that swept the boulevards at the outburst of the Franco-German War,
and Miss Helen Maynard disappeared from Paris with many of her fellow
countrymen. The excitement reached even a quaint old chateau in Brittany
where Major Ostrander was painting. The woman who was standing by his
side as he sat before his easel on the broad terrace observed that he
looked disturbed.
"What matters?" she said gently. "You have progressed so well in your
work that you can finish it elsewhere. I have no great desire to stay
in France with a frontier garrisoned by troops while I have a villa
in Switzerland where you could still be my guest. Paris can teach you
nothing more, my friend; you have only to create now--and be famous."
"I must go to Paris," he said quietly. "I have
friends--countrymen--there, who may want me now."
"If you mean the young singer of the Rue de Frivole, you have
compromised her already. You can do her no good."
"Madame!"
The pretty face which he had been familiar with for the past six weeks
somehow seemed to change its character. Under the mask of dazzling skin
he fancied he saw the high cheek-bones and square Tartar angle; the
brilliant eyes were even brighter than before, but they showed more of
the white than he had ever seen in them.
Nevertheless she smiled, with an equally stony revelation of her white
teeth, yet said, still gently, "Forgive me if I thought our friendship
justified me in being frank,--perhaps too frank for my own good."
She stopped as if half expecting an interruption; but as he remained
looking wonderingly at her, she bit her lip, and went on: "You have
a great career before you. Those who help you must do so without
entangling you; a chain of roses may be as impeding as lead. Until you
are independent, you--who may in time compass everything yourself--will
need to be helped. You know," she added with a smile, "you have but one
arm."
"In your kindness and appreciation you have made me forget it," he
stammered. Yet he had a swift vision of the little bench at Versailles
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