment with an untold dread lurking in his eyes he enters a protest as Ben condemns Willette’s cartoons at the Chat Noir where they had dined only the night before. Ben was glad. Anything to make Felix forget his troubles. The sunny June morning was but half spent when they stood on the high river bank at Courbevoi hailing a boatman. The Tennis Club was the sole possessor of a green island covered with a luxuriant growth of poplars and 56 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS willows. Almost hidden by verdure was the little chalet which served as a club house. Through the openings in the trees they could see the courts and white coats of the players. At this point the Seine becomes two streams. To the north of the island it flows sluggishly beneath overhang- ing willows, to the lock of Suresnes. On the other side it swirls and eddies along its own free way. The change of air, a sharp walk around the island fol- lowed by a shower bath did much for Felix as Ben had said it would. After lunch the two friends lighted their pipes and strolled to a quiet grassy slope almost hidden from the outside world by masses of transparent foliage through which the warm June sunlight streamed. The river’s lazy current rose and fell upon the pebbly beach at their feet. Ben was sprawled flat on his back. A drowsiness which he could not resist overcame him—his eyelids closed. Felix sat half reclining against a great tree trunk, his troubled gaze wistfully searching the vista of stream and bank. The sight of the river recalled the early days of his union with Lili. How they had drifted down this same stream in the mystic moonlight. How his senses quivered in a delirium of joy as he held her in his close embrace. How the burning passion of her love seemed to all but choke her as she tried to speak. The moist, languid lids and dark sweeping lashes half veiled eyes which swam with the intoxication of love—he rudely closed them with a torrent of kisses. 57 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Felix sprang to his feet with a quick impatient cry which startled Ben from his siesta—“ Something must be done! Now! To-day!” “Just so; old man.” said ‘Ben, as he calmly filled his pipe. He seized Felix by his shoulders and pushed him back to his seat against the tree. “Sit down until I tell you something. I take it all back—I mean what I wrote you from Italy. I am sure now that you did the right thing. To be sure you did it in your own confounded rattlebrain way, but you love the little woman and I want to see you as happy as a king. As to the girl, I tell you she is true or those eyes speak falsely. Do something? Confound it! We will find her if it takes all summer, in spite of the avaricious aunt.” Ben’s voice had a peculiarly soothing cadence as he went on. “When I saw the old studio yesterday I felt strangely. I never believed before that I could have such feel- ings. I felt like a lonely wanderer on the face of the earth. JI found myself thinking that you had every- thing and I—nothing.” In the pause which followed, the distant sounds of the river life were almost drowned by the buzzing of a swarm of flies which moved in a circle above their heads. A boat came drifting along beneath the canopy of green leaves. As it drew nearer the low, seductive, half smothered laugh of a woman was wafted to them on the hot June air. 58 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The boat crossed the vista, the oars were trailing in the river grass. They heard the same low laugh again. A pair of pearl white arms were thrown about the rower’s neck. Both men smiled as Ben whispered “ By Gad! It is little Boschet! How we will guy him!” His face sud- denly blanched as he sprang to his feet—“ Great Heavens Felix! What are you doing?” Felix reached the bank in three bounds. “Lili! Lili! O my God!” His cry of agony rang out over the water but before its echo came back from the opposite shore he fell face down in the rushes, his left hand clutching at his heart, his right fumbling with something in his pocket. As Ben tenderly carried his unconscious friend to the bank, a revolver fell from Felix’s hand and rolled down: the slope. Ben turned as it tumbled into the stream with a splash. “That was for the aunt at Auteuil!” he muttered with a grim smile. He rapidly set about restoring his friend to conscious- ness. Once the sound of a woman’s laugh was wafted to him from beyond the willows. He shot a terrible glance in the direction of the sound. Then his good face softened as his eyes fell to the white upturned face with a look of tenderness, love and pity. The look of the great, pure, noble love that man bears for man. * we * * ae 59 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The affair on the river bank all but severed the strained cord that bound Felix to things mortal. His devoted friend was ever at his bedside. When the fever raged, when the torn and suffering heart all but ceased its throbbing and his life hung in the balance for days, Ben was always there—patient, affectionate, tender. When the students who relieved Ben from time to time found it impossible to quiet Felix, they would call Ben in from the balcony where with his pipe he paced restlessly. A few quiet words from the voice in which there was untold tenderness would cause the sufferer’s head to sink back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. Ben came to know each arch and gargoyle on the won- derful fagade of Notre Dame and ever afterwards a photograph or print of the cathedral were it ever so poor would serve to bring back vividly the days when he tramped and smoked and tried to map out a future for his friend. He had a deep rooted conviction, it had been growing of late, that somewhere in his friend’s subconscious mind an ever present fear of some impending danger was slowly but surely sapping out his life. These sudden failings of the heart action under stress of anger or fear as at the Tennis Club; suggestions gleaned from the sick man’s ravings; his very joyousness which seemed to sweep everything before it when at its zenith, was at times more lilxe an intoxication of the senses, a nervous exaltation which Ben noticed was nearly always suc- ceeded by a bitter reaction. 60 “ Ben came to know each arch and gargoyle on the wonderful facade of Notre Dame--” x * ¢ The HONOR of th BRAXTONS The doctor had said that on no account must Felix remain in Paris another winter. Open fields, fresh air, a complete change of scene would do more than aught else. When Felix had grown strong enough, they began to - cast about for some quiet spot in the country where they could settle down for a year. 61 Chapter VIII its way along the great National Route which follows the seaboard of Normandy. The dust-covered coach in question was of a dingy yellow color drawn by three hungry looking, white horses. The leader had a chime of bells suspended from his collar which jangled noisily as the diligence rumbled along. Inside was a talkative company of peasants returning from a neighboring market town. Outside were two passengers; a bloused peasant who chatted volubly with the driver in an unintelligible pators, and a young woman who sat upon the topmost seat, holding a Skye terrier which barked furiously at a savage looking shepherd dog guarding a flock of sheep in a neighboring field. The faithful shepherd dog stopped his rhythmical trot for a moment to gaze at this impertinent stranger, when the sheep broke for a field of young wheat close by. The shepherd uttered a weird cry and waved his staff. His dog scampered after the stray sheep with quick, wolfish barks and in a twinkling had them all back again. “Jack you bad boy! Aren’t you ashamed of your- self? Here! Lie down!” Jack had spoilt a beautiful picture for his mistress. The gaunt old shepherd clad in a great sheepskin cloak, his legs bound up in straw, with the sheep and landscape made a superb composition. 62 C a clear, spring day a coach was slowly making The HONOR of the BRAXTONS While the clumsy diligence droned along, Alina Durlan found herself reviewing her first two years in Paris. She remembered that first day when she drove away from the St. Lazare Station into a world where. she could come and go unquestioned as her fancy prompted. The little home which she and a girl friend had made for themselves in a studio on the hillside of Montmartre was quite to her mind. It was a narrow little street, steep and winding, which started not far from the great Boulevard des Batignolles and lost itself high up on the hill near the old red wiud- mill. A street made for artists this, with odd little gables, stairways, unexpected gardens and courtyards. In one of the latter Alina found some fine horses stabled. The kindly stableman, pleased at her genuine admira- tion for his noble beasts, bade her come and work in the stable yard whenever she chose. Here at odd times she painted her first Salon picture—three of her huge models resting at noon-day. | She worked for the most part with her friend at the Académie Julian in the Rue St. Denis. It was a long, hard pull up the hill after the day’s work, but they were amply repaid in the extensive view which their little bal- cony afforded. At night they could see the sparkling lights of the great, throbbing city and as the fog lifted in the morn- ing, the towers of Notre Dame would steal through the river mists, while the gold dome of the Invalides glittered in the morning sun. 63 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Unlike most artists, she went to the Louvre very sel- dom, not because she did not love all that it contained, but possibly because she more often found herself loiter- ing in the streets where she could study the action, bone and muscle of the superb horses in which Paris abounds. Her only souvenir of the Louvre was a copy of Paul Potter’s “ White Horse” which she made when the noxious air of Julian’s had become unbearable and it was too cold to work out of doors. They now and then went to the café chantants fre- quented by the working people. Their protector on these occasions was a raven haired painter of Sicily who had a studio in their courtyard. Like Alina he Was an animal painter and his devotion to her was like the dumb faithful devotion of a dog. Ragged in dress, he bore himself with the grace of a courtier, but there were times when her room-mate detected a quick flush on his cheek and a fiery glance beneath his dark brows which boded none too well for Alina. She was glad when she left Paris. When the first warm spring days came, Alina found herself longing for the fields, the woods, the sheep on the plain, the plowing, sowing and reaping. tte was the world of her horses. She knew that somewhere in Normandy, near the sea, Schock the great animal painter lived. She decided to live near him and work under his guidance. A fellow student who had worked under the great master pro- vided Alina with a letter of introduction which she held 64 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS tightly in her hand as the diligence thundered down into a valley. “Hola! Hola! Arrétez! Stop I say! Specie of a hog can’t you stop?” Alina looked over the side of the diligence to see from whence came this voice, faintly heard above the rasping of the brake and cries of the driver who found it hard to stop his team on the steep incline. A tall old gentleman in corduroys and béret hurried from a by-road gesticulating emphatically. As the driver brought his team to a standstill he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, at the same time nodding as much as to say, “‘ Yes; here she is, you see I have brought her!” The recognition was instantaneous. She knew the Master’s noble, leonine head so well, she had seen count- less photographs in the shop windows of Paris. The wealth of white silken hair, the piercing eyes beneath shaggy brows, the Titianesque features and patriarch’s beard. He helped her down from her high perch and gave a few quick orders to the driver about her boxes, then as he lifted his béret and said “ After you Mademoiselle! ” she started up the lane. Schock was reading the letter of introduction. “Our friend says fine things of you Mademoiselle! ” There was a kindly look in his deep-set eyes. “ But it is quite needless, I have seen your toile at the Salon. You are serious, I know we shall get on well together.” 65 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The master detected the eagerness in her voice as she said—“ So you do think I shall paint some day?” “Yes; my child you will do well, very well.” He always called her “ my child” from that first day. They followed the lane for some distance, occasional breaks in the high mossy banks revealing the quaint roofs and gables of the village of Bréport which extends along the narrow valley to the sea. The afternoon sun sent great shafts of light through the poplars at their backs which illumined the gold weather-cock on the old Norman church and the sails of the little fishing fleet upon the beach. The village itself lay in a purple mist. Lines of blue smoke curled upwards from many chimneys. She could hear the crude song of a cowboy driving his herd down the opposite slope. At last he pushed open a latticed gate in a hip stone wall and they entered a huge courtyard in the center of which was a stone well-house with a conical tiled roof, the home of a family of pigeons. Beyond was an apple orchard and through its gnarled branches could be seen the warm gray walls of an old chateau. A number of thatched cottages and stable buildings were scattered about the court-yard. Alina noticed that the largest of these had great studio lights built into the roof and sides. The Master suddenly clapped his hands and uttered a peculiar cry. In a twinkling the air about their heads was filled with fluttering wings. The doves fought with one 66 Mere Fouchet. The HONOR of the BRAXTONS another for the privilege of lighting on his head, arms and hands. The courtyard reverberated with the deep baying of hounds and the piercing yelps of terriers, Jack’s shrill little bark adding to the din. Dogs seemed to come from everywhere, and not dogs alone; strangely out of place in their midst ran a snow white cosset lamb bleating a welcome. A bay mare cantered from the direction of the stable followed by a tiny colt. Alina heard a hoarse croak above her head and an aged crow settled down upon Schock’s shoulder. This was surely the home of an animal painter. There were faces at the chateau windows. A group of bloused peasants watched them curiously. Several young women stood in the great doorway of the chateau. They wore paint aprons. One of them carried a hand- ful of soap and was washing a bunch of brushes. Alina had already guessed her nationality when the Master ex- claimed in excellent English—‘‘ Miss Durlan you must know Miss Dorothy Dolchester of London—a_ fellow pupil!” The English woman greeted her with a cold, colorless smile, but as they entered the great hall, five young women started forward. The Master rapidly introduced them: M’lle Schovatsky of St. Petersburg; M’lle Topsue of Denmark; M’lles Chauvin, Blanc and Meunier of Paris. Their greeting was more cordial than the English woman’s. Two of them had been in Alina’s class at Julian’s. M’lle Topsue praised her Salon picture. 67 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She seated herself near a sunlit window while the Master hurried off to find his housekeeper. Her eyes roved over the lofty, heavily beamed interior. She loved the atmosphere of the place. All about the walls were ranged the priceless souvenirs of the great man’s life. When Schock returned he found her standing before a fantastic sketch of a jagged, medizval castle. She was reverently deciphering the bold, black quill strokes of the inscription : “To the comrade of my youth whom I love with all my heart! “Victor Hugo.” The Master looked over her shoulder in silence. There was a tender look in his eyes. “We were students together!”’ he murmured. “And does he ever come to Bréport? ” She turned upon him eagerly. “Yes; my child, and you shall meet him—ah, but he is old—we shall not have him long! ” “To teach the art of being a grandfather!” Alina heard a cold laugh at her elbow. She turned to meet Miss Dolchester’s colorless, doubtful smile. She was pleased when the Master broke in with—“ The Chateau is full now, I am obliged to put you with the good Mere Fouchet. You will take your noon meal and dinner with us at the Chariot d’Or.” Mére Fouchet’s thatched cottage was in a quiet, ferny lane, shaded by rows of Lombardy poplars. The door- 68 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS yard was shielded from the road by a high hedge. In one corner was an old well house with thatched roof out of which red poppies and ferns grew rank. Before it, bucket in hand, the house cat purring against her faded blue apron, stood Mere Fouchet smiling a welcome from beneath her winged Normandy cap. She led the way to a chamber with immaculate linen and floor of tile. A rose bush framed the window, the place was filled with the scent of tea roses. It was a room after her own heart. “Mere Fouchet will be a mother to Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Master as he turned to leave. “That I will! All that I have is Mademoiselle’s!” The time-seamed, honest face beamed with kindly intent. “Mademoiselle will find it dreary at this season. Later the Parisians come to bathe and Bréport is gay!” Alina shook her head. “ Parisians!” She uttered the word contemptuously. “ You do not yet know me my little mother. I want no Parisians! I came here to be rid of them. I want to live like a peasant and wear sabots and paint—paint—if I could only paint all these beautiful things!” Mére Fouchet’s face hardened. “ Ah my little one, would to God the Parisians had never come to Bréport, my little girl, my only grand-child might be with me. The Bon Dieu knows how carefully I guarded her, but she grew and grew and became a woman and beautiful. A Parisian artist—a devil—came here to paint. He told her she was beautiful. She posed for him in the garden, on the plain, on the beach—always posing. She was 69 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS never happy unless with him. One morning I went to call her. Her bed had not been slept in. I have not seen her since. Mademoiselle I detest the Parisians!” Mere Fouchet’s chest heaved. A tear trickled down the wrinkled cheek. “ Ah Mademoiselle; it has been sz triste without her! I am so glad to have you! No! No! I will never make a peasant of you. You are too much of a lady for that, but you shall learn to wear sabots and cook a pot-au-feu and toss a crépe.” “You are a good little mother!’’ Alina seized a rough bony hand and patted it between her own. “ We must go to the village the first thing in the morning and buy some chaussons and sabots and woolen stockings. I shall need them all if I paint out in the rain this summer.” 40 Chapter IX towards the Chariot d’Or for déjeuner. Schock wondered as he took his way down the lane to Madame Fouchet’s chaumiére why his new pupil already interested him so deeply. “It is because she is serious,” he was thinking. “She is honest, one knows that when she speaks, yet she need not speak, her eyes are enough. Ah; Mon Dieu! how unlike La Dolchester. One has the charm of unconscious seriousness, the other the seriousness of selfish egotism, yet they are both Anglo-Saxons.” The Master’s reveries were suddenly checked by hoarse shrieks of laughter. “N’ayee pas peur! Marche naturellement!’ came from behind Mére Fouchet’s hedge. It was intermingled with a clattering of wooden shoes and the shrill barks of a small dog. In the midst of the general din he could hear a nervous rippling laugh which stirred in him the spirit of youth. Curiosity getting the better of dignity he did not wait to gain the gate, but mounted a big stone and peered over the hedge. “Ah; bonjour mon enfant! You are a true Norman —you wear wooden shoes.” Alina was ill-prepared for this interruption. She was gingerly crossing a pebbly walk, her cheeks were flushed. She brushed a stray, golden-brown strand from her eyes and turned to see from whence came the salutation. One 71 A T noon the artists were wont to turn their steps The HONOR of the BRAXTONS of her sabots tilted over, she uttered the same nervous rippling laugh then vainly clutched at a bunch of tall red poppies and fell in the midst of Mére Fouchet’s pea vines, looking charming in all her disorder. The Master broke through the hedge and came to her relief. He quickly stood her on her feet, and readjusting her sabots said— “You need your Master at all times you see. You must walk so—and so—and so!” He took three gliding steps something after the manner of a skater. “One re- tains the shoe all the time with one’s toes my child. There! you are doing beautifully. You have quite the swing of a paysanne now. Mere Fouchet will never know your footsteps from Pére Boudin’s.” “Parbleu! If I couldn’t do that I wouldn’t be her little mother. Pére Boudin can deliver the letters after a fashion but his bad cognac goes to his feet.” Schock laughed as he seated himself for a friendly chat with the old woman while Alina went indoors to change her sabots for a pair of golf shoes. As she appeared in a short gray skirt and tam-o-shanter the Master exclaimed: “ Tiens! Tiens! A new woman, but still beautiful—marvel upon marvels! They are usually so impossible Mademoiselle. Enfin. We must be off to déjeuner.” The Chariot d’Or was an ancient structure of gray stone, and red brick of many shades. Its great court- yard had stabled the teams of the peasantry for many generations. Through its massive archway the old yel- low diligence rumbled daily. A vine-covered terrace extended along the front of the 72 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS inn overlooking the entire market place, in the center of which was the Grain Hall. Beyond were the gray, mossy walls of the church of St. Martin. As they were about to enter the inn, a young woman sipping coffee at a table on the terrace attracted their attention. She wore a broad brimmed, straw farm hat tilted back on her head and was smoking a cigarette. There was a “fin de siécle” air about her, an almost insolent indifference to people and things which Alina resented. It was not the cigarette, she had become used to seeing the girls smoke in the Quarter. Perhaps it was the cold, colorless face which just escaped being pretty, and the suggestion of a cynical smile always lurking about the thin lips. “ Ah! finished already Miss Dolchester? ” said Schock doffing his béret. “ Are you going to desert your Master? There was a time when you always lunched with me.” Miss Dolchester flicked the ashes off her cigarette with. a doubtful smile. “ When we see the Maitre holding a young woman in his arms in the midst of sweet peas and poppies, we think it time to desert him.” The Master broke into a laugh. He turned to Alina. “You see we are discovered Mademoiselle. The enfants like to tease the old gray-beard, but I will have my re- venge. Nous verrons! Nous verrons!” he shook his finger playfully at Miss Dolchester as they entered the inn. The long, low dining room with its tiled floor, heavily beamed ceiling and row of sunlit windows had harbored a century of market day gatherings, where the cider of 73 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Normandy took the place of water and the rough songs of the peasantry reverberated between the walls. It was a strangely mixed company that greeted Alina’s shy glance as the Master placed her beside him at the head of the table. The artists stopped a hot argument upon the merits of impressionism to greet the Master and new-comer cordially. Farmers in blouses were talking crops in hoarse tones. Two French pedlars were laughing bois- terously at the jokes of a third party who might have been a clergyman but proved to be a traveling magician who was to perform in the market place that night. At the opposite end of the table, separated from the other guests by some empty chairs sat a Frenchman of distinguished bearing, evidently of noble family. Be- side him was a man whose jet black hair and graceful gestures suggested the Orient. He wore but one outside garment, a robe of maroon broadcloth. A noble pair of shoulders and chest supported a still nobler head which, excepting the rather full lips and eyes might have been that of a Greek god. He was talking with his companion in low tones quite unmindful of the noisy company in the midst of which the two seemed remarkably out of place. Alina regarded them wonderingly. “A fine head, is it not? It fascinates one. It is — grandiose; but you must not eat cold soup,” exclaimed Schock. “He is a Hindu priest and his neighbor is the Comte de Baigneur the famous Sanskrit scholar. The Swami Savitarka is to be the Count’s guest at the Chateau 74 ‘“ Where the cider of Normandy took the place of water—” 4 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS de Silleron. Did you notice it the day you arrived? The diligence passes the great gate. Yes? A fine old estate. It has been in the family for centuries. A very old family the Count’s—descended from one of the Con- queror’s barons.” After they had reached the cheese and confiture a groseille they joined the artists outside upon the terrace, who were lounging upon benches, chairs, and tables in poses which suggested the inertia following a good meal washed down with good ordinaire. It was pleasing to see how quickly they hastened to bring a comfortable seat for the Master. His protest that, if his hair was white he was still young and needed nothing more than the rest, was of no avail, so he settled himself comfortably in the arm chair which they provided saying—“ If you will make a vieillard of me so be it mes enfants. But remember, when your hair becomes white like mine your art will still be young. It knows no restrictions.” “ Restrictions!” broke in Miss Dolchester with an ironical smile, as she scratched a match on the sole of her heavy walking boot and lighted a fresh cigarette. “ Re- strictions don’t pay in painting. Nothing—not even my conscience ever restricts my art. No, parbleu; a painter needs no conscience!” The Master greeted Miss Dolchester’s remarks with a prolonged “ Ah!” in which there was an inflection of disapproval. “Each must work out his salvation in his own particu- lar way. That reminds me,” he continued, with a mis- my The HONOR of the BRAXTONS chievous twinkle in his eye. “ Mademoiselle Durlan has her own original ways even when walking in sabots; we can only guess what she will paint when she gets to work.” The students were laughing. Alina’s cheeks flushed pink. So Miss Dolchester has told them, she thought. ‘Tf the Master guides me as well with my painting as he did with my sabots I shall do wonders,” she replied. “That you will! That you will!” said Schock in kindly tones. Alina had found at an early stage of her studies that to be a painter of horses she must also paint all out-of- door nature. So when the party on the terrace broke up, ~ she started off to reconnoitre the village. She would know each lane, farm, and hillock, as well as the great fertile plain above, before attacking anything serious. Back of the one main street which was paved, she found such a maze of lanes and paths, all leading more or less directly to the plain, that her afternoon was well spent when she emerged from a picturesque farm yard on to a smooth, hard highway which descended abruptly vil- lage-wards. Great pink clouds loomed up behind the poplars re- minding her that the sunset hour was at hand. She climbed the high bank bordering the highway and threw herself down on the warm sod. She had reached the edge of the plain which stretched away to the blue sea. The clumps of trees which showed the whereabouts of villages, were for all the world like oases in a vast fertile desert. 76 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She gave a deep drawn sigh of contentment. Not a jarring note in the whole-expanse. Not even a barbed wire fence, wooden house or iron wind-mill. She clasped her hands about her knees and sat idly biting the end of a long straw, wondering why she had stayed so long in Paris. Then she stretched herself at full length and gazed up at the great mass of clouds and beyond into infinity. Suddenly she started up with a fierce little scowl, all attention. She could hear a heavily laden cart moving slowly up the hill. The whip cuts and oaths of the driver grated upon her ear. Each cruel stroke went straight to her heart. She loved her dear horses, more than ever when weak and old. The most forlorn, jaded, broken- down horse that she had ever seen, staggered round the curve and came to a trembling halt. In an instant she was on her feet and hurrying down the bank. ‘The cart was piled high with wet sea-weed. On top sat the driver nursing his wrath with low guttural mutter- ings as he vainly tried to light a cheap cigar with a wet match. Failing in this he vented his wrath on the poor beast. Blows rained thick and fast. Vile imprecations filled the air. The team was once more in motion, but only for a moment. Alina seized the horse’s bit and brought him to a standstill. “Sacré nom de—”’ The driver could hardly believe his eyes. The cart turned sharply on its two wheels and rolled into the gutter with a backward jolt that all but unseated him. 77 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS A woman? By what right does she stop him? Weak miserables! Only fit to be beaten! With demoniacal fury the lash hissed through the air and left its trail of red on Alina’s neck, but only once. A figure clambered up over the wheel and a firm hand wrenched the whip from his grasp. “Fiend! Devil! Torturer!’’ The voice was resonant, terrible. The dark eyes that met his fearful glance seemed to burn his own shifting orbs in their sockets. And this red robe? It must be a priest! Diew me sauve!” He rolled back upon the sea-weed in cowardly subjection. The Hindu, glided down to the ground where he calmly waited beside the Comte de Baigneur who with his dusky companion had suddenly appeared by the roadside. The Count frowned fiercely. “ Hola Jacques Potin! Poltroon! Beater of women! Are you not contented with beating your own wife, that you must attack ladies on the National route? Down I say! Come down coward! ” As the scowling peasant slid down to earth, the Count caught him by the collar and pushed him towards Alina. “Quick! On your knees I say and beg her pardon!” Alina received the unwilling apology with set mouth and paled cheeks. Only by a quick fluttering of the eye- lids, a sudden indrawing of the breath through her teeth, had she shown that she felt the peasant’s whiplash. Now as they stood face to face, a sudden, unaccountable fear seized her. Where had she seen this face before? - Potin uttered a cry as the Count jerked him back- 78 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS wards. His eyes started forward as from strangulation. The Champagne, the surging crowd of steerage passen- gers, two writhing bodies upon the deck—she saw it all again. The Count was speaking. “A rare fellow to have on one’s estate! Remember imbécile what I say—here— now! You vacate the farm in six months and further- more you leave the village for good! Do you under- stand? Pitch off half of that sea-weed and come back for the rest in the morning.” ; They stood silently by while Potin doggedly obeyed his master. The old horse was once more headed up hill. Alina gave him a parting pat and rubbed her cheek against his nose. The creaking of the wheels broke the stillness of sundown. The Hindu turned to Alina with a look of deep com- passion, “ Will you permit me to bandage your wound ‘Mademoiselle? It must be painful.” He spoke pure English. After disarming the driver he had stood in silence, the picture of dignified composure, his arms folded across his wide chest, his nostrils slightly dilated. He took her handkerchief and wetting it in a tiny brook by the roadside, with the aid of Alina’s silk ker- chief made a compress and fixed it skilfully in place. The Count’s courtly apology, made with all the grace of a French gentleman of the old school, brought the color back to the girl’s cheeks. He stood with bared head, the embodiment of all that is refined, distinguished. “I am 79 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS chagrined that Mademoiselle should have met such mis- fortune at the hands of one of my tenants. It was shocking—shocking !” She laughed the idea to scorn. “Oh no! It was nothing. I took the risk. I always do when they beat the dear souls that way.” A radiant smile lighted the Hindu’s face. “ Ah yes!” he murmured in deep tones. “ They do not know that they have souls.” 80 Chapter X her meeting with Jacques Potin, Alina started off to her work in her sabots, swinging along peasant fashion much to the delight of Mére Fouchet who had finally taught her how to wear them. She was later than usual this morning, they had crépes for breakfast and Mére Fouchet had spent much time trying to teach Alina how to toss them. The batter was poured into the pan, and, as the underside browned, Meére Fouchet would deftly lift it with a knife; then, by a clever jerk of the arm the cake would fly into the air and land in the pan, the uncooked side down. Alina proved herself a poor house-wife from the Nor- man standpoint. Toss them she could, but land them in the right place, never. Each toss was followed by a hiss as the soft dough landed in the hot ashes. At last Mére Fouchet said “Give me the pan, my child. JI must cook the rest of the batter for breakfast. Never mind ma chérie, you will never have to marry a Norman, so it does not matter.” Two long stakes driven into the ground about two feet apart, marked the spot where Alina could be found at work any fine morning. The stakes served the purpose of an easel, the canvas being fastened to them with a stout cord. | Wherever one encountered these stakes, whether in unfrequented by-ways, vegetable gardens or woods, it 81 ‘ey a crisp, sunny morning some six months after The HONOR of th BRAXTONS was safe to surmise that at some hour of the day a painter would appear, unstrap his tools of trade, and relapse into that state of indifference to time and sur- roundings peculiar to artists. It was a snug corner, this working place of Alina’s, only a stone’s throw from the scene of her encounter with Jacques Potin. Hidden from the highway by a hedge of hawthorn she had a fine opportunity to study the subtle greens and distant purples of the great plain. In the immediate foreground was a plowed field where she would pose her horses. She had a plowing motive in mind—a pair of her massive friends in full action dragging one of the crude, Norman plows with its pair of blue painted wheels. The plowman, rugged in form and color, a forceful contrast to sky and hazy distance. In the middle distance she could see the chapel spire of the chateau of the Comte de Baigneur and the long avenues of trees sur- rounding the massive pile. This morning she kicked off her sabots as she reached the foot of the steep bank and climbed it in her noise- less chaussons. She hadn’t time to make the usual detour and it would be impossible to climb it in her wooden shoes. She stepped through the break in the hedge but stood transfixed as she uttered a startled ‘“ Oh!” whereupon two artists sprang up from their sketching stools in alarm, so suddenly had she come upon them. They all laughed nervously. One of the men approached with 82 The farm yard. The HONOR of the BRAXTONS uncovered head. ‘ You must excuse us for taking your place—we never noticed your stakes!” “© that is all right! There is room for us all—besides you once did me a service! Here it is—the same old tam- o-shanter!”’ She tore it off with a laugh and held it up. “Do you remember?” “Ah yes, I remember!” Felix’s pale face lighted with a rare smile. “Oh!” broke in Ben. He plunged down into his inside pocket, “ Mrs. Van Kleer—I met her at Fon- tainebleau! She gave me this letter of introduction in case ” He blushed slightly, “in case I found you.” “Found me?” She raised her arching brows in sur- prise. ““ Have you then been hunting long? How very strange!” A crimson flush dyed Ben’s neck and ears as he handed her the letter. “Well—yes; I have been on your track for some time—a sort of private detective you know.” He laughed. “T promised her that I would try to find you. She thought something had happened to you. She saw you with Scali one night and——” | “Poor Scali!” Alina smiled. “She must have been alarmed. His clothes, though, are the worst of him. He is the best copyist in the Louvre. I suppose I really treated her badly but you are both artists, you know how it is when one gets down to work? Excuse me!” She threw herself down upon a big bunch of dry grass and quickly scanned the letter. The men resumed their sketching stools. 83 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She frowned. The dark, delicately-penciled brows contracted. The red lips pouted. “Stupid! Stupid nonsense!” She tore up the letter and cast it aside. “I am so glad you have come!” The beautiful gray blue eyes gave them an honest welcome. “There are no men worth knowing here—I mean among the artists—only Schock. He is a dear though, you will love him.” “We didn’t come to study with Schock,” said Ben, “but we expect to have him look over our work now and then if he is willing—we are both figure painters.” “How delightful! Then you can criticize my plow- man. I don’t care that ” she snapped her fingers “for the criticisms of those girls!” Both men looked towards her canvas which was lying face down. “O no! That is only my paysage. I haven’t even started him yet. I only work here mornings. Schock works us hard afternoons. He is putting us through a course in construction. We work from animals in the court-yard. I tell you Schock is great.” There was no work done that morning. The paint boxes, canvases and umbrellas were stowed away in the bushes and she took them prospecting for subjects. She knew every pool and mill-wheel, everything worth paint- ing. They found motives in an abundance. When they reached the edge of the village of Silleron, Felix threw himself down beneath a hedge and pulled a sketch book out of his pocket. He instantly became absorbed in jot- 84 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ting down with clever pencil strokes a scheme for an elaborate composition. So absorbed was he that he never heard an altercation which was taking place beyond the hedge. His companions heard it and curiosity impelled them to enter the garden by a gateway. “So they have evictions here as well as in Ireland!” laughed Ben. ) “Twill have no criminals on my land I tell you! You are unfit fora kennel! You have violated your contract— Go!” The Comte de Baigneur stood before the low doorway of a thatched farm house. Facing him, his clumsy arms gesticulating wildly, protestingly, was a peasant. Close at hand there waited a two-wheeled cart loaded with household furniture and farm tools of the meanest description. “Nom dun cochon! A man may beat his own wife if he chooses! Iam but a half year in arrears! Madame Tobin over yonder owes for two years! Curse the American hussy—she did it all!” Jacques Potin picked up his whip and turned towards the cart, but stopped suddenly at sight of Alina. With a cry of rage he clutched the whip and made a savage lunge towards her. A firm hand seized the peasant’s shoulder and whirled him about. “Go! I tell you!” The Count stood over him quivering with suppressed passion. Ben was nonplussed. Where had he seen the peasant before? Alina’s low frightened words set him right. “He tried to kill him on the Champagne!” She 85 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS jerked her head towards Felix. “They must not meet! Quick! He is coming! Stop him!” Felix appeared in the gateway. “Oh Ben! Look here! Isn’t this a fine lay out?” He held up his sketch book. ‘‘ What is the row over there?”’ He tried to look through but Ben’s broad shoulders filled the opening. “O nothing! Only an eviction. Yes; that is fine! How jolly those poplars will come against that bank of clouds. You must paint it some day.” Miss Durlan was right. Felix would be no match for the brute now. Ben turned in time to see the cart rumble out of the yard and to hear the Count’s most courtly apologies. “TI crave your pardon, Mademoiselle, for this added insult. No! No! It was my fault, he was my tenant, but not now, thank God! He unfortunately goes only to the next village. JI wish it were to China.” “Ignorance is the mother of all misery! He will have his hell!” At the sound of the Swami’s deep voice Felix turned in silent wonderment. The Hindu emerged from the doorway where he had been a witness of the eviction. Chapter XI GC IENS! Here’come The Inseparables! ” cried M’lle Chauvin. “Yes, the villagers are already wagging their heads over them,” said Miss Dolchester with her cynical smile. “They say she goes to their cottage alone, M’lle Blanc. “Yes; but there is safety in numbers; they are three,” muttered Miss Dolchester. Schock’s class sat on the terrace of the Chariot d’ Or waiting for déjeuner. For some reason it was later than usual. The Master had not yet arrived. “ The Insep- arables,’ as M’lle Chauvin chose to call them, were cross- ing the market place. Felix and Ben listened atten- tively. Alina walked between them. She was telling a story, one could see that it was about horses. She was driving an imaginary pair. They had just emerged from the little by-road that led from Mére Fouchet’s cottage. The men always called for her on the way to meals and parted with her at the cottage on the way back. They laughingly called themselves “The American Colony.” To the villagers the trio had at first been simply “the Americans.” It was easier to designate them thus collectively as they were always seen together. One day a village gossip winked significantly, remark- ing “ There go the Inseparables!” and ever after they were known as “ The Inseparables.”’ 