He is strangely attracted to the resolute young
artist.
Dark-eyed and graceful, the young painter is on the threshold
of manhood. With seemingly few friends or acquaintances, he works
unremittingly. Padre Francisco learns that he is a self-supporting
art-student. He avows frankly that art copying brings him both his
living and further education.
Francois Ribaut is anxious to know why this ardent youth toils,
when his fellows are in the field fighting the invaders. He is
astonished when the young man tells him he is an American.
"You are a Frenchman in your language and bearing," says the priest
doubtfully.
The young artist laughs.
"I was educated here, mon pere, but I was born in Louisiana. My
name is Armand Valois."
The old priest's eyes glisten.
"I knew an American named Valois, in California. He was a Louisianan
also."
The youth drops his brush. His eyes search the padre's face. "His
name?" he eagerly asks.
"He was called Maxime Valois," says the priest, Sadly. "He went
into the Southern war and was killed."
The artist springs from his seat. Leading the priest to a recessed
window-seat, he says, quietly:
"Mon pere, tell me of him. He was my cousin, and the last of my
family.
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