MISS ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO
The breeze blew from the West.
Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the great Redmount Rowrer, had just
arrived in Paris. She was preceded by the fame of her father, the
famous Chicagoan, a business Napoleon. From his office, the center
of a network of telegraph and telephone lines, he communicated with
the financial universe; and his tremendous toil was building up a
world-wide fortune. He thought himself poor, for he had not yet reached
the billion mark; but his fame grew. Ethel adored this father. She
was proud that men spoke of him. She felt herself a part in his glory;
but, really, she could have wished people should pay less attention to
herself. Every day the society papers devoted space to her.
“Yesterday evening, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous
_milliardaire_, was present at the opera”—and so forth; and there
followed a description of her dress.
“To-morrow, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous _milliardaire_,
accompanied by her grandmother, will be present at the horse show.”
They told how she passed her day; people learned that she had tried
on gowns at Paquin’s, chosen a hat at Stagg’s, eaten chocolates at
Marquis’s—while in reality she had stayed at home with “grandma.”
All this gossip annoyed her. One day, however, she laughed heartily.
She learned from a paper her intention of buying the tomb of Richard
the Lion-hearted to make a bench of it in her hall at Chicago. This
earned for Ethel a newspaper article, grave and patriotic.
“Foreigners, touch not our illustrious dead!” was the journalist’s
conclusion in the evening “Tocsin.”
Richard the Lion-hearted went the rounds of the head-lines of the Paris
yellow press. Then, one fine day, the papers spoke of an interview of
the ex-Empress Eugénie with Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous
_milliardaire_, R. K. Rowrer. Vieillecloche, in his “Tocsin,” had seen
and heard everything. He accused America of mixing itself up with
French politics. Miss Ethel did not read the article, otherwise she
might have gathered that the “Tocsin” was very ill-informed. That she
had seen the empress was true, but there had been no word of politics.
The empress was making a short stay in Paris, as she did every year.
Her sorrows had given the former sovereign the love of retirement. She
passed her days by her window at the hotel, sometimes looking sadly
toward the empty place where the Tuileries had been.
“I see by the paper that Miss Ethel Rowrer is in Paris,” the empress
said one day to her _dame de compagnie_. “Is it the granddaughter of
the Rowrer I knew? The emperor had great esteem for him; I remember
him well. Mr. Rowrer was charged by the government at Washington
with a report on the Exposition of 1867. My husband loved to look
into everything himself. Social questions were near to his heart,
and it happened that in the evenings he would receive Mr. Rowrer in
his private cabinet. The extreme simplicity and moral robustness of
the man struck the emperor. He found him full of new ideas which he
would have wished to apply in France. I was present at one of their
conversations. My little son was playing around them. _Ma chère ami_,”
Eugénie continued, “I remember it as if it were yesterday. I beg of you
to find out if Miss Rowrer is the granddaughter of that man.” The next
day she learned that this was the fact.
“I should have been astonished if it were not so,” said Eugénie. “The
emperor foresaw the success of Mr. Rowrer; he knew men.” She at once
made known to Miss Rowrer that she would be happy to receive her; and
Ethel came. Entering, she saw but one thing: in an arm-chair by the
window a lady, with her head covered by a black mantilla, sat in the
clear sunlight like a dark figure of sorrow.
“Madame,” said the lady in waiting, “I present to you Miss Ethel
Rowrer.”
Ethel saw the dark figure rise from the chair.
“Thank you for coming!” Eugénie said. “I am glad when people come to
see me,” and she held out her hand.
Ethel bore the hand to her lips and bowed with a grace which charmed
Eugénie.
“Be seated, Miss Rowrer,” said the empress; “here, beside me,” and she
pointed with the slender hand of an aged woman to a seat.
Ethel sat down. She was in the presence of Eugénie de Guzman and
Porto-Carrero, Countess of Teba, Marquise of Mopa and Kirkpatrick,
Empress of the French—Eugénie the beautiful, the beloved; and it was an
old lady warming herself in the sun and looking around timidly.
“How happy I am, madame,” said Ethel, “to thank you for the kindnesses
shown long ago to my grandfather! His Majesty the Emperor loaded him
with favors.”
The empress was greatly touched by the sincere accents of Ethel and her
faithful remembrance. No one thanked her, now that she was nothing; and
this daughter of a _milliardaire_ had not forgotten slight kindnesses
done long ago to her grandfather.
“I thank you,” she said. “The emperor had great esteem for your
grandfather; he liked to talk with him. Mr. Rowrer was a remarkable
man—rather, he was a man!” added the empress, who had seen so many who
were not men.
Ethel blushed with pleasure. Newspaper head-lines constantly made sport
of her family, and here was the one-time arbitress of Europe glorifying
her grandfather and saying to her “I thank you!”
Then they chatted for a while. Eugénie admired this young girl in her
simple elegance and superb health. At the court itself she had never
seen a figure more princess-like and radiant.
“When I was a little girl,” Ethel said, “my grandfather often spoke to
us of those days of glory.”
At the word “glory” Eugénie interrupted her.
[Illustration: Miss Ethel and Empress Eugénie]
“Miss Rowrer,” she said, pointing with her hand toward the Tuileries,
“see what remains of it. There is nothing left. All has passed, all
has changed around me. This was once my Paris. It is now yours. I say
yours, for, don’t you see, mademoiselle, the true sovereigns are young
girls like you with their grace and health? To you the world belongs.
Ah, what happiness it is to be young!”
There was a moment of silence. The _dame de compagnie_ was arranging
flowers in a vase. The empress sat dreaming. Did she see again the
eighteen years of power wherein she held in her hand the scepter of
France? Or the palace which had been destroyed, crumbled into dust,
leaving not a wrack behind? Did she think of Miss Rowrer, to-day’s
young queen, who came to pay her tribute of respect to the royalty of
other days? of the conquering force which this young girl represented,
the supreme outcome of an ambitious race? of the temptations without
number which would assail a creature so spoiled by fate?
Ethel made a motion to take her leave. The empress rose painfully.
“Madame,” Ethel began.
“Allow me; I wish to accompany you,” Eugénie insisted. “Your visit has
done me good.”
She leaned lightly on Miss Rowrer’s shoulder as she crossed the room.
“Miss Rowrer, I am going to tell you a great secret,” said the
empress, as she was taking leave; “but one must have been an empress
to appreciate it rightly. It is this: remain always simple and artless
as you were at fifteen. That is the secret of happiness; there is no
other, believe me! Adieu, mademoiselle. I wish you all happiness in
life.”
* * * * *
Ethel retained through life the vision of this woman in her mourning
garments, with the white hair crowning her forehead. She recalled her
gentle voice, her refined features—still resembling the portraits of
other days, but without the adorable smile.
“Our people,” Ethel said to her grandmother, “interest themselves only
in Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe. I wish to make a
collection concerning the Empress Eugénie—photographs, statuettes. And
I will take back to Chicago her portrait in oils. I’ll have it done
here in Paris under my direction. Who is this Phil who, they say, has
so much talent, and has painted so fine a portrait for the Salon—a
young girl seated among flowers with doves around her? Cecilia Beaux
admires it immensely. He has had a second medal, I believe—he has
everything he needs to succeed; and he is an American, they say, and
poor and ambitious.”
“He is poor and ambitious? Give him a chance,” replied grandma.