87 3) exclaimed The HONOR of the BRAXTONS When the men began to hunt for a cottage Alina’s fresh knowledge of every lane and by-way had been invaluable. In the most sequestered lane of all, on the very edge of the town, they had found an untenanted cottage quite hidden from the outside world by a high wall of masonry. After much parleying the owner permitted them to enlist the services of the village carpenter, who cut an opening in the north side of the roof into which he set a large studio window, the upper story making a fine working room. Below they had a living-room, dining-room, kitchen, all in one. There were also two small bed-rooms with tiled floors. The studio was reached by an outside stairway at the gable end of the cottage. A walk of flat stones led from the house to an old green door in the high wall. The garden was an artist’s paradise. As Ben said, “ Herrick would have written odes to Julia here.” At the foot of the lane was the Chapel of Our Lady of the Valley. They had never seen such a chapel before. The rustic architect had tunneled into the face of the chalk cliff. It reminded the Americans of the houses of the cliff dwellers in Arizona. The little spire came up through the grassy field above. The artists could hear the tinkling of its vesper bell each afternoon as they sat in their walled garden. And so in the midst of these Norman orchards, Ben and Felix had taken up life again, a new joyous ring in Felix’s voice, a calm satisfied look in Ben’s kind face. Alina’s story amused the men. Their laughter filled 88 “ They had never seen such a chapel before.” . ' $ 4 4 ; Par ys a S = tx The HONOR of the BRAXTONS the market place. As they mounted the steps Felix and Ben were received with better grace than Alina. Women have a way of making these little distinctions. “ Dites-donc Felix!” called Miss Dolchester as she made room for him upon the bench beside her. “I have something to tell you!” “ Ah! here come the Count and his Hindu,” said Ben as he and Alina threw themselves upon a low table and idly swung their feet. “I wonder what brings them to town? ” Alina had not heard his words. Her eyebrows were contracted. This cold assurance in Miss Dolchester annoyed her. It was not jealousy, she knew not the meaning of the word. The intimacy which Miss Dol- chester’s salutation implied was unpleasant. “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” muttered Miss Dolchester in low tones as Felix seated himself beside her. There was selfish intent, desire, admiration in her look. “I needed your criticism. You know I value it more than the Master’s. I am wretched, disgusted! My ‘Invalid of the Cottage’ will never see the Salon.” “Don’t say that,” exclaimed Felix, “ you have such a fine start.” “Yes, but Madame Maréchal has been most annoy- ing,” she replied vexedly. “ Posing her in bed was a great mistake. She was far too comfortable. I had to shake her up every five minutes. She had a way of dozing off just when I most needed her. The last time I shook her she wouldn’t wake up,—she couldn’t—she was dead!” 89 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Felix winced. He could not meet her cold, heartless glance. “ Poor Madame Maréchal,”’ he said compassion- ately, “ her sufferings are over.” Miss Dolchester’s face hardened. ‘“ You waste your pity on my wretched model. You have none for me.” Felix’s innate gallantry saved him. The pitiless eyes softened as he replied “Au contraire! The world has lost a great masterpiece. JI am sorry you could not finish your picture. It would have been powerful— strong.” 7 “TI suppose I can start another,” she replied. “If that religious weakling had helped me keep the old lady awake instead of telling her beads all day I might have finished it.” The “religious weakling,’ was Madame Maréchal’s only daughter, a slender girl of sixteen with a chaste, spiritual face. Bastien Le Page would have painted her as a Jeanne d’Arc. Felix meant to paint her some day as the Virgin. The girl’s history was a page from the supernatural. The villagers accepted startling facts concerning her life with the simplicity of children. Madame Maréchal had always been deeply religious. The first great event of little Celeste’s life came with her first communion. Dressed all in white, the embodiment of spiritual purity, bearing the sacred taper, she walked in the immaculate procession. As they knelt before a wayside altar there was sudden confusion. A horse frightened by the flut- tering banners dashed into their midst. There was a quick cry of pain from little Celeste. gO The HONOR of the BRAXTONS They found her white and silent on the ground. The crowd thought her white veil was her winding sheet, but she opened her eyes, then moved her arms. They tried to stand her upon her feet but the poor little limbs re- fused to do their duty; she was paralyzed from her waist down. | ‘Madame Maréchal carried her darling home and prayed the saints and Blessed Virgin to save her. ‘They would; she knew they would; Little Celeste knew they would; but she became more and more helpless. The poor mother bethought herself of Lourdes. Won- derful cures had been wrought at Lourdes, but alas; the Pilgrimage was but just over and she could as easily have gone to the moon; for they were poor, very poor. One day a notice in the post-office attracted Madame Maréchal’s eye. It advertised a pilgrimage to the Sacred Pool of Sainte Mathilde some forty miles away. God was merciful; her prayers would be answered. She went with little Celeste. The villagers who accompanied them said they saw the miracle at the pool. Those who did not go knew that little Celeste ran and played like other children ever afterwards. “It was always the pilgrimage,” continued Miss Dol- chester. ‘If her mother could only be kept alive until next August. If she could only be dipped in the Sacred ‘Pool. More the pity I say that she couldn’t have been dipped last week; she might be posing to-day,” she laughed bitterly. A sudden silence fell upon the company. All turned simultaneously. A funeral procession was coming up the g!I The HONOR of the BRAXTONS street with muffled tread. It was a picture which they had often seen upon the walls of the Paris Salon but more often in this roughly paved little square, where the minor chanting of the choristers rang with a peculiar hollow quality between the stone walls. The cross was carried ahead; then came the venerable Curé, followed by the bier which was borne by two rustics. “It is the good Madame Maréchal,” said the Master sadly. “I have known her for twenty years.” He un- covered his head and crossed himself as the. clumsy peasants bore their burden past. “Little Celeste,” he said aloud, as the procession filed into the church, “ did you see her, Monsieur Felix? The only mourner? Was she not beautiful?” “More than beautiful, she seemed translated,” replied Felix. “A wonderful case, that of the little Celeste,” con- tinued the Master. “You surely don’t believe all this rubbish about her? ” said Miss Dolchester with a sarcastic smile. “Tt has happened in all times, in all faiths, in all countries, Mademoiselle.” It was the Hindu who spoke. He had been standing passive, immobile, with bowed head as the procession passed, but as he spoke his eyes seemed to glow with some psychic force from within; his sensitive nostrils dilated. “Nature is always harmonious,’ he continued. “Truth repeats itself ever and eternally. These things were done in Christ’s days, why not now?” Q2 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “A Hindu priest, and you believe in the relics of the Church of Rome?” Miss Dolchester laughed scornfully. “T believe in no church, I believe in no creed, I know, the infinite power of a man’s spirit over this ”’—he struck his broad chest a resounding blow. “ This force, this power of spirit—mind—if you will—over the human body has been demonstrated time and time again all down through the ages.”’ He stretched his index towards the church. “ Little Celeste has demonstrated it although she was heavily trammeled by superstitions and useless creeds. Your infamous wife beater Jacques Potin ”’—he turned to the Comte de Baigneur, “ demonstrates it each time he strikes his helpless wife, for each time the acid of his anger gnaws at the vitals of his wretched body. Ah, yes; a wonderful power is the mind, it can work both good and bad,” he exclaimed as he seated himself beside the Count. | “Come! Come! Felix!” Miss Dolchester joggled his elbow, “ One would think the acid of your conscience were eating out your heart!” she laughed mockingly. Felix was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, looking into vacancy. It was the same old fearful look. Ben saw it from where he sat. Felix had forgotten that Miss Dolchester existed. “I was only thinking,’ he replied as he sighed deeply. “ Ah, well, it doesn’t pay to think sometimes.” He laughed. A babel of voices followed the Swami’s words, but presently they were all listening to the Master. Like the patron’s ordinaire his genial presence brought the spirits of the mixed company to the same level. There was a 93 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS humorous twinkle in his eye as he turned towards the Comte de Baigneur. “ Do you remember Papa Mourlot? He mended shoes when we were boys. They used to call him the Coward of Bréport. There is where he did his cobbling over yonder.” He pointed to a little shop at the end of the square. “Eh bien,” the Master went on. “ Papa Mourlot was afraid of everything. He would not go out after dark. He feared dogs great and small. If a neighbor raised his hand to scratch his head, Papa Mourlot would duck his own in fear of a blow. Sudden noises terrified him. The sound of a shot-gun would strike terror to his heart. He knew that some day a random shot would kill him at his bench. “The gamins of Bréport made his life a burden. A prince of gamins was Guibray. One day he stole his father’s shot-gun and loaded it with blank cartridges. He also begged a bladder full of blood from the butcher. ‘When I break the bladder on the coward’s head, you fire the gun,’ he said to his brother. ‘ He will think he is hit, or I am a liar, parbleu!’ Papa Mourlot was peg- ging away at his shoe. Guibray stole in at the open door. His brother was just outside the window. Bang! went the gun. Into the air sprang Papa Mourlot. The blood from the bladder streamed over his face and hands. The gamuns shrieked with glee. ‘What a joke—the coward thinks he is hit!’ ” Miss Dolchester was laughing boisterously, but Schock raised his hand—* Attendez un instant! I have not finished! The cobbler crouched among his boots and 04 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS lasts upon the floor. ‘Ha! ha!’ laughed the gamins—he thinks he is hit! he thinks he is hit!’ One of them crawled into the door and gave the cobbler a push. He rolled over. The gamins ran away with white faces—he was dead!” “Ah yes; I ran too!” exclaimed the Count, “and so did you, Maitre.” He was gently smiling at this little glimpse of his boyhood. “ It was my first lesson in meta- physics. It set me to thinking. Ah yes; a wonderful thing is the mind of man. Poor old Papa Mourlot’s heart was stopped by fear. Fear is the cause of most bodily ills.” As they strolled into the salle d manger, Ben studied the Count’s thoughtful, high-bred face and recalling sim- ilar heads in portraits by Velasquez, Van Dyck, or Hals, wondered if he could ever get the Count to pose for him. “IT am honored in being the President of the Society for the Investigation of Phenomena,” continued the Count as they seated themselves. ‘‘ You see where my first lesson in Metaphysics finally landed me?” he laughed softly. “ The Swami and I keep very busy. We came to-day to see little Celeste. Her cure at the shrine of Sainte Mathilde is on record. We had not heard of Madame Maréchal’s death. Poor child; we shall have to come again. We go on the Pilgrimage of Sainte Ma. thilde in August for further investigations. You should go too, itis most picturesque. It would supply a painter with a dozen motifs.” The Count smiled. “T think I will go,” said Ben. 66 95 Chapter XII Felix, as he tossed his brushes on the floor with an impatient gesture. “I have struck bottom. I get there so often these days.”’ He began to pace the floor. “ Think how we used to drop in at the Boston ‘Symphony rehearsals for inspiration.” ““Yes,”’ said Ben, ‘and came home feeling that we could paint anything. You and I can’t do without music old boy, can we?” He laid aside his palette, stretched his arms and yawned. “I am afraid we shall have to make a little trip up to Paris, to hear the Colonne orches- tra just as a bracer you know.” “Tf there were only a piano or a melodeon in the vil- lage I might squeeze a little inspiration out of it myself,” said Felix. “Think what these poor people have left out of their lives, not even a wheezy church organ to tone them up on Sundays.” “ Terrible! Terrible!” said Ben, as he shook down the little stove in the corner and put on a shovelful of coal. “No wonder that their highest ambition is a rabbit stew.” “T would give fifty francs, this blessed moment, strapped as I am, for any old thing to play on,” said Felix. They started as the little bell hanging from a spiral spring over the door set up a clamorous tinkling. “Tl wonder who it is,” said Ben, as he jerked a stout cord which passed through a hole in the wall, an in- 96 a | TELL you I am painted out, old man!” said The Leper’s Road. The HONOR of th BRAXTONS genious contrivance which enabled them to open the gate without descending from their studio in the roof. Felix started towards the door which opened on the outside stairway, but before he could reach it they heard three quick barks and a furious scratching at the door. The men’s faces lighted up with pleasurable anticipa- tion. “Alina,” they exclaimed in the same breath. _ When Felix threw the door wide open Jack came bound- ing in like an animated football. The little fellow knew where he was wanted. Dogs are keener than human beings in this respect. There were a few light footsteps upon the stairs and Alina stood framed by the doorway, her cheeks aglow, her hair in beautiful disorder. Her eyes sparkled, she was panting from healthy exercise. She brought good cheer and ozone into the place. “Jack and I are out for a run, won’t you come?” she said pulling off her knitted gloves and warming her hands at the stove. “ We ran all the way from Mére Fouchet’s. We came by the Leper’s Road, where nobody could see our contortions.” She laughed merrily. “ My! how we did race, didn’t we little boy?”’ She caught up Jack, who squirmed and slobbered her face in doggish ecstasy. The Leper’s Road was a disused lane, so called because hundreds of years before the lepers had used it in passing around the town. “Of course we will come,” said Ben. “ Felix and I were just longing for some music or almost anything to stir up the sacred fire. Felix says he would play a hand organ if he could find one.” 97 The HONOR. of the BRAXTONS Alina uttered a joyful little cry as she dropped Jack upon the floor and clapped her hands. “Oh boys! I have something fine to tell you! I have found an organ!” “An organ?” the men uttered the word in unison. ves, aft otra “Bless my soul, where?” said Ben. He was on the point of lighting his pipe, but the match burned itself out and scorched his fingers as he awaited her reply. ‘At, SOtLeVilies: “An organ at Sotteville? You must be mistaken. I have passed the church a dozen times when mass was going on, but I never heard an organ.” “Ah, but you never looked in, if you had you would have seen it.” “Tt seems to me I heard a flute or clarinet one day when I was passing,” said Felix. “No, you didn’t, it was an organ,” persisted Alina, “your clarinet was the organist playing with one finger.” Felix laughed. “A one-fingered organist! By Jove; these people are primitive.” “They beat the Dutch,” replied Ben with a melodious chuckle. “ But who is this organist of Sotteville?” “Mere Colin.” “Who keeps the little café?” asked Ben incredulously “you are joking.” “No, I am not, I saw her playing yesterday. I went over to mass with Mére Fouchet. She says Mére Colin spent a year at an institution pour demoiselles, when she 98 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Was young and learned to play the piano. She is the only person in the neighborhood who can read notes. ““And she reads with one finger,’ said Felix, com- miseratingly. He was struggling into his sweater. “Great heavens! Think of the harmony hidden away in that old organ loft.” “We will open up a new world for them,’ from the depths of his red sweater. Felix seized his cap. The depression of a few moments ago was gone. Music meant so much to him. One idea possessed him—to reach the organ loft as quickly as possible. | “Tam going to Sotteville, will you go too?” he held the door open for Alina. “ Felix looks exactly as little Toto did the other night,” said Ben “ when we gave him the sou to buy a ginger- bread man and he fell down in his hurry to get to the shop.” Alina broke into a rippling peal of laughter, as they trooped down the stairway and out of the old gateway. As for Jack, he was anywhere and everywhere, barking furiously all the time. They turned down the lane to the Chapel of Our Lady of the Valley, then crossing the great high-road of Dieppe they struck into the wide fields, striding over stubble and earth clods with the swing of experienced pedestrians. Alina always walked between the men. Her move- ments were supple and free. Deep breathing, long of thigh, shapely willowy arms which swayed with each step, she was a picture of youthful grace. 99 ’ said Ben The HONOR of the BRAXTONS The men were never uncomfortably conscious of her sex. As Felix said, she was “just one of them,” almost as much so as any of the boys in the Quarter. They loved her fearlessness. Her view of life was so simple. She thought all things good, as indeed they are except when the mind of man perverts them. In her desire to get at the truth, she often discussed subjects which would have brought a blush to the cheek of one less pure. Soon they were walking along the top of the great chalk cliffs, the peaceful Norman pastures on their right; on their left the blue ocean churned itself into white foam upon a pebbly beach fifty feet below. A rough path followed the shore at a safe distance from the edge of the cliff, occasionally coming to an abrupt stop, where a land- slide had scooped out a huge section of pasture. “Ha!” exclaimed Ben, “ Just what I was looking for.” He pointed to an opening in the cliff. ‘‘ The only place between Bréport and Sotteville where the beach can be reached from above. The Maitre says a deal of smug- gling went on here fifteen years ago, but the coast guard —there is one now—prevent it nowadays.” The guard paced by them with the spiritless tread of one doing his beat. Muffled in his military cloak, he made a lonely figure in a lonely landscape. “T would rather be a second-rate painter than one of those fellows,” said Felix as they climbed the rise beyond the Smuggler’s Gorge. They all stood silently taking in the wonderful panorama of sky, land and sea. Far beyond the rolling plain and rugged roofs of Sotteville, a great 100 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS headland jutted forth into the blue sea. At its very end St. Margaret’s lighthouse glowed warm and white against the sky. , As they tramped on, the life of the plains showed itself in a mysterious, will-o-the-wisp way. The clumsy figure of a shepherd suddenly loomed up, from where they knew not. In a hollow his flock grazed peacefully. A little further on a bent old hag seemed -a part of the earth in which she was grubbing for roots. Her dingy clothes matched the dead stubble and ploughed field beyond. Still further along smoke curled up from a little hovel built into the side of a knoll, the shelter of a company of brick makers whose work had been stopped by the sudden frost. ! “They remind one of the prairie dogs out West!” exclaimed Ben. “ You can’t tell just where the next one will bob up.” As he spoke two young girls started up from the shelter of some tall matted grass and walked along the path in advance of them. At the sound of voices one of them turned. “Good morning, little Celeste!” cried Felix, “ what takes you so far from Bréport this cold day?”’ She smiled sadly. ‘Did Monsieur not know that I have lived with my aunt at Sotteville ever since Mama died?” “No, my little one, I didn’t,” replied Felix, “ but I am glad you have kinsfolk to comfort you.” His voice was gentle and kind. “This is my little cousin Marie.” she said simply, with a naive attempt to include all in the introduction. IOI The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She threw her arm about the slight girlish figure and drew her out of the path so that they might pass. There was something shielding in her action, a tone of compassion in her voice. Little Marie’s delicate face was lighted with a radiant smile, but her eyes were cast down with seem- ing diffidence. “You love your little cousin,” said Alina kindly. Then she uttered an exclamation of pity as the younger girl looked up. She was blind. Celeste saw the silent sympathy in the faces of the Americans. “ Ah yes, Mademoiselle. Only the bon Dieu loves her more than I.” “You must bring Marie to visit me at Mére Fou- chet’s,’ said Alina kindly as they passed on. “ Mére Fouchet will make us a fine galette.” ) “ Merci! Merci!’’ cried the two girls. “Marie loves galettes,’ said Celeste smiling. They made a pretty picture standing on the desolate cliff in their little white Norman caps, cloaks, red woolen stockings and sabots. “Tf we could only paint everything we see off hand, how fine it would be,” said Ben, looking over his shoul- der. “We had better take the main road into Sotteville,” said Felix, “ It will be the shorter way.” He was think- ing of the organ. | Soon their footsteps sounded sharply on the smooth highway. They passed the Chateau of the Duc de Marney in the outskirts of the village. “Oh!” exclaimed Alina. “I forgot to tell you. Mére 102 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS Fouchet says the Duke gave the organ to the parish as a memorial to his mother. She died at the Chateau eigh- teen years ago.” “Ah!” said Ben, “that accounts for it—I wondered how it ever got there.” The village church stood at the apex of two converging roads. It was built upon a knoll, heavily walled upon all sides and approached by long flights of stone steps. The old pile was a relic of medizval days, built for pur- poses of defence as well as worship. Mére Colin’s little café with its thatched roof and swinging sign, was just across the way. Ben begged Alina to wait outside as a company of peasants were shouting over their cognac; but no, she - would have a glass of café noir, they made it so well in these little auberges. “Ah! Bonjour Pere Boudin!” cried Felix as they en- tered the low door. The old letter carrier of Bréport left his companions and saluted them effusively. “‘ Mademoiselle and the messieurs come a long way for their café!” “ And Monsieur Boudin also,” laughed Felix, “we come because Madame Colin makes it better than anybody else.” Felix’s timely compliment had the desired effect. Meére Colin willingly consented to ask the curé for the much- coveted permission to play the organ. As they left the café she turned to the noisy group of peasants. “Attention, gamins!” she cried, “not one of you leaves until I come back!” 103 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “They are mauvais garcons,’ she went on talking as they climbed the stone steps to the churchyard. “ They serve me as they do the doctor; they sneak out of paying when they can.” They seated themselves upon the doorsteps while Madame hurried on to the Parish House. Soon she re- turned, red faced and panting, holding the key aloft. ““Ah Madame; you are so kind,” cried Felix as he started to take it. “Non! Non! Monsieur.’ She clasped it tightly in her hand. ‘“ Wait one moment! I have a message! Monsieur the Curé thanks Monsieur Felix for his kind offer to play at mass next Sunday, but he says it is impossible as Monsieur is a heretic, but he can play all he likes this afternoon.” She handed him the key to the organ loft with great ceremony. “Here is the key; take it) Monsieur Amuseg-vous bien! I must go to my jeunes gens at the cates “So I am a heretic!” Felix laughed. “T will stay down here;” said Alina as the men started up the spiral stone stairway “I can hear better.” She wandered aimlessly about the dusky interior, tak- ing note of the curious offerings placed there by the fisher folk. A fleet of full rigged ships in miniature were suspended from the ceiling. The altar decorations of tawdry tinsel and paper flowers, seemed crude and barbaric but quaintly picturesque withal. The afternoon sun filtered dimly through windows, much patched and weather stained. The blues, reds, 104 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS yellows and purples had reached the wonderful tonality that age alone can give. She spent some moments over the quaintly carved choir stalls and finally sought out a low, rush-bottomed chair within the shadow of a confessional box, against which she leaned her head. She could hear her companions moving about in the organ loft. Aside from this, the place was still as death. She felt the presence of the centuries which the little church had seen. She thought of the countless masses which had reverberated under the vaulted ceiling. There was a musty, stifling quality in the very air, yet it was soothing and satisfying. The nervous, active, garish world seemed a long way off. She never knew when the music began, but she became conscious of a sound like the wind blowing through the tree tops above Mére Fouchet’s cottage. Then the air about her throbbed mysteriously. It was a deep, vibra- tive note like the breath of some great spirit. Gradually with gliding cadence, making the sails on the little sus- pended ships above her head quiver, a volume of rich, full, harmony filled the place. The “Inseparables” were traversing Elysian fields. Their thirst was being sated by something dearer than the rarest wines of France. It is by vibration that one soul touches another and man attains his highest ideals. The vibrative torrent of harmony which Felix drew forth from the organ brought the “ Inseparables ” nearer together than ever before. Alina, alone in her dark corner felt it. Ben knew it 105 The HONOR of thee BRAXTONS as he pumped the bellows with the perspiration rolling down his cheeks. Felix—ah; Felix will know more later. Now he is a spirit soaring in other realms. The heretic is nearer the Great White Throne than the priest over the way can ever hope to be. Alina sat with closed eyes. When she opened them, two girlish figures stood spellbound in the aisle. They might have been two saints out of the niches above the altar. There was the same primness of attire, the same severe arrangement of hair, the same uplifted eyes. What was this mysterious, beautiful something that had taken possession of their church? ‘They had never heard anything like it before. Celeste’s softly curving lips were moving in prayer. Little Marie was sobbing for joy; sounds meant so much to her little darkened life. Celeste led the blind girl across the church to a little chapel near Alina. They both knelt in prayer. Some stray rays of sunlight stole in through the old window just above them and fell on their blond heads in patches of gold. All the joy, the aspirations which Alina experienced in the soaring volume of harmony, she saw intensified ten- fold in the faces of the kneeling girls. Celeste was praying aloud; Alina could hear her dis- tinctly ““O Blessed Virgin, Mother of Jesus, grant my prayer! Grant that little Marie may see as others see, the wonderful works of God!” Little Marie’s beautiful brown eyes were raised heaven- wards; the vox humani was chanting a celestial chorus. 106 Meére Colin. The HONOR of th BRAXTONS The little face seemed illuminated, translated. Alina started forward as a joyful, ecstatic cry rang through the Grote cecste!~ Celeste! I see! I see!” Marie sprang to her feet and stood with uplifted face, reach- ing heavenwards with her transparent, tapering fingers. But the moan of despair which followed as she crouched upon the floor within Celeste’s tender embrace wrung Alina’s heart. “O God!” the child sobbed “ All is dark again! all is dark! but I did see! I did! I did! The bon Dieu knows iedid!” “Be at peace little one;” said Alina stroking the child’s head, “ perhaps you will see again some day.” “Listen!” said Celeste, leading Marie to a chair, “ Monsieur is singing. That is how the angels sing.” Alina settled herself beside them where she remained until the music ceased when she joined the men at the foot of the stairs. As they emerged into the sunlight, Celeste pushed Marie forward; she wished to speak her thanks, but all was lost in a succession of quick sobs. “Poor child,” said Felix softly stroking her hand “and will you come to Bréport for galettes some day?” “Yes Monsieur—but I would much rather see.” “That you will!” said Celeste gathering the slender form in her arms and kissing the sightless eyes. Little Marie clasped her intertwined fingers against her breast. “‘ Ah—the bon Dieu is good!” Her face lighted up joyfully “and shall I see the sky, the flowers, the sea?” ’ 107 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “Yes, my little one, God is good,” repeated Celeste, and as they took their leave the two quaint little figures stood waving them a farewell. Leaving the key with Mére Colin they once more struck across the great plain. It had grown colder. The sparkling, silvery mists through which the late sun scattered rainbow tints made nature less earthly and more in tune with their own exaltation. The hour, distance, passing forms were as nothing to them. For some time they walked rapidly in silence. Grand inspirations, noble ideals were coursing through Felix’s brain with tumultuous rapidity. He longed to give expression to something great. “By Jove!” he cried so suddenly that a bird started up from the copse and sped away inland “I could paint anything if I had my brushes here this blessed moment.” “So could I” exclaimed Ben. “And I” said Alina fervently. “ Ah well—’” sighed Felix ‘ God knows whether I shall paint to-morrow or not, but we had a good time to-day didn’t we Alina?” He slipped his arm through hers in his boyish way. “T had a wonderful time!” said Alina with a world of meaning in her voice. Again there was a long silence which lasted until they were well on their way, then under the stimulus of frosty air and exercise their buoyant spirits broke all bounds. Linked arm in arm the trio strode on merrily carolling 108 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS quaint peasant songs which Mére Fouchet had taught Alina. The shadows lengthened as they turned into the road above Bréport. The sun was sinking in the sea as they left the road and threw themselves down at the foot of a great stack of straw. It was snug and warm there and they spent some mo- ments in silence drinking in the opalescent beauty of the autumnal afterglow. They could hear the distant noises of Bréport far below. They knew when the diligence rumbled through the village. They heard the tattoo of the town crier’s drum. “TI wish we could live here always!” said Ben putting deep stress upon “always.” “This has been an after- noon to be remembered.” As he spoke, the sound of uncertain footsteps came from the highway behind them. Although they could not see the road, they recognized the old letter carrier’s voice. He and his companions had stayed too long at Mere Colin’s. The bad cognac had not only gone to his feet as Mére Fouchet had said, but to his head as well. The party of peasants were gossiping recklessly with loosened tongues. “A pretty little wench, the American voice. “They call them The Inseparables!” said another. “Ho! Ho!” laughed the letter carrier hoarsely “ The Inseparables! How may three be inseparable? It is the one of the straw colored hair I tell you!” “Mére Fouchet says she is virtuous!” said a voice. 109 99 ! said a husky The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “Nom d’un chien! what does Mére Fouchet’s word signify! Is her own child not in Paris leading the life of a ——” The rest was drowned by their shuffling footsteps as they disappeared down the hill. A cruel silence followed. Alina’s face burned red and was buried in her hands. With a savage imprecation Felix started down the hill after the peasants. Ben was at his side in an instant. He seized Felix’s arm ina vice-like grip. Then he turned to Alina. “Shall we go on?” he asked gently. The men turned away as she rose to her feet. In a moment she fell into her accustomed place between them. As they turned to cross the green before the little chapel of Our Lady of the Valley, Ben stopped. His voice broke as he attempted to speak. “ Alina!” The tenderness in his tones made her catch . her breath and turn away her head. Quite unconsciously he held her hand between his own. “We have been living in a fool’s paradise. This sort of thing must not go on. They do not understand us. We must leave Bréport for your sake.” She turned upon them fiercely, “ No! No! Not that!” She reached out for Felix’s arm with her free hand. A pale imploring face was uplifted to theirs in the gloom. “Don’t I beg of you! Don’t break up this precious friendship! What matters it what these drunken wretches say?” “No,” replied Ben with infinite pity in his voice, “ it matters little what they think of us, but you—you are IIO The HONOR of the BRAXTONS a woman. We couldn’t stand by and see this thing happen a second time without ‘ “Killing! quick and sure!” broke in Felix savagely. Alina shuddered. His voice was passionate, awful. His pallid, suffering face looked into her's. “So help me God!” he uttered in a hoarse whisper. “Amen!” Ben’s voice sounded through the still air like a deep organ note. They went on in silence, the only sound a crisp crunch- ing of the fallen leaves which littered the deserted Leper’s Road. Soon they could see the blue smoke of Mére Fouchet’s cottage curling up through the trees just below them. Alina stopped. ‘‘Good night!” She took Felix’s hand and then Ben’s. “ You won’t leave Bréport? ” “No!” replied the men in the same breath. Ill Chapter XIII beneath a pure white mantle of snow. Few of the peasants ventured abroad and those indoors were huddled about their little fires of colza stalks and fagots trying to keep warm. It was Christmas night; the coldest known in Nor- mandy for a quarter of a century. A bright fire glowed and crackled in the great chimney of the dining room at Silleron. The lights had been lowered; the fire sent its fitful, mysterious glow over the rich Henri Deux interior. Alina sat in a huge arm chair the picture of indolent comfort, her bare arms stretched carelessly forward in her lap. The ruddy light outlined the delicately poised head, round slender neck and gleaming youthful shoulders. “My little American is charming to-night.” The Master finished his creme de menthe and placed his glass upon a smoking-table which stood between them. “How could one be otherwise with such a charming host,” she replied with an upward glance at the Comte de Baigneur who stood beside her chair. “T, in turn am only charming because Monsieur Cush- ing would have me so.”’ He waved his hand gracefully towards a portrait which stood upon an easel near by. “T only painted what I saw,” said Ben smiling. “ You were an inspiration. I never painted a portrait so easily.” II2 | T was bitterly cold. Village and plain lay buried The HONOR of the BRAXTONS He stood by the fire smoking one of the Count’s rare cigars. Felix started up from a low divan near the fire “ Cush- ing is right!” he exclaimed vehemently. “A model can make or ruin a picture!” He was: thinking of the unfinished Psyche boxed up and hidden away in the cottage loft. “A model can certainly make the artist miserable or happy. We owe more than we can express to Ben’s model—he has made us radiantly happy. It was so good of you to have us here to-night,’—Alina turned to the Count. “Ah, Mademoiselle, I have lived in the States, I knew what the day meant to you Americans. Christ- mas in Mére Fouchet’s chaumiére? No; I couldn’t allow that!” “Take care Monsieur! Remember I am of the peas- antry; I wear sabots! ‘There are worse places than Mére Fouchet’s cottage!” she shook her finger reprovingly “T should say there were!” exclaimed Ben “On the plains of Arizona in a blizzard for instance!” “On Christmas Day?” asked Alina. “Yes; I was out among the Mokis with my cousin who was a member of a government exploring party. ““We had found some beautiful prehistoric specimens and buried them in a cave. We took careful note of the spot, as the mule teams would come to take them away in the spring. “When we came to the village our interpreter met us 113 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS with the ponies. We were surprised to find them all saddled and bridled. He said it would not be safe to stay longer, that the Indians had become hostile. Our lives were in danger. “The nearest and safest place for us was forty miles away beyond a range of hills to the northward. The temperature was falling rapidly. It was spitting snow as we came down the trail and started off on a bee line for Bald Eagle Cafion, the pass in the hills. “There was every indication of a blizzard from the north. We knew only too well what was before us, but chose the lesser of two evils and trusted the weather rather than the Indians. “The fall of snow was light at first and we easily kept to the trail, but later it grew heavy and we had to use the compass. As the day wore on the snow fell thicker and thicker. Such a storm I never saw before and hope I may never see again! We could easily have made the forty miles by daylight in fine weather, but when night set in the ponies were well nigh exhausted. We had to work constantly to keep up the circulation in our feet and hands. “A great wall of driving snow was all we could see. No hills. No pass. We toiled on into the night traveling always by the compass. At last we began to ascend and the wind blew a hurricane; we knew we had struck the pass, but it brought poor cheer. The wind sucked through the cafion with awful force. It became a struggle for life. “There was a blueness about the interpreter’s complex- 114 The Chateau. > a 2 Un ae wy . a Sli Bs ; ~* ' ‘ ° ’ . ve , t ‘ -~ The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ion that I didn’t like. I had to keep prodding his pony from behind. “ After awhile I rode ahead, my cousin taking his turn at the interpreter’s pony. We were coming to a turn in the cafion. I started to call out that. we were half through the pass, but a blinding knife-like gust swept through the narrow cut all but choking me. “My pony buried his head in the snow and braced himself. I dismounted and crouched behind him. When I turned to look at my companions my heart sank into my boots, they had disappeared. Dragging the pony behind me I retraced my steps. I found the interpreter and his pony fallen and half buried in the snow. He was un- conscious, the pony dead. My cousin answered my questions in a dazed way. He was trying to arouse the interpreter. Then to my horror he fell backwards into a drift and didn’t move. It was awful!’ Ben cast the butt of his cigar into the fire and began pacing the hearth rug. “I poured the entire contents of my whiskey flask down the throats of the two men and fell to chafing them. Then a sudden sinking horror seized me, they were freezing to death. A dull stupor crept over me, but I fought it off by a mighty effort. “T straightened up for a moment to beat my chest, but stood stock still. At first I thought I was dreaming. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Through the storm I saw a light. I knew of no house within ten miles, but there it was appearing and disappearing as the storm thick- ened or lifted. I cried out for joy and turned to my pony, 115 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS he was down in the drift, dead. My cousin’s pony was still standing. As I caught his bridle he tried to drag himself out of the drift, but fell into a helpless heap. I turned and ran with might and main; once I fell and the numbness came on again, but I shook it off and kept on. The light grew brighter and brighter and in a few moments I staggered against the door of a house— yes, a house! “ At this point the cafion widens out leaving a little _pocket or valley which is a little green oasis in the summer. “Tf a burly Scotchman hadn’t staked out a claim there the summer before, I shouldn’t be here to tell you about — it. ‘“‘T heard voices within. The door opened. The red whiskered, red faced Scotchman threw his pipe on the floor and caught me in his arms. I pulled myself to- gether on short notice and we soon had my cousin and the interpreter lying on the floor. “A little boy babe sleeping in a packing box filled with straw, born only an hour before, was the messiah who guided us there. If he hadn’t come that night, the cot- tage would have been dark and his star—that precious kerosene lamp would never have shone out into the night. “His parents asked us to name him. He came on Christmas night, he saved three souls so we named him Christus. Christus Cushing McDonald was his full name. What do you think of that for a Christmas | story?” Ben smiled and reached for a fresh cigar. 116 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS As he caught Alina’s eye the blood mounted to his temples. If there is one thing a man loves above an- other it is just such a look as Alina gave Ben when he finished his story and then, he had discovered that what Alina thought meant a great deal to him. “The little babe could not have had a better name. Few people know the full significance of that word messiah,’ said the Swami. He had been reading an ancient vellum-bound tome at a lamp somewhat removed from the company. He crossed the room and stretching out his open palms behind him towards the fire raised himself to his full height. “TI love the beautiful story of the coming of the Christian’s Messiah, but there have been other messiahs. May I tell you of one?” “Yes! Yes!” cried all in chorus. “Very well;—There was once a principality of the Orient, where from time immemorial it had been proph- esied that a messiah would come to its people. It was furthermore recorded that this messiah might come in the garb of prince, merchant or pauper; when and how it was for the people to discern. The one sign of his presence would be the bringing back by him from the unknown, the spirit of a departed prince or princess. “There came tothe throne a great and mighty prince whom the sages prophesied would some day prove him- self the messiah of his people. “ All through his youth he studied musty volumes with his wise men. He spent his nights consulting the stars. 