CHAPTER XV.
AN OLD PRIEST AND A YOUNG ARTIST.--THE CHANGELINGS.
As a thoroughfare of all nations, nothing excels the matchless
Louvre. Though the fatal year of 1870 summons the legions of France
under the last of the Napoleons to defeat, Paris, queen of cities,
has yet to see its days of fire and flame. The Prussians thunder
at its gates. It is "l'annee terrible. "Dissension and rapine
within. The mad wolves of the Commune are yet to rage over the
bloody paths of the German conqueror.
Yet a ceaseless crowd of strangers, a polyglot procession of all
ages and sexes, pours through these wonderful halls of art.
In the sunny afternoons of the battle year, an old French priest
wanders through these noble galleries. Pale and bowed, Francois
Ribaut dreams away his waning hours among the priceless relics of
the past. These are the hours of release from rosary and breviary.
The ebb and flow of humanity, the labors of the copyists, the
diverse types of passing human nature, all interest the padre.
He has waited in vain for responses to his frequent letters
to Judge Hardin. Perhaps the Judge is dead. Death's sickle swings
unceasingly. The little heiress may have returned to her western
native land.
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