117 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS His star was of good omen for at a great national fete he saw and loved the daughter of a visiting prince, the beautiful Princess Claudia. “With feasting and ceremonies he placed her beside him upon his throne. She ministered to the wants of his people as a sweet angel of mercy would have done. No hovel was too humble, no lonely soul too sick for her. Her gentle presence was felt throughout the entire prin- cipality. “It was in the little hut of a poor painter of dreams that she loved often to sit, for the marvellous fancies of his brush were as celestial visions to her. “The poor painter treasured the visits more dearly than the fine gold which she was wont to give him each day as she left. ‘““ The painter of dreams was never seen at court. There were others; they called them court painters who imi- tated flesh, hair, satin, jewels and gold so well that the Prince had named them his own. They wore velvet and fine linen and sat at his feasts. “The painter of dreams was not envious. He was con- tented with his hovel, his ragged clothes, so long as the Princess came. He had never painted so well as when she sat and silently watched each vision grow beneath his master hand. But one day she did not come. The painter of dreams was heartbroken. The Prince tore his hair; the Princess Claudia was dead. “The Prince caused the remains to be placed in the ancestral vault. He called for his philosophers and as- 118 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS trologers. His love for the Princess was great, great enough he thought to call back her spirit from the dead. Might he not be the messiah of his people? “The temple was crowded to the doors. The poor little painter of dreams sat in a distant corner. With incanta- tions and incense the Prince tried to call back the spirit of his loved one, but in vain. Alas! he was not the messiah of his people. He humbled himself in sack- cloth and ashes. “As for the painter of dreams, he could think of naught else than the Princess. She was ever with him. Her beautiful face he saw as a constant vision. He locked himself in his hut. He was not seen abroad for many days. He ate not and slept not, but painted always. ““One day there came a knock at the door. He opened it and beheld the Prince accompanied by his courtiers and court painters. The Prince would fain know all whom his loved one had known. “He bowed his head, so low was the poor painter’s door. When he lifted his eyes he cried for joy— ‘Claudia! Claudia! my beloved.’ “Shining forth in the dingy little room he beheld the spirit of Claudia. ‘The Messiah! The Messiah!’ he cried and fell upon his face. “*Verily our Messiah has come’ cried the wise men ‘has he not brought back the spirit of our Princess from the unknown?’ They threw themselves at the feet of the painter of dreams crying ‘The Messiah! The Messiah!’ 119 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS “Tt is but a daub without method; one cannot even tell how the paints are put on,’ said the court painters jealously. “The Prince arose from his knees in wrath. ‘It is spirit I tell you! One sees neither paint nor canvas! Begone miserable tricksters! Imitators of gold, satin and pearls! The spirit of Claudia lives, yea calls to me from yonder!’ “He took the painter of dreams to the palace and clad him in purple and laces. Upon the walls of the Temple he wrought mighty works. The people made pilgrim- ages from far and near to see them. They saw neither satin, pearls nor gold, but were led upwards to the God of Gods through the truths wrought by the Nation’s Messiah.” The Swami stood for a moment intently watching the faces of his listeners. “My friends, a messiah is one who brings Truth to a people. Truth is Spirit because it is everlasting. Do these self-elected disciples of so-called truth, these slaves of models who paint that in nature which dies and de- cays bring Truth? No! I tell you they are false prophets. The messiahs of the ages have preached, written, sung, sculptured, painted the spirit, only the spirit of man and nature which alone is Truth. “The man who is the slave of his model paints a shell —a nothing.” The Swami swung down his right arm with a gesture of contempt. “Right, he does!” Felix started to his feet with glowing eyes. 120 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS True—true—all of it, but he fell to pacing the floor with troubled face. He loved this exquisite slavery. He hoarded the memories of his academy victories; they were the only bright spots in his Paris life. They had been worth achieving. He had won them by slaving from models. As he came to an about-face, the Swami caught his eye. The Hindu laid a kindly hand upon Felix’s shoulder. “There are depths to your nature that you know not of. You will grow. Time will tell.” —limer Yes; of course. But have I time?” Felix seemed to address himself rather than the Swami. He brushed his hand across his eyes and turned to the piano, where he seated himself in a fit of abstraction, absently running his fingers over the keys. Presently he swung off into the fire music of the Val- kyrie and after a little, relapsed into the more sooth- ing cadence of familiar Christmas carols. As he played the opening’ bars of Adam’s Noel, Ben instinctively joined in, his big barytone voice filling every nook and corner of the great dining hall— “Lo the Lord of Heaven Hath to mortals given, Life forever more.” Alina brushed away a tear when they finished and held up her two hands to the men as they passed her chair. “Thanks boys! It was so beautiful!” she murmured. At Alina’s request and after she had been bundled up I2I The HONOR of the BRAXTONS in a shawl, the Count piloted them over the Chateau, tell- ing them the story of each room and hall. It was a long journey and one that presented pictures and legends at every turn. There was an added charm in seeing their host’s face light with pride and interest as he told the history of each scrap of armor and each piece of furniture. The passage-ways were cold. They were shivering when they came back from their tour of inspection, so they once more settled themselves before the glowing fire and the Count ordered some hot drinks. Felix and the Maitre had each to tell his Christmas story and it was midnight when Ben said they must go. As the Count was in the act of ringing for the car- riage, Alina declared her intention of walking back to Bréport with the men. When she came down all bundled up in Mére Fouchet’s widow’s cloak, looking for all the world like a very young Norman widow with very pink cheeks, she pre- sented Ben and Felix each with a newspaper to put in his dress suit front. “T wouldn’t have my two boys take cold for anything,” she exclaimed with a little grandmotherly air. “ Good night, Monsieur le Comte! Good night, Maitre! I am glad you are to stay over night. Keep him warm, Count!” Their “ gocd nights” echoed down the long avenue of ' mighty oaks and their feet crunched the brittle ice as they passed out into the moonlight. Great masses of broken clouds sailed across the face of a cold brilliant I22 Potin's Auberge by the Wood of Blosseville. The HONOR of th BRAXTONS moon. There were quick, joyful exclamations as they encountered countless pictures of snow-bound huts en- veloped in the mystery of moonlight. Here and there a lighted window glowed warm and red, As they came out into the open, they noticed foot- prints leading away between the furrows of the ploughed fields. Felix stopped and examined the ground care- fully. “I thought so!” he exclaimed as he stopped and tore up a long piece of twine. “Poor little larks!” exclaimed Alina, “how they will suffer in the morning.” “Yes; every boy in Bréport has set his line of snares to-night,” said Ben. _ The patron will give us larks on toast; larks a la brochette; fricassee of larks; we shall revel in larks for a. - week.” “Not I—” exclaimed Alina—‘“ eat a lark? Why; I would as soon think of eating an angel.” “Let’s go by way of Blosseville,”’ interrupted Felix as they came to a fork in the road. “ The view from the hill will be stunning to-night; it is only a mile further.” They had the deserted highway to themselves and fell to singing. As they passed a hut, a night-capped head was thrust forth from a doorway in wonderment. “Tf we were on the other side of the channel he would toss out a penny for the waits,” laughed Ben. They stood for some moments on the hill above Blosse- ville, studying the marvels of a frosty midnight land- scape; then they plunged down the slope singing an English song, the melody of which pleased Alina, but 123 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS the words meant more to the men. They were both singing it with more feeling than usual. “Since first I saw thy face I resolved to honor and obey.” Before them towered the rugged tops of a grove of pines. In the gloom at their base they could see a solitary flickering light, coming from the snow-banked window of a little auberge. In the silence which followed the song they could hear the soughing of the wind through the pine needles aloft, then a terrified cry startled their keen senses. A figure staggered towards them out of the gloom. The haggard face of a woman confronted Alina—* For the love of God come quickly Madame! My daughter is dying!’ She seized Alina by the arm. “Wait for me outside, boys! Perhaps I can help her.” Alina followed the woman. The picture within the hut was not new. There was the usual earth floor; a few crude chairs; a dresser; a table. The big box-like bed, a little house of itself, stood in a corner. With his back to the door hugging the fire, was a bloused peasant. He did not even turn as they entered, but muttered something more like a snarl than anything else. The only light besides that of the smouldering fire came from a tallow dip which burned within the bed. It sent little shafts of light out between the spindles of the sliding doors. 124 The HONOR of th BRAXTONS “What is the matter?” asked Alina as the woman pushed open the doors with feverish haste and uncovered something at the foot of the bed. The mute reply came so quickly that Alina sickened and closed her hands over her eyes for an instant. It was a new-born babe silent in death, but when she turned to look at the mother she was pale and calm. The unconscious face upon the pillow was so young and beautiful as to startle her into an exclamation of surprise, even at this painful moment. She took the list- less hand in her own. It was cold; she could barely find the pulse. She hurried to the door—“ Quick, Ben! Your flask!”’ She was back at the bedside in an instant forcing some warming fluid between the colorless lips. She chafed both hands and feet and after a few mo- ments the long drooping lashes fluttered and lifted. The eyes that gazed up at her were of such surpassing loveliness that she looked and looked until the face on the pillow lighted up with a sort of recognition. The pallid lips moved. Alina bent her head and listened— “God’s angels! The bon Dieu has sent his angels!” “Send him for the doctor!” said Alina, nodding her head in the direction of the man at the fire. The woman shrugged her shoulders—‘ He refuses. He says it is too cold.” “Too cold!” Alina’s brows knitted. She started across the room with clinched hands. “No! No! Don’t do that! He has been drinking! He may hurt you!” The woman caught her arm with 125 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS frightened face, but she tore herself free. With blazing eyes she was at his side in an instant tugging at the sleeve of his blouse. “ Will you kill your daughter? Go I say and bring the doctor at once! ” He turned upon her with a fierce cry and staggered to his feet, his face distorted with rage. She recoiled just for a moment. The bead-like eyes and scowling brows of Jacques Potin were twelve inches from her own. She recovered instantly, however, and met his gaze un- flinchingly, never heeding the great horny fist raised in air ready to strike. In that short instant a fresh fear seized her. Felix !— Potin must not see Felix! He must not even know that Felix is in Bréport! Her heart gave a joyful bound. The doctor! She would send Felix for the doctor! Suddenly as she started towards the door a light flashed in their faces. Felix was calmly lighting his cigarette just outside the window. His pale face stood out with cameo like distinctness. Potin uttered a savage curse; he recognized him in- stantly. Half blind with drunken rage he mounted a stool and reached for his fowling piece. It was on a rack above the fireplace. Alina thanked God for that one precious moment. She flew to the door, pulled out the key and quickly locked it from the outside. “ Quick! Quick Felix! Run for the doctor!” She caught him by the arm. “ The first house at the foot of the hill! Go—oh go!” 126 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Then as he sped away she needed the support of the strong arm that was thrown about her just for a mo- ment. “We had better get away!” Ben nodded towards the door. They could hear the curses of the infuriated peasant within. * *K * * cd “Thanks dear boy, for going so quickly! The doctor is needed there badly.”’ There was a peculiar tender- ness in Alina’s voice that made Felix strangely happy. They had found him awaiting them at the foot of the hill. 127 Chapter XIV ing fire of revolutions. We have felt the oppression of Prussia’s armies, but thanks to the Republic, our glorious nation still lives.” Bellemaire, mayor of Bréport, stood upon the steps of the Mairie haranguing his fellow citizens. He wore the tri-colored sash of office. Ranged upon either side of the steps were the pompiers in their shining brass hel- mets and the sappeurs in their huge bear skin hats. It was the Fourteenth of July. The mayor had left his pestle and mortar, for he was the village apothecary, to deal out patriotism in allopathic doses. “We have had kingdoms,” he continued. ‘Long live the king!” cried a voice in the crowd. Bellemaire lowered‘ his bushy gray brows threaten- ingly, but kept on. “We have had empires.” “Long live the Empire! Down with the Republic!” cried several voices in unison. “ But the Republic has always come back,” continued Bellemaire. “It is the backbone, brain, sinew of the nation.” He waved. his arms frantically. “Down with the Republic! Long live the Social Revolution! ” Felix turned quickly. A husky voice was in close proximity to his ear. ‘‘ But we celebrate just the same, don’t we? What would we do without fete 128 a Cs IZENS, we have passed through the cleans- “Tt was the fourteenth of July. The mayor of Bréport stood upon the steps of the Mairie haranguing his fellow citizens.” The HONOR of th BRAXTONS days?” The corpulent owner of the voice laughed and slapped Felix on the back. “ Ah Rouvier—you here?” “To be sure! Why not? I must gainsay that igno- rant blockhead over yonder who expatiates upon this sur- vival of a rotten Empire. Nom d’un chien! Your Amer- ican plutocracy beats it by many lengths.” “Enough, Rouvier!” cried Felix with mock fierce- ness. “The American colony is on its way to buy materials with which to make an American flag. No slurs upon our Republic please!” “Tf the American Republic were one-half as charming as the American colony I would be content,” said Rou- vier, with his watery eyes fixed upon Alina. “Mademoiselle Durlan, allow me,” said Felix with some constraint. “ This is Monsieur Rouvier, an old friend of the Quarter. Cushing you already know,” he turned to Rouvier. “Know him?’’—exclaimed Rouvier as he grasped Ben’s hand,—*“ who doesn’t since that wonderful carica- ture which Stumpy of St. Louis made of him was hung at Mootz’s.”’ Rouvier, novelist, realist, anarchist, socialist, Bohe- mian; anything but the usual, had played an important role in that old life of the Quarter. Indeed, Felix suddenly remembered that Rouvier had sent them to Bréport. Rouvier owned a chalet half hidden by trees and vines up on the hillside above the stream. It was his habit to collect a few choice spirits 129 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS of the Quarter and bring them to Bréport for the hot weeks. Felix disliked the way in which Rouvier’s glassy eyes followed Alina about. He would not have her know him. He began to edge away with excuses. “We shall be en féte to-night,’ cried Rouvier. “Come; all of you!” He laughed his fat laugh and winked. “ Felix knows how to work our latch string— Eh—olt poy!” “Olt poy!” laughed Felix as they left the crowd. “Rouvier always would try to speak English.” His face suddenly became grave. He remembered how much Rouvier knew of his own life. “Rouvier must be good company,” exclaimed Alina, “he looks so fat and jolly.” “Yes,” said Ben, “he is fat and jolly enough, but he lives the pace that kills. Did you notice how his hand trembled? It is the absinthe and other stuff. It plays the deuce with him. He has to dictate every word he writes. No; we mustn’t run with that set.” Something in Ben’s voice made Alina look up. She detected a look in the men’s faces which called up the memory of an October evening when they all three stood in the gloaming before the little chapel of Our Lady of the Valley, and she recalled the oath that the men had sworn. “Here we are at Madame Blondel’s,” she cried, ‘ we will rummage every nook and corner of the little shop. Turkey-red is just the thing. There’s a big roll of it. We can use it for a ground; sew on white stripes, put 130 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS on a patch of blue cambric, stick on the stars and /a-voild the Star Spangled Banner.” They soon completed their purchases and were on their way to Mere Fouchet’s laden with numerous small pacl- ages. In a half hour the little garden presented a sight | such as would have gladdened the heart of any home- sick American. Mére Fouchet had borrowed a little sewing machine that ran by hand. She and Alina were sewing on the stripes. Ben was cutting out stars while Felix was sticking them on. The fact that their flag showed the stars and stripes upon one side only did not trouble them in the least. Felix was in the act of pasting down the last leg of the last star when they heard strange noises coming from the direction of the Chateau. A babel of voices singing, mingled with shouts of laughter and the beating of tin pans. There were calls of “ Where are the Americans? Where are the Americans?” “Tt is the class,” cried Felix, peering through the hedge, “and the Maitre is marching ahead with the tri- color like a drum major. There is Dolchester carrying the British flag and—goodness me—Schovatsky has the Russian colors and Topsue the Danish. Quick! give me that flag!” In an instant he was on the well house roof waving like mad. ‘‘ Now, three cheers for Old Glory,” cried Ben. All joined in including Mere Fouchet who did not cheer in time, but Jack barked so hard that nobody noticed it. It was the hour of déjeuner. The Master and pupils 131 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS were on their way to decorate the Chariot d’Or in honor of the National Féte. The Americans joined the procession, which created a sensation as they entered the market place and halted beneath the great archway of the Chariot d’Or. The Master mounted the terrace and announced that his pupils, out of compliment to the French nation, had made the flags of their various countries with their own hands; that they would decorate the building at whose hospitable board they had sat for so many months. Felix found a ladder, a hammer and nails, some pieces of rope, and as the Maitre handed up his tri-color, some- body shouted—‘ La Marseillaise! La Marseillatse!” The Master uncovered his head and sang the stirring song of France in a quavering voice. There was wild enthusiasm as M’lle Schovatsky’s rich contralto voice followed with the grand Russian hymn. Then came the British, Danish, Swedish, and last of all the American anthem. Ben mounted the terrace and raised his flag. There were low mutterings, a few hisses when a gust of wind flapped the stars and stripes in his face, leaving the turkey red back exposed to the crowd. “Long live anarchy! Up with the red flag! Down with the American Plutocracy,” cried Rouvier. In an instant pandemonium reigned. A brick spun past Ben’s head and went crashing through the window at his back. From his perch upon the ladder Felix had seen the hand that hurled it. With a bound he was at the country- 132 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS man’s collar and as Ben started to sing the Star Spangled Banner there was a splash accompanied by shouts of laughter. The clumsy peasant lay floundering in the horse trough. Felix was back upon the ladder in a moment. He was gasping for breath. His face was white, but he laughed with the rest in boyish glee. How often has a single voice sealed the fate of a nation. The guffaws of laughter at their countryman’s expense aroused the rustics’ good nature. Ben’s great barytone voice soon filled the little square, carrying them on with resistless power until the place rang with their shouts. Only one of them, an awkward, shock-headed, sullen- faced peasant shook his fist and muttered—‘‘ Down with the American pigs.’ He wrung the water from his bedraggled blouse and disappeared down a deserted alley. * * * * * As night came on, trumpet blasts, shrieks of laughter, the rhythmic tread of heavily-shod feet filled the air. The Grain House, usually the scene of hard-driven bargains over sacks of wheat, had been transformed into what seemed a fairyland to these toilers of the soil. Festoons of Chinese lanterns, great oil lamps, sus- pended from the rafters, sent a ruddy glow out into the moonlit square. Bellemaire, accompanied by the wife of a Paris notary summering at Bréport, had opened the ball with steps befitting his exalted position and the National Féte. 133 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS There were blouses and sabots in plenty, freshly starched caps and gaudy ribbons. The Master was there with his class. “You do not dance, M’lle Dolchester ? ”’ “No, Maitre; not with such a herd as that.” “Wait until Felix asks you. Nobody was ever known togresist piclixes : “ Small chance of my dancing with him, you see he is otherwise occupied.” She shot a contemptuous glance across the room. Felix and Alina were vainly trying to catch the time. He had his arm about her wast. They laughed boister- ously as the rustic couples dashed against them, knock- ing them back each time. Finally they sped out into the middle of the hall. Felix had not been so happy for many a day. When- ever the laughing, honest eyes met his he would always reply with an indignant—“ Tired? Pshaw, no! I could never tire dancing with you. This is Heaven.” He whispered the last three words in her ear. “Humph!” said Miss Dolchester with a pout, “ Felix calls her one of them, just like one of the boys, and all that sort of thing. She doesn’t look it to-night. A woman who shows shoulders like that is not trying to look like one of the boys. Nay—Nay!” She waved her hanc negatively and laughed bitterly. She half closed her greenish gray eyes and pursed out her thin lips scornfully as a low feminine laugh came from the depths of Felix’s shoulder. “Bah! I can’t see any fun in watching these clod- 134 A Norman Market Place. The HONOR of the BRAXTONS hoppers. Come girls!” She turned to leave, but her gaze became riveted upon another pair of eyes across the hall. They were set like beads beneath scowling brows. As a cat’s alert eyes follow the flight of a bird, these eyes followed Felix’s every movement with a look of malignant hatred. “Ha Felix! You have an enemy,” muttered Miss Dolchester. © “Sapristi! What a type! Ho—Pére Boudin! Tell me—who is yonder brute? Next the girl with the handsome eyes—I must paint him some day.” “Jacques Potin, Mademoiselle! He keeps the little auberge by the wood of Blosseville. A bon garcon Jacques! He gives credit. Many is the glass of fine that I have had at his expense. Enfin; Bonsoir Made- moiselle!” Pére Boudin made an obsequiocus bow and started for the door. Miss Dolchester followed in his wake as he pushed his way through the crowd. “You must be tired, Felix. There! I knew you were,” said Alina, as Felix caught his breath and seized her arm for momentary support. There was that in his face which made her follow his gaze with frightened eyes. Merciful heavens! Potin? and Felix had seen him! The scowling eyes met hers in hate. She involuntarily drew Felix in the opposite direction. She must keep them apart at any cost. It was not however Potin whom Felix saw, but Lili— “the girl with the handsome eyes,” as Miss Dolchester had chosen to call her. He had seen a look in those eyes that he feared more than hatred or jealousy. 135 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “Come, Felix! You are tired!’ Alina looked up anxiously. “Yes,” said Felix in a toneless voice, “I am.” But he seemed suddenly endowed with strength. He forced his way through the perspiring crowd with nervous haste. “No! No! I demand it! I must have this next waltz! Felix; you shall not have all!’’ The Maitre stood in Alina’s path. She cast an anxious glance after Felix as he quickly disappeared across the moonlit square. Poor Felix. In the heyday of happiness Lili’s star- like eyes had looked out at him from a sea of dancers, — just as they had done on that memorable night of the Mardi Gras. Like a cruel hand came the hated past dragging his cup of joy to the earth. Despair seized his very soul; he sought relief in action. Stumbling along over hillock and plain he unconsciously circled the town. As he rudely parted the twigs of a high hedge and was about to leap through the opening, the caressing sound of seduc- tive music greeted his ears. A sonorous contralto voice lazily droned a Spanish love song to the accompaniment of a guitar. There were countless lanterns and fairy lights set in the trees and shrubbery of a prettily bowered garden. Over against the thatched cottage sat Rouvier in an ancient, leather-backed chair studded with brass nails. Upon a quaintly carved table beside him was a huge punch bow! out of which a young woman was ladling an amber-hued fluid. She was a gorgeous butterfly of the 136 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “half world” whose golden hair challenged the amber of Rouvier’s punch. Half-sitting, half-reclining upon benches and chairs, or lolling upon Turkish rugs which had been thrown upon the sloping lawn, were Rouvier’s friends. The men wore long hair, pointed beards, and volumi- nous cravats. They moved and spoke with the insolent bonhomie of artistic vagabonds. Bright spots of color indicated the whereabouts of the women. From the depths of the ivy-grown arbor close at hand came the melodious chords of the guitar. The singer now strummed, now laughed or broke into rich bursts of song in which the company joined as it suited their mood. Fleeing from himself and the consequences of an ir- revocable past, Felix greeted the scene with a cry in which there was an unmistakable ring of reckless joy. Here he would bury the past for a time at least. A shout went up as his pale, surprised face peered through the hedge, looking ghastly in the light of a green paper lantern suspended from a limb just above his head. “Sacrébleu! Felix; would you be Hamlet or the ghost? You will pass for either,’”’ cried Rouvier with his corpulent chuckle. “ Come—Come—olt poy! We will have only joy, song and love at Sans Souct.” “Ho Clarisse!” he cried as Felix vaulted down the bank. “Fill up a cup! We will soon have his cheeks 137 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS glowing like your tresses. MHere’s to the Revolution Sociale! Here’s to joy! MHere’s to Clarisse’s nectar which makes gods of us all.” Felix drank off his glass to the dregs, then another, another and another. In Clarisse’s amber-colored ambrosia danger lurked. Liquors, like people, are often good of themselves, but in mixed company create havoc. As the subtle poison numbed conscience, care took flight, and in its place came a moral oblivion to all save the revelry of the moment. It was not the best side of Bohemia into which Felix had carelessly drifted in his Paris days. To-night she once more held out her welcoming arms. One of the men produced a violin, another seized the guitar. They mounted upon the table beside the punch bowl and played a mad quadrille into which Felix was dragged. In Paris he had been the gayest, wildest dancer of them all. His partner, whom he had never seen before, danced with hoydenish abandon. As the quadrille came to an end, Felix threw himself upon a grassy bank breathing heavily. “ Well done, Felix! You dance like a demon. Here! take this, and this.”’ Clarisse stood over him with two brimming cups. He drank them off and the languor produced not only by physical exhaustion but by the punch as well, became resistless. Hoping to avoid the next dance, with an intense desire to rest, he turned to the vine-covered arbor. As he was about to enter, a well known voice greeted him. “ Ah, 138 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Felix! So you, too, tired of the clodhoppers? You know where you are wanted. You see I am de trop.’ Miss Dolchester glanced at M’lle Schovatsky who was re- ceiving the ardent advances of a poet in corduroys with only too evident pleasure. The three were seated about a round table which was littered with glasses and sheets of music, for it was M’lle Schovatsky’s voice that had sent the old Spanish love song pulsating out into the night. Miss Dolchester’s face had lighted with pleasure when Felix appeared upon the scene. Her cheeks were pink. The eyes, usually so heartlessly cold, glowed with a sin- ister fire. The magic of Clarisse’s ambrosia, and the warm opalescent glow of the fairy lights, for the once made her singularly beautiful. With scant ceremony Felix threw himself upon a long bench. “Ah, yes!” he ejaculated with a frown, “I had enough. It was hellish! I was glad to get away. I am tired!’ He swept his hand across his eyes. “Poor boy!” Miss Dolchester’s voice was strangely tender. “Let me make you comfortable.” Before he could realize what was taking place he sank upon a soft wrap which she had thrust beneath his head. Again came the drowsy feeling, a delicious sense of irresponsi- bility, then—oblivion. He slept, he never knew how long, and dreamed of soft velvety fingers tenderly caress- ing his temples and hair. It was Lili. They were once more on the old studio balcony in Paris. The canary was singing madly over their heads. The deep booming of the great bell of Notre Dame de Paris filled the air. 139 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Warm arms encircled his neck. Lili was uttering short, passionate protestations of love, words so dis- tinct as to seem real. They were real! He could feel the fierce pulsing of the breast against which his head was strained. _ Miss Dolchester’s face was close to his; her lips all but touched his own. All was quiet save her deep, quick breathing. The candles in the lanterns had burned out. The revelry had ceased. ‘Moonlight filtered through the leaves in weird shapes, one of them lighted her face. He had never thought her even pretty, but now to his half-awakened senses she was possessed of a dangerous beauty, the like of which he had never seen before. “IT love you, Felix! Can’t you believe me? See! I will refuse you nothing! Would Alina do as much?” As the words passed her lips he started to his feet, dragging the clinging woman with him. With a curse he tore her arms from about his neck and threw her from him. His face was drawn and ashen. He stood over her quivering with wrath. “J will kill you! Yes, kill you, if you speak her name again!”’ At first she lay stunned at his feet hardly comprehend- ing his fierce onslaught. Then, slowly and surely beauty fled and in its place came a look of feline hatred and jealousy so hideous as to transform her into something loathsome, repulsive. With a sinuous movement she rose to her feet and glided towards the moonlit garden. She turned back 140 ‘“ Rouvier owned a chalet half hidden by trees and vines.” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS upon him for an instant only with a cold sneer. “ You will regret this!’’ and she was gone. He waited until he heard the click of the gate latch, when he heaved a deep-drawn sigh and turning to the hedge, sought the opening through which he had entered. He parted the branches with both hands and disappeared into the night. 141 Chapter XV upon the stone steps of a wayside crucifix. “It is too hot to walk much!” The night was wonderfully still, and they had aban- doned the walled garden for the hill lying between the village and the sea. It was always cooler there. The moon had been up for some time and they dreamily watched its silvery scintillating path in the sea. The men stretched themselves comfortably upon the steps at Alina’s feet. Moonlight is conducive to confidences. Felix talked of his early life. How his father had sold one of his last patches of woodland in order that he might go north to study painting. How that one year in New York ‘ had made him all over, so that when he returned to the Virginia homestead he was restless and unhappy. He recalled how he had thrown open a shutter and gazed at the line of blue mountains while the locusts and bees sang their old fashioned song below. The spacious, immaculate room laden with the smell of old-fashioned flowers was so unlike his attic lodging in New York. The massive colonial furniture abounded in memories of his childhood, yet he had experienced a feeling of home-sickness. He had thought of his little room and the career he had mapped out for himself as he lay gazing upwards through his one scuttle window at the starlit sky. 142 “T ET us rest here!” said Alina, seating herself The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “My father was ignorant in matters of art.” Felix’s face clouded as he uttered the words. “ He called my academy nudes indecent—unfit to be seen. He was cruel—stubborn! He told me I was depraved—mad! I couldn’t make him understand that the greatest works of the greatest masters of all times were nudes. “He said that I—a Braxton, the son of a Virginia gentleman, had no decency—no modesty. That if I had been doing these things for a twelvemonth I had much better have stayed at home. He would not understand! To him the nude was naked—immodest—vulgar any- where, in a drawing or on the high road, to him it was one and the same. “He said I must make no more drawings of this sort. I told him I must make them, for I could never learn to draw unless I did, so he told me to go and shift for myself.” Felix’s voice quavered as he told them of the sad day when he bade farewell to “ Oaklands.” How old black Pompey, his caretaker from infancy had shed copious tears as he opened the plantation gate and waved his tattered cap. Then there were years of drudgery in a Boston lithograph factory where he saved enough to enter the Art School. Alina had never spoken of her early life, but now she told them how her parents had died when she was but a mere slip of a girl, her father under a financial cloud. A rich bachelor uncle had taken her to him as a daughter and it was on his stock farm that she roamed 143 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS at will, cultivating a love for her dumb friends which lasted through life. An aged governess was her only mentor. Time used by most girls in finishing at the fashionable boarding schools was employed by her in riding mettlesome horses or in sketching the beasts she loved so well. Her earliest recollections were associated with the free and honest companionship of men, from the brusque, © Scotch head-stableman to her uncle’s club friends, some of whom were invariably at the farm. As she grew to womanhood, the social foibles and petty jealousies of women mystified and repulsed her. It is not strange, therefore, that she had fallen into the habit of choosing men as her friends. She gave a little laugh as she finished—* There, boys, you see what an uneventful life mine has been.” Felix had been listening intently. As she laughed he moved restlessly and lnoked up at her. “I wish there were more to laugh about in my past,’ he said in low tones. “I am going to confide in you and Ben to-night. I shall give up a secret that I have carried with me all my life. It will seem foolish to you, but it is terribly real to me. I have reached the point where I can carry it alone no longer.” He uttered the last few words slowly and tremulously. “ When I was a little fellow I had a little black boy named Joe for a playmate. His father had been my father’s playmate and my grand- father had owned his grand-father. We were rascals, my little Joe and I. We fished and swam and ran. One day we ran a race and I came in ahead, but fell insensible at 144 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS the finish. Little Joe thought me dead so he ran in terror to my father, who sent a man galloping for the doctor. Before the doctor’s old chaise came bowling up the drive- way I had become myself again and was playing with little Joe upon the front stoop. ““This doesn’t look serious,’ said the doctor as he climbed down and patted me on the head. ‘But we must look into the matter, friend Braxton, just the same. Bring the boy inside.’ “Tt is strange how incidents like this fix themselves upon a child’s mind. I couldn’t have been more than seven, yet I can recall the dreadful silence in which the doctor took his stethoscope, which, to my childish imagi- nation was an awful instrument and listened so long that I could hear my own heart beat. “ At last he looked up at my father. ‘I find no cause for immediate alarm,’ he said coughing under his hand. “I am glad to hear it,’ said my father and ordered me out of the room. “There was something about the doctor’s cough that made me think he had not told all. I could hear the drone of their voices through the open windows. My childish curiosity overcame all scruples; I crept up to a huge rhododendron bush which covered the lower half of one of the windows and listened. The doctor was speak- ing. ‘If he lives to be sixteen he will die at twenty-five. This is almost invariably the case with this peculiar form of heart disease.—Then my father came to the window and I fled to the hay-loft where I lay in silent dread for an hour. 145 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “To this day the doctor’s death-sentence has been ring- ing in my ears. There are times when I forget it, and you know how happy I can be, but when things go wrong I give out here.’ He closed his hand over his heart. “It tells me what the doctor said was true. “When I found out my talent for painting I had but one desire, one end in view, to paint at least one great picture before I—before what the doctor predicted came true. “Ben knows how I started a ‘ Psyche’ in Paris; one that I had long hoped to paint. Quite by chance I found a wonderful model. She was an inspiration. I worked as I had never worked before. I even forgot the doctor’s sentence. I believed that I should live a full lifetime. Ah! I was so happy. “JT made a fine beginning; I attained my ideal in the head and eyes and—well I didn’t realize the truth then, but I do now, that my model was bestial, that the purity which my ideals had created through the medium of her beautiful eyes and face was not there. She no longer inspired me. I saw only the animal—the beautiful animal. By heavens! Yes; I realize it all now. “The doctor’s sentence says twenty-five; I am twenty- four. Can you wonder that I long to finish that Psyche so as to tell those who sent me out here on this scholar- ship that I am not an impostor? But I shall be game to the end. Never fear!’”’ He laughed carelessly. “ Don’t bother about it, old girl!” he patted Alina’s hand. She tugged desperately at a tall bunch of wild grass with averted head as she felt his slender fingers close 146 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS about her wrist. She wouldn’t have him see the tears that were coursing down her cheeks, but he did see them, and experienced a rare subtle joy. If Ben felt anything, the merest tremor in his voice alone betrayed it as he struck a match upon the base of the weather-worn cross and pulled away at his pipe. “Nonsense, old man. You are letting a foolish super- stition kill you! The verdict of a back-country doctor down in Virginia.” He threw the glowing match from him with a gesture of contempt. ‘‘ You are foolish, crazy! You are letting a notion, an idea, hurry you to the grave. My God, Felix—how can you?” He spoke rapidly, fiercely. Felix sprang to his feet with a wild, impatient gesture. “How can 1? What a foolish question! Do you sup- pose I imagine this? I know it because I suffer. How can you call it a mere notion? Have you forgotten that day at the tennis club? Have you forgotten the weeks fol- lowing ?’’ He became reckless in his despair. ‘As for feeling things—imagining them if you will, the man who feels—lives. To be sure, he suffers more, but his joy, his love—Ah; you cold Northerners don’t know the meaning of either.”’ Something about Ben, his very attitude as he stood silently stretching out his arms towards his suffering friend, gave the lie to Felix’s words. Felix made a quick, impatient gesture as if to turn away, then with a torrent of sobs threw himself upon the ground at Ben’s feet. For a long time they spoke not a word. Ben stood over his prostrate friend with bowed head. Alina rested 147 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS hers against the foot of the cross. The sound of the beating surf came up from the beach below and from the village the voice of a dog yelping at the moon. The bell of St. Martin’s throbbed out eleven melodious strokes. With a gentleness surpassed only by that ten- derest of hearts which the bronze effigy on the cross above them imaged, Ben knelt and casting a loving arm about Felix drew him to his feet. There was a faint rustling of skirts and Felix trembled as he felt a warm tearful cheek pressed against his cold hand. “We are going to help you, indeed we are! You know we are The Inseparables. You forget what that means. It means that the Psyche will be finished! It means that the scholarship will be vindicated !”’ * 2K 2 2K * “Was there ever such a girl?” said Felix as he and Ben turned away from Mére Fouchet’s gate where they had just parted with Alina. The despair had gone out of his voice. ‘“ No—there never was.” replied Ben. They walked home in silence. 148 Chapter XVI D EAR, sunny, joyous Felix. Alina loved him with a love deep and simple and frank. Had she been asked to define it she would have said “I love him because he is Felix; because he is always Felix and nobody else. I love him because he is boyish, impulsive, free. I love him for his very faults. They are the faults of a warm, generous, affectionate heart.” She loved him as naively as she had loved the head stableman’s little curly-headed boy on her uncle’s farm with whom she had played as a child. Now she knew, as she supposed, the story of Felix’s life. She knew what had made him grow paler and paler and more care- worn, while he bravely tried to be the same joyful, happy Felix. She thought of how precious the unselfish comradeship had become; how her heart had ached when she saw that sunny head bowed in agony. “No! No! No! It shall not be! It is all a cruel mistake. I will try to make him forget it. I will encourage him—urge him on with his work. The Psyche shall be finished.” She could not sleep. Repeated flashes of lightning, distant detonations of thunder, and at last heavy rain drops which splashed against the open window panes warned her of an approaching storm. She sprang out of bed, closed the windows, turned her pillow and once more burying her hot face in its cool depths tried to sleep, but in vain. 149 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Dear Felix; she could still hear his deep drawn sobs, his despairing words. When the storm burst in all its fury she found in it a certain relief. As she lay there listening, now to the rush of the deluge upon the thatch, now to her own thoughts, a cry of distress from outside made her sit up all alert. Again she heard it and sprang from the bed only to stop and listen once more. She could hear Mere Fouchet’s harsh voice through the roar of the tempest. “Vile liar begone! You can stand the storm as well as Boudin’s ass tethered out yonder. You are less fit to enter here. Go beast! Begone I say!” Mere Fouchet was trying to force a bedraggled, shrink- ing form from the threshold when a firm hand seized her from behind. “Little mother! Little mother! Are you mad? Are you no longer a Christian? Have you no pity? Would you send her out into this tempest to be killed? Who is she? Why do you treat her so?” Barefooted, with distraught indignant face, clad only in her night clothes, her golden-brown hair tumbling in confusion about her face and shoulders, Alina stood before the old woman. ‘She were better dead than living!” muttered Mére Fouchet doggedly. “She is the one of whom I have spoken. That was once her room.” She jerked her head in the direction of Alina’s bed chamber. “ She was once my grand-child, but now—Bah! she is of the canaille— 150 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS a low strumpet unfit for you to touch—Stop! Stop! Mademoiselle you shall not! Stop I say! Would you be defiled? ” Alina had pushed Mére Fouchet aside and was trying to lift the wet, crouching figure. The old woman uttered a cry of indignation and pinioning Alina’s arms, pushed her back into the room. ‘ No! No! Mademoiselle; it is my right! You shall not!’’ She planted her ample form before the door with arms akimbo. “Go to your room! ” For a moment Alina stood regarding the old peasant with fierce eyes; then her righteous wrath found vent in words. With tightly clinched right hand raised in air she again confronted Mere Fouchet. “You shall not do this thing! If she goes out into the night I go with her! Do you hear? I go with her!” She stood with bated breath looking into Mére Fouchet’s eyes, the picture of an avenging angel. There came a blinding flash and simultaneously a crash so terrible that Meére Fouchet trembled and the crouch- ing woman upon the un cried out in terror catching at Alina’s gown. Mére Fouchet’s eyes fell. “ Ma petite; I couldn’t let you do that—Enfin—do as you will but I will have nothing of her.” She crossed the kitchen to the chimney piece, reached for a tallow candle, lighted it from the one burning upon the table and disappeared into her own bedroom. “Come!” Alina again reached down. The face look- I51 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ing up to her was beautiful but it bore the stamp of sin and suffering. “Come!” Alina drew her towards her own room. The tender compassion in her voice, the familiar cham- ber which had once been hers, brought tears to the wan- derer’s eyes. (As Alina lighted the fagots already laid in the fire- place, and the flames began to roar up the chimney, her visitor threw herself upon the hearth-stone. Hiding her face upon her arm she softly cried until Alina who had put on her slippers and wrapper, drew a chair up to the fire and leaning over, gently stroked the throbbing temples. At the touch the stranger started up—“ No! You must not! Grand-mamma is right—I am vile! Vile! I must go! I must not stay here!” but she caught Alina’s detaining hand between her own and covered it with kisses. “The bon Dieu has again sent his angel—his sweet angel! Ah Mademoiselle, have you then forgotten?” “ Forgotten?” With mystified eyes Alina looked down at the sad face. When at last the recognition came, there was something in her look which caused the poor creature crouching at her feet to cry out in agony. “ You know my vileness! You saw the evidence of my guilt that night! You do right to shun me. Ah; Dieu me sauve!” She threw herself upon the hearth-stone and buried her face in her arm. Tears of compassion welled to Alina’s eyes. She reached down and stroked the rain-soaked head. She 152 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS had not at first associated these eyes weighted with the consciousness of sin, with those of the dying woman whom she had succored on Christmas night. 7 Lili raised herself upon one hand while with the other she brushed away the wet strands of hair which clouded her eyes. ‘ Before God I swear I am not bad at heart! I was once pure! A beast came and took me from this—” She swept her eyes over the immaculate room. ‘ He promised me everything—that I should be his wife. Instead, he poisoned my mind, my heart, until I knew not what was good or bad—then he left me for another. For a time I knew only my own misery, then—ah—then: af She spoke with lowered averted eyes, her voice sounded soft and tender. “I met another—an American painter. He was good and true and noble. He adored me. I became his model, his constant companion. He had never loved before. He gave me his very life. He never knew my past—he never asked to know, yet he would have atoned for what he called his sin against me by marry- ing me. But I was still a beast. I was selfish, vain. He let me pose for his friends. My betrayer had hard- ened my conscience until I cared not how I made others suffer. My head was turned by the attentions of the American’s friends. One of them, a Frenchman, flat- tered me, tempted me; he hounded me by day and night until—Ah; Mon Dieu!” she pressed both hands against her eyes and once more threw herself at Alina’s feet moaning and sobbing. For a long time only the distant rumbling of the de- parting storm broke the silence, then Alina spoke. 153 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS “ And was the wretch who would have let you die on Christmas night your father?” “ He was; Mademoiselle! ” “And they condemn you alone for your sins? Pauvre petite!” There was a long silence. Again Alina stooped to look into the suffering face. The storm-beaten outcast had found a gentle haven at last. The thick dark lashes still wet with tears rested upon the moist cheek. She slept the sleep of exhaustion. Tiptoeing across the room, Alina took a blanket from the bed and gently cov- ered the sleeper. Then she blew out the candle and stole into bed. For a few moments she was conscious of her visitor’s deep breathing, then she slept herself. * * * * a When Alina awoke the next morning the sun was shining in through the window, falling in great warm patches upon the empty hearth-stone. Her guest of the night before had stolen away in the early dawn. Felix’s confession confronted her afresh. She yearned to aid him in some way. She could hardly restrain herself from omitting her café au lait and running to the cottage to comfort and encourage him. And then there was the » question of the unfinished picture and model and a thou- sand and one other things that she wanted to talk about. So when she had half emptied her bowl of coffee, she called Jack and started up the Leper’s Road at a run. She found the cottage gate ajar. Mounting the steps she passed through the open door into the studio. It 154 ‘“The matin street of Bréport was paved.” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS was unoccupied, but through a half-opened door leading into the unfinished attic she heard a sound of muffled voices. With a mischievous smile she gave it a gentle push. Ben and Felix stood looking at a large canvas still in its case, the cover of which they had but just removed. The case was tilted up against one of the big roof beams and the canvas caught the full light of the one small window, the rest of the attic being dark and mysterious. “No! No!” she cried, “ I have come to see it! I must see it!” Felix was endeavoring to bar her entrance. “ You know it is unfinished!” he said with a hunted look in his eyes. “That makes no difference!” she replied with a smile. “T want to see it.” She brushed past him and stood squarely before the canvas with her hands clasped behind. For a long time she stood thus; finally she turned upon Felix with a look which would have made any other man proud. It had in it the highest tribute that one artist can pay another. The silent tribute which places one on the highest pin- nacle of honor, while the other looks up as ‘a pupil to his master. Finally she turned back to the toile with half closed eyes and tilted Read, taking in the work with a pro- fessional air. Soon a puzzled look crossed her face, and she uttered a surprised “Oh! Now I have it! I knew I had seen those eyes before.”’ 155 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Felix sank down upon a packing case in a dark corner, he was pale to the lips. This Alina failed to notice; she was recalling how these same pleading, star-like eyes had looked up at her from the pillow of an old Norman bed on Christmas night. She turned to Ben with a smile. ‘“ Do you remember how I caged the lion on Christmas night and Felix was angry because I wouldn’t let him beard him?” She did not wait for a reply, but went on with her eyes fixed upon the canvas. “ The girl whose life we saved had these same eyes.” Then she suddenly remembered the visit of the night before. “O boys! I have so much to tell you!’ “Only think; we saved Meére Fouchet’s grandchild on Christmas night. She came back to the chaumiere last night in the storm. Mere Fouchet was hard, cruel, brutal! O it is too awful to dream of— being an outcast.” The tears came to her eyes. “The dear little mére was doing it for my sake. She thinks me too pure to be defiled by the presence of her grandchild.” Alina threw herself upon a pile of packing straw. “Bah! it made me angry!” She bit fiercely at some straws which she was idly fingering. “Am I so good that I must stand by and see a poor suffering soul driven out into the storm? Driven back to sin? No! I couldn’t. I made Mere Fouchet let her in. The girl had not for- gotten Christmas night. She remembered my face.” Alina lowered her eyes to the straws which she had been unconsciously plaiting; her voice was low and compas- 156 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS sionate. ‘She told me her story. Ah me; how could one sin with such eyes? ” Her own were again fixed upon the Psyche. ‘‘ How wonderfully like her this is, yes, wonderfully like her,” she repeated absently. Felix started to his feet and Ben began to pace the floor restlessly. “She said she had posed for Americans. Why Felix! She may have posed for you!” Both men were strangely silent. She cast a quick glance at Felix. “Merciful God!” what had she done? With a low moan she buried her flushed face in her hands. Lili’s story flashed before her in all its tainted sadness. The glaring truth confronted her in all its nakedness. Must she cast him off? Must The Inseparables break forever? What should she do? Each time that she asked herself the question she failed to find an answer, for each time his pallid, tortured face confronted her. * * * * a Ben’s footfalls broke the silence with peculiar poign- ancy as he left the attic closing the door behind him. When he returned from a two hours’ tramp over the plain he was surprised to find Felix singing at his work and in his face a contentment such as he had never seen there before. 157 Chapter XVII 7 \HE walled garden was bathed in the reflex glow of huge vapory clouds that moved lazily across the sky. A hot July sun was sinking in the west. Ben and Felix sat quietly smoking before their cot- tage door. There was a sound of clattering plates from within. The men had not eaten at the Chariot d’Or since the day of the National Féte. Felix had decided the matter the following morning and Ben had fallen in with him, although he could not fathom the reason. They had engaged as cook an aged peasant woman who lived in their lane. She came and went with noiseless tread leaving her sabots outside the gate. Felix found the change most grateful. He had worked successfully that day and with two studies in oil propped up against the low box hedge, was begging a criticism from Ben. Little Celeste had posed for him mornings and after- noons all the week and the canvases were the result of his work. He had chosen two motives from the life of the Virgin. In one she sat working at a quaint embroid- ery frame against the old rose vine. In the other she stood as the Virgin of Wisdom against a hedge of roses holding a half opened book. Seven white doves fluttered about her head. 158 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Celeste loved to pose, most of all as the Virgin about whom she talked incessantly. Once he stopped work and turning upon her laughed aloud. “ Praying for me Celeste? Dear me! I reckon you haven't counted the cost. I am beyond redemption. I am bad; very bad.” Celeste looked at him with surprised, incredulous eyes and shook her head emphatically. “Non Monsieur! That is not true. You are good if you are a heretic. But it is not only because you are a heretic that I pray for you. The Blessed Virgin is interceding that you may be well. I go to Our Lady of the Valley every morn- ing and beg her to cure you. It is so near.” She nodded her head towards the little chapel just beyond the garden wall. “ You should go and pray. You can be well and strong if you will. Look at me! I prayed that the water would heal me and it did.” Felix became grave. “ Ah, my little one; it cannot be. God knows I wish it could.” He sighed and drew meaningless hierogylphics upon the polished surface of his palette with a wet sable brush. “Tf God knows you wish it, it can be done, for he can do anything,” persisted Celeste with earnest entreat- ing eyes. “Ah well; so let us hope; there’s no harm in that,” and again he was lost in some problem of form or color. There was a long silence. “ You must do more than hope,” Celeste was once more speaking. ‘ Even believ- ing is not enough. You must know the power of God to 159 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS heal. Our blind little Marie knows God’s power; she will be healed at the shrine where I was healed.” Felix looked up again from his work. He was study- ing her face. She looked the Virgin of Wisdom. “ And when will this happen little one?’’ He whistled softly and walked Lack a few steps to better view his work. “The second Tuesday in August, Monsieur.” “Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.” Felix started and Celeste gave a little cry as the words uttered in rich vibrant tones broke the stillness of the garden. The Swami had found the door in the wall ajar and screened by the shrubbery had come upon them unawares. He noticed Felix’s eyes light with a glad welcome and motioned him not to put down his palette but to keep on working. “I bring you a message. We have some new manuscripts at Silleron. Come over and see them.” “You wonder that a priest of India quotes your Bible?” He turned to Celeste with kindly eyes. “ Ah my little one, I love truth wherever I find it and I had to seal and strengthen your little sermon with one of the — greatest truths ever uttered by Christ. It is this pure, child-like acceptance of truth that has transformed weak men into giants, slaves into rulers, painters into prophets.” His hand rested reassuringly upon Felix’s shoulder as he uttered the last few words; then he sought the cool shade of the little vine-covered arbor where he sat with bared head watching Felix paint. Felix never knew how long he remained there for, 160 A corner of Bréport. =, s ” ieee - The HONOR of the BRAXTONS stimulated by the Swami’s sympathetic presence, he worked with new hope, new strength. From time to time the Swami’s musical voice would blend in like a wonderful undercurrent of inspiration urging him on and on until when he turned away from his picture he found that the Hindu had gone, and the afternoon was spent, with long spindling shadows creep- ing across the garden. Ben came and stopped him. After the brushes had been washed and Celeste had departed they lighted their pipes and went over the day’s work with critical eyes. Their little domain was a world of itself. Only the birds and tall poplars could see within, so high were the moss-covered walls of their stronghold. Here they could work in plein air free from the petty annoyances to which the village gamins subjected them when they worked out- side. They had become unusually troublesome of late. “T really believe somebody is egging them on,” said Ben. ‘“ Why, that little girl of the blacksmith’s was al- ways a treasure and to-day she scowled like a little imp and spat at me when I offered her a sou.” “T have noticed it too,” said Felix. “Who do you suppose is setting them against us? Hello! What is that?” Ben took his pipe out of his mouth and listened. They - heard the sound of many children’s voices shouting and jeering, accompanied by the rattling of tin cans and the sharp yelps of a dog. “That sounds wonderfully like Jack,” said Ben as they turned to the gate. “ What can they be up to?” 161 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS As he lifted the latch and swung the gate open, Jack came dashing in with his tail between his legs, an old coffee pot dangling from his collar. He was followed by Alina dragging a screaming urchin by the collar of his torn and dirty shirt. Her usually calm face was red with righteous indignation. “What shall we do with him? He has been stoning Jack.” “Here Ben! Take him! Look out! He kicks like axsteer 17 Ben held the boy out at arm’s length while he gyrated about, kicking and fuming in vain. “We can’t punish him,” said Ben, “his parents would stone us if we did. I will take him to Bellemaire; they fear the Mayor more than they do us.” “Here Felix—take my pipe! Now Alina; I want you for witness. Bring along Jack and the coffee pot.” Before they had reached the market place where was Bellemaire’s little chemist shop, all the gamins of Bre- port had fallen into the ranks of this remarkable pro- cession. Bellemaire greeted them with kindly, twinkling eyes although his bushy brows looked fierce and foreboding. He stood resting both hands upon the counter with a formidable array of antiquated pots, jars, and scales about him. “The Americans are in trouble! What can I do for them? The gamins have stoned Mademoiselle’s dog? Shocking! Attendez!” He drew them all out to the front door step where their followers had congregated—“ Listen gamins!”’ his 162 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS eyebrows looked fiercer than ever as he addressed the open-mouthed crowd. “The Americans are our peaceful guests. He who annoys them again goes to St. Valery between the gendarmes!”’ His words were forceful even to the Americans, who had once seen a peasant ushered out of Bréport between two of these gorgeously uni- formed, and superbly mounted officers of the law. “Enfin, Jean—go to your mother! You throw no more stones!” Bellemaire pushed the frightened boy from him, who, with his companions quickly disappeared around the corner of the Grain Hall. Bellemaire would not listen to their thanks. “No! No!” he waved them off. “I only do my duty. But if the Americans ever need beer in schops or syphons of mineral water or fine drugs, Bellemaire is at their service.’ He rubbed his hands cheerfully and backed into his little shop. “Bellemaire is all right,” said Felix. “T should say he was,” exclaimed Ben. “The Maitre tells me that when the Prussians were here in the ’sev- enties, they had to put a revolver to his head before he would order his citizens to supply provender.” As they passed through the town the small boys doffed their caps and Jack scampered where he would unmo- lested, but there were low mutterings and shrugging of shoulders among the groups of peasants who stood be- fore the doors of their chaumiéres. “The Americans are not contented with ruling their own, they must needs rule the world. A bas les cochons Ameéricams!” 163 Chapter XVIII HE wide, hard, highway shone white in the sun. E Small hoof beats, a jangling bell, the rumble of Pére Boudin’s donkey cart as it toiled up the slope towards Silleron were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the hot July morning. In the cart sat Ben, carefully shielding a large, newly stretched canvas as the vehicle jolted along. He had been forced to accept the company of the loquacious postman as he expected to make a week’s visit at Silleron and somebody must needs bring back the donkey to Bréport. He was on his way to paint a portrait of the Swami. Boudin kept up a continuous chatter. It was his habit to collect news as he dispensed letters, so he was ever ready to gossip with man, woman or child. “One tells me that the Comte de Baigneur has paid Monsieur five thousand francs for his portrait!” He shifted the weed in his mouth and eyed his companion sideways. | “Ah?” replied Ben, looking up the road unconcern- edly where he could see the figure of a young peasant woman approaching with a prawn net over her shoulder. “One says that Monsieur is of a very rich family; indeed one has said that Monsieur will marry M’lle Dur- lan.” “Ah?” Ben moved uneasily in his seat and reaching out a foot, gave the donkey a vicious kick. As the beast bounded ahead, they came suddenly upon the young 164 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS woman with the fishing net. She was young and pretty. Ben recognized the face instantly although he had never seen it in the flesh before. “A pretty girl, Jacques Potin’s daughter!’ Boudin jerked his thumb over his shoulder and winked know- ingly. “But she would go to Paris and by my faith what do they become when they carry faces as pretty as hers with them? They say she lived with an Amer- ican painter but who can know? It is most likely hear- say.” He once more glanced sideways at Ben whose face might have been carved in wood. “Ah?” As he again uttered the one short word he administered a sharp kick at the donkey. The animal sprang forward with a snort. Pere Boudin all but fell backwards over the tail board. The rest of the journey was passed in silence. Lili had cast one quick glance upwards as the cart passed, then her eyes fell and remained glued to the highway until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance. When she looked up again it was with the fierce eyes of a hunted animal. Pere Boudin’s insulting look was but one of many such that greeted her wherever she went, but most often in her father’s smoky little café where she was made to serve drinks from time to time. Even that morning, malicious lips had whispered cal- umny into her ear. The poisonous gossip of her father’s tap-room had made violent jealousy gnaw at her heart. “They are alone—alone!” she groaned as she saw Ben driving away from Bréport and again wild, 165 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS unreasoning jealousy made her breathe rapidly as she shifted the net pole to the other shoulder and trudged down the hill towards Bréport. Poor, untutored Lili; born of a class not far removed from the cattle of the fields, she could put but one interpretation upon love. To her it was but a whirlwind of desire; a maelstrom of unbridled passion. What wonder that she was jealous. What wonder that these foul suspicions poured into her ears, filled her poor head with a host of lurid imaginings. When, as a last resort Lili took up her abode among these toilers of the soil, she found that she too must work, or else submit to her father’s taunts and curses. There were two alternatives; the café its insults and blows with the continuous company of Potin and his fel- low sots, or the mackerel boats of Sotteville. As many other unhappy souls have done, Lili went down to the sea. At first the fisher folks derided her tender white hands and many little ways unconsciously acquired in Paris, but she was soon able to take a hand at an oar or haul in a seine with the best of the women who for the most part were coarse, unsexed creatures, whose hoarse voices could hardly be distinguished from those of the fishermen. She sailed with Pere Dalot an old fisherman who lived in a little hut not far from her father’s auberge. His storm-beaten boat had weathered so many tempests, that it was a common saying among the fisher-folk that “TEtotle de Mer’ would, with her master, last forever. She had sailed out of Sotteville since the earliest recol- lections of the oldest inhabitants. 166 “4s other unhappy souls have done, Lili went down to the sea.” The HONOR of the BRAXTONS There were days when Dalot’s boat would be beached. These were the days that she most dreaded. Anything but the hated auberge. She would cast about for work to do that would keep her away from home. Potin was a gourmand; this Lili knew. She also knew his weakness for prawns. So it chances that l’Etoile de Mer is beached this morning and Lili on her way to the shore to fish for prawns. She kept to the highway until the Leper’s Road was reached. Here she stopped for a moment. The tempta- tion was strong to turn in and follow it down to the chapel; to lie below the high wall of Felix’s garden and hear his ringing laugh once more. But no! That would never do! She might have to wait for an hour and she must be back with the basket of prawns by déjeuner or there would be blows and curses from Potin. So she left the highway and skirting the town soon reached the beach. The tide was low. She seated herself upon a bunch of sea-weed and kicking off her sabots, slipped a piece of string through the holes in the heels and hung them about her neck. Then pulling off her chaussons and stockings she stuffed them into the sabots. She caught up her skirt in a way that allowed her to wade to her knees without hindrance. As she seized her prawn net and started down the rock-strewn, weedy beach, a cry at her back made her turn quickly. “ Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Do not go away! Can you not pose for us? We will pay you well!” Two 167 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS of Rouvier’s followers, one a man in corduroys, the other a woman in a gaudy pink and red beach gown were ges- ticulating from the shadow of the towering chalk cliff. The woman’s gown was so gorgeous, so Parisian as to make Lili’s mouth set in hard lines. She realized that plumage of this sort was no longer hers. She regarded them for a moment only, then with a shrug of the shoulders she turned away frowning. “ Non! Je ne pose pas!” She muttered the words bitterly, while the fierce, hunted look came into her face once more. Pushing the net through the shallow water, she fol- lowed the shore for an hour, patiently picking her way through shale and over occasional stretches of sandy beach, only stopping to slip the crisp, shining prawns into the basket. She went on and on until her basket felt heavy and she found herself before the Smugglers’ Gorge. Throwing herself upon the beach she wiped her feet with her apron and putting on her stockings and sabots once more, parted the thick shrubbery which closed the mouth of the gully and climbed upwards through the brush. As she neared the top she quickened her steps. There was a look of uncurbed expectation in her face. She hurriedly crossed the stubbly plain, bounded down the bank to the Dieppe highway and was soon crossing the little green before the chapel of Our Lady of the Valley. The Leper’s Road or Felix’s lane? Which should it be? She stood in a quandary, her face working with various emotions. The bell of St. Martin’s was striking. 168 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She counted the strokes—‘‘ Only ten o’clock?” She uttered a little sigh of relief and turned towards the walled cottage with an expression of pleasurable antici- pation. Throwing herself down close under the wall in the deep shadow of some shrubbery she listened and waited —waited and listened for how long? It seemed an age. At last she heard it—yes—the same, dear sweet laugh, and she clasped her hands against her breast, the great tearful, lustrous eyes half closed, an ecstatic smile upon her lips. Poor soul; she was contented with so little. Suddenly she heard another laugh—the laugh of a woman. She was on her feet in an instant with wide eyes and parted lips—“ Mon Dieu! What agony!” She must see for herself—she must settle this thing which had been whis- pered this very morning—which burned in her brain like a demon fire. Her eyes traveled over the great expanse of smooth wall, then across the lane to the two Lombardy poplars which Felix had often likened to the spires of St. Clotilde. The possibility was no sooner mirrored in her eyes than it was acted upon. With noiseless, catlike move- ments she slipped off her sabots then her chaussons and stole across the lane in her stocking feet, always alert and watchful. Using the tree as a screen, she crept upwards clinging not only with feet and hands, but with teeth as well. Oc- casionally a brown hand would part the silver-backed 169 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS leaves and a pair of half frightened but determined eyes would peer downwards. No; not yet—she must go higher—still higher. With every nerve and muscle set at a terrible tension, more and more cautiously she climbed and climbed until at last the swaying of the tree told her that she was nearing the top. There were barely enough branches to screen her from the garden. Again she heard his voice . and a soft light came into her eyes; then she deftly and eagerly parted the leaves. At first the warm glow of the noontide sunlight upon box, flower beds and pebbly walk blinded her; then she descried just within the deep, leafy cavity of the vine- covered arbor, that which her hungry, jealous eyes sought. Felix was stretched at full length upon the wooden bench, his chin in his hand, his elbow embedded in a cushion. He was looking over Alina’s shoulder. She had thrown herself upon the ground Turk-fashion, her lap filled with a lot of rare prints that Ben had bought in an old shop on the Quai Voltaire. Her back rested against the bench and the noble head was so near Felix that his breath stirred the golden-brown strands which had escaped their confinement and were riotously tumbling over the seat. A touch, a look, a sigh meant so much to him and now he denied himself all for her sake. Yet as she picked out a new print and studied it with absorbed gaze, he cautiously, reverentially caught up a strand of the wav- ing hair and caressing it with look and touch pressed 170 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS it to his lips while she, all unconscious, turned to point out something that she had discovered in the print. There was a cry—more a moan than a cry which neither of them heard. The throbbing, clinging figure at the tree top seemed about to fall. ) To the impure all things partake of impurity. The suspicions of a sensual mind are limitless. Lili’s face became livid; all the strength went out of her arms; her hold was loosening—No! she must not— must not fall. He must not know that she had seen them. She clung with a blind instinct, her pale face upturned to the sky, her eyes closed. At last, with the color in her cheeks came her strength, but her eyes burned with the baneful fire of jealous hatred. At last she clasped the great trunk, for she was near the ground and burying her face in the leaves wept bitter tears. Then she set her teeth and frowned. “No! I hate—hate—hate him!” She dropped to the grassy bank reeling from exhaustion. As she started to cross the lane, a hand fell upon her shoulder. A guilty, fearful pallor overspread her face. She turned to meet a pair of cunning, greenish gray eyes. “Hush! Tell me quick! What did you see? Quick I say!’’ Miss Dolchester shook her roughly. Lili jerked herself free and retreating backwards a few steps eyed the intruder suspiciously. With an angry scowl she silently turned towards the spot where she had left her net and basket. Miss Dolchester picked up her paint box and followed, baffled but persistent, her mouth closed determinedly. 171 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS Lili slipped on her chaussons and sabots in silence and swinging the strap of her prawn basket over her shoulder started down the lane closely followed by Miss Dol- chester. . ‘ As she turned into the Leper’s Road and quickened her steps, the same firm hand seized her arm and she was whirled about as upon a pivot. ; “Answer me! I demand it! We can talk here. They cannot hear us.’’ Miss Dolchester nodded her head to- wards the walled garden. With blazing, wrathful eyes Lili again shook her off. ““Who are you? What matters it to you what I saw? No! I will tell you nothing!” She turned and was off again, her companion dogging her steps. They traversed the entire length of the Leper’s Road. ““ Listen—here is money! You shall answer me or I will tell him where I found you to-day!” Miss Dolchester again stood in her path. “Curse your money—No!” Lili struck at it. The gold piece went spinning across the high road ringing as it fell in a pile of stones. “Tell him if you like; but he will say you lied!” She turned on her heel and was gone. Miss Dolchester stood for a moment watching the rapidly disappearing figure, her thin lips set in a hard line, her eyes shifting restlessly. Then she turned to the pile of stones and searched for the gold piece. As Lili passed the vine-covered arbor where Potin held his court during the hot season, she started and frowned; his hoarse, guttural voice greeted her in wheed- 172 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS ling accents. “Hola! Ma chérie! What have you brought for déjeuner? Come; show us!” She looked up questioningly as he uttered the last words to meet the covetous glance of Potin’s companion, a shock headed, square jawed youth who made a place for her upon the bench beside him. Ignoring his action, Lili stood holding out the basket of prawns with surly, downcast eyes. Potin looked into the basket with the air of a glutton while his companion stared at Lili. “Fine large ones! Regardez Auguste!’ Potin fished out a big shining prawn and held it up for his com- panion’s inspection. It wriggled in his fingers and fell to the ground. Lili stooped to pick it up. Auguste also reached for it. Her soft brown locks brushed his cheek. With a savage laugh he threw his arms tight about her waist and kissed her again and again. As he released her she stood for a moment panting. Potin laughed hoarsely and slapped his thigh, but sprang to his feet with an oath as the sound of three sharp blows —flesh striking flesh, rang through the place. She would have struck and struck until the paroxysm of fury had been spent, but Auguste hid his face in his arm and a numbing blow from behind sent her reeling across the yard. Potin laughed a Satanic laugh at what he had done, and shook his fist after her as she staggered into a door. “The miserable minx! She shall obey me! Curse her! She shall obey!” He struck the table a blow which made the glasses jump into the air and fall together with 173 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS a crash. The two men sat face to face, Auguste still smarting from her sudden onslaught, Potin showing his broken teeth like some wild beast, his anger only half spent. “T tell you she shall, Auguste! Bah—only think! You a rentier, an honest man willing to make her your wife, and she with no dowry—Nom dun cochon! She is a gobemouche—a blockhead! ” “Tt is easy enough to say she shall.” Auguste rubbed his smarting cheeks disconsolately. “ She is impossible!” “Listen! Would you know why?” Potin leaned across the table, and tapped his companion on the shoulder with two fingers. “ Why? The American of course!” “The American? The one who pitched me into the horse-trough last fete day?” “The same! ” “Curse him!” “So say I! Curse him to MHell—eternal Hell! Listen!” Potin caught the collar of Auguste’s blouse and whispered into his ear. “ She loves him—her be- trayer. She told me so once when she thought she was ~ dying. She will have nothing of you. She will listen to nobody until % “ Until ” Auguste repeated the word, the fire of jealous hatred flaming his sullen face. “Ah yes; until——” “ He is dead!” The men sprang to their feet in con- fusion, overturning bottles and glasses as the words ut- 174 22 we BP The HONOR of the BRAXTONS tered in a hoarse whisper, came from somewhere at their backs. Then they turned again as a figure darkened the en- trance of the arbor and a low laugh greeted their ears. “Bonjour Monsieur Potin!” Miss Dolchester stood smiling with out-stretched hand. “ Will you and your friend drink with me? [I am thirsty. I have walked from Bréport and these traps are heavy.” She threw them down and seated herself, quite ignoring the suspicious glances of the two peasants. “Give me some brandy—a big glass and a syphon! See that the syphon is cold and Messieurs, what is yours to be?” She looked up at the low browed brutes with a seductive smile, holding out her cigarette case invitingly. Their poor thick heads were addled by these unwonted courtesies. They sheepishly helped themselves to cigar- ettes. Auguste fumbled over the fallen bottles trying to right them while Potin became the obsequious host as best he knew how and hurried away for the brandy and syphon. “Ho; Monsieur Potin!” cried Miss Dolchester as he appeared with the drinks. “ Pére Boudin tells me that you are a bon garcon. If that be true you can do me a great service and in the meantime gain three francs a day—Non, mon ami! Don’t look like that!’’ She laughed familiarly as she poured out the brandy and filled the glass brimming full from the sparkling syphon. “It is only to sit at yonder table as you sit every day and let 175 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS me paint you. Sapristi! but you are a magnificent type Monsieur!” There was such admiration in her glance that Potin looked foolish and awkwardly rubbed his bristling chin with the back of his hand. He shrugged his shoulders. “Eh bien! As you will Mademoiselle; when do we commence?” “Now!” “Ah! but Mademoiselle forgets it is the hour of dé- jeuner.” “N’importe! Aprés déjeuner if you will. It will an- swer quite as well, the light is always the same in the arbor.” *« x * * a “Ts it true that you have lived in America? The head a little more to the right. There stay so! Ah; Monsieur Jacques, you pose well.” Miss Dolchester regarded Potin with her head tilted to one side as she measured the relative proportions of his massive shoulders and bullet-like head marking it off with her thumb on a brush handle held out at arm’s length. “America?” He frowned fiercely. “ Yes—malheu- reusement I have lived with the swine; the canaille; the dregs of the earth. I bought the good will of a café in South Fifth Avenue. Does Mademoiselle know New York? ‘No? Ah, then I can forewarn you. One goes there to be robbed. Name of a dog! They are a nation of cheats, thieves, cut-throats!” He struck the table a resounding blow. 176 The HONOR of the BRAXTONS She smiled insidiously. “ Ah, too bad—too bad, but Monsieur forgets that he is posing. The body to the right; the head to the left. There! that will do. So Monsieur no longer loves the Americans?” “Love them?” He burst into a roar of demoniacal laughter. “Can one love a snake? a rat? a hyena? an American pig? No! No! Mademoiselle. I hate them. Listen! I chose to punish my wife on the steamer! A tow-headed American knocks me down. I come back here and persuade the Comte de Baigneur to give me a farm on the credit plan. JI choose to beat my horse one day, when the American hussy, she who lives with Mere Fouchet, tries to stop me. Nom d’un cochon! Of course I horsewhipped her, then the Count turns me out of my farm because I beat ladies on the highway. “My daughter goes to Paris. The tow-headed Amer- ican betrays her. She comes back here and Auguste offers to marry her sans dot. Think of it! Marry a penniless girl who——” He raised his eyebrows and gave an inconsequential shrug “a girl who has made her little mistakes—la voila! The minx will not so much as look at Auguste and why?” His face flushed with vindictive hate “ Because of the tow-headed American of course. He always crosses my path. She adores him. She would lick the dust off his boots. Curse him! Curse him!” He beat the air with his huge fist. The cold, cruel face bending over the palette wore an exultant, satisfied smile. She industriously puddled some blue and red paint into a semblance of mud and forgot to touch the canvas for some moments. 177. The HONOR of th BRAXTONS She looked up finally with the same crafty, fulsome smile. ‘‘ You do well to hate the Americans Monsieur, but please turn your head to the right. No, not so far. There—that will do.” She worked in silence for a while then started up and backed away from the easel, studying her canvas as she walked. ‘“ Yes; I understand. You would marry your daughter well. Ah; what a pity that the American should stand in your way. Auguste would pay up your old debts and you would be happy again. Ah yes; it is a great pity.’ She looked up to see the wicked fire which she fed burn more and more fiercely. “A pity!