Among the extraordinary attractions which makes Paris the show place of
Europe, the historic Palace of the Louvre possesses, curiously enough,
the least drawing power of any. Its popularity, from the tourist
viewpoint, at least, certainly falls far short of that enjoyed by the
Moulin Rouge. In other words, the Louvre, vast repository as it is of
the art wealth of the world, would seem to contain little attraction for
the multitude. The annual picture expositions in the Champs Elysees are
always crowded to suffocation, especially on free days, showing that the
common people are not wholly indifferent to art, but for some reason
which has never been satisfactorily explained, the celebrated museum,
the one-time residence of the Kings of France, with all its historic
memories, its priceless pictures and endless rooms filled with
sculptures and antiquities is treated with indifference and neglect. The
_blase_ Parisian takes no interest in it, because it is at his very
door. If he loves pictures, he prefers the annual _Salon_ where he
regales on the latest conceptions of the various modern schools. To
him, the Louvre belongs to the past, in common with the Sorbonne, the
Pantheon, Notre Dame, and other public monuments which constitute the
city's pride.
To-day the Louvre recruits its visitors chiefly from provincial folk and
foreigners. Cook's tourists, open-mouthed, heavy-booted, and breathless,
rush headlong through the rooms, their feet resounding noisily on the
highly polished parquet floors, slippery as ice and shining like
mirrors, rudely disturbing the almost religious silence of the deserted
galleries. Like a flock of stupid sheep driven by a hoarse-voiced
shepherd who acts as official guide, they stumble from room to room,
following the long, puzzling labyrinth of corridors, understanding
nothing of the stereotyped explanations shouted at them, merely glancing
at and quite indifferent to, the art wealth of the centuries which looks
disdainfully down upon them from every side. Attendants in uniform, a
cocked hat worn jauntily over their left ear, an expression of utter
weariness on their stolid, soldier-like faces, walk listlessly up and
down with measured tread, secretly despising these foreign barbarians
who display so little interest in the great masters, watching with
eagle eye that one of the vandals does not stick his umbrella through a
priceless Rembrandt or Correggio.
Here and there, secluded in distant corners, sitting or standing near
favorite pictures, which they have come to love as though they were
their own, are the true art lovers, the copyists, who spend weeks,
months, sometimes years in futile attempts to transfer to modern canvas
the wonderful transparent coloring of a Tintoretto, a da Vinci or a
Raphael. They are of both sexes. Some are old and others are young. One
is a venerable old man, with long, snow-white hair and patriarchal
beard, who for half a century has earned a scant living copying the
masters. Others are neatly dressed, slim-looking girls--art students of
all nations--timidly trying to reproduce works whose fame has rung
around the world. Monday is the copyists' favorite day, for then the
great Museum is closed to the general public, and by special permission
the artists have the huge palace and its precious contents all to
themselves. They are not annoyed by the crowding and rude staring of
thoughtless strangers. Bent over their easels, they are alone in the
great palace, amid silence as heavy and impressive as that in a church.
Perched on top of a high stool, her fingers skillfully, yet delicately
plying the brush, a young woman sat copying one of Raphael's Madonnas.
The picture showed the Virgin, radiant and beatified, holding the chubby
Infant Jesus, while Joseph, slightly in the background, looks benignly
on. The coloring in the original was wonderful. The transparent blue of
Mary's gown, the living flesh tints of both mother and Child were
well-nigh unattainable with modern pigments, and the young artist,
descending from the stool to get a better perspective, made a gesture of
discouragement as she realized how far her own work fell short.
She was a tall, striking-looking brunette with large dark eyes and
classic features crowned by a mass of black hair, carelessly yet not
unbecomingly arranged. Her girlish, slender figure suggested youth,
while the delicate features and a broad intellectual forehead indicated
refinement and more than average intelligence. Dressed in deep mourning,
the sombre garments emphasized still more sharply the extreme pallor of
her face. Her eyes were red as if from recent weeping. Just now,
however, her thoughts were concentrated on the important work on hand,
and so engrossed was she in her painting that she did not hear a man's
approaching footsteps. He was close up to her before she was aware of
his proximity.
"Well, Paula," he called out in stentorian tones, "how is it going?"
Startled, the young girl turned quickly. When she saw who it was, her
face broke into a smile.
"Oh, Mr. Ricaby, how you frightened me! I did not hear you coming. These
galleries are so lonely that even one's friends scare one." Pointing to
the canvas resting on the easel in front of her, she exclaimed
gleefully: "See how hard I've been working!"
The newcomer, a smooth-faced man of forty with whitening hair and kind
gray eyes, smiled indulgently as he silently noted the morning's
progress. Yet his attention was not given exclusively to the picture. By
the glance he gave the canvas and the way he looked at the artist, a
keen observer might have guessed which he admired most. That he was in
love with the girl was plain enough on the circumstantial evidence
alone, nor was it less clear that either she was ignorant of his
feelings, or did not care. True, he was old enough to be her father. To
her, he was a good friend, nothing more. Long ago he had realized this,
and the love words on his lips had always died away before they were
spoken. He suffered in silence. When a man of forty loves for the first
time--it hurts.
Leon Ricaby was intended for the church. His personality as well as his
training made that his natural vocation. His pale, ascetic-looking face,
with its spiritual, thoughtful expression gave him an appearance quite
clerical, while his rich and resonant voice, and grave, deliberate
enunciation constantly suggested pulpit eloquence. Even as a boy he was
serious and studious, and as he approached manhood his mind became
filled with noble ideas regarding the uplifting of mankind. He became an
idealist, and, not content with mere words, carried his theories into
the New York slums, doing more than his share in the work of rescuing
the degraded and unfortunate. He felt within a call to the ministry,
and, on taking holy orders, had entered upon his duties with all the
impassioned fervor of a zealot. To established dogmas he paid little
heed. Christ was his Church. He tried to model his own life after that
of the humble Nazarene. But he soon realized the impossibility of
leading a consistent Christ-like life amid twentieth-century conditions.
He found no trace of Christ anywhere. Within the Church itself there was
not only an unholy traffic in preferments, but he found his fellow
clergy, curates, rectors, bishops at war among themselves, self-seeking,
greedy for power and money. The men and women in his congregations were
envious, selfish, malicious, hypocritical. It made him sick at heart,
and when he found that he could no longer reconcile the inconsistencies
of spiritual truths to his intellectual point of view, he left the
Church and took up the study of law. Admitted to the Bar, he began to
practice in New York, but only with indifferent success. In this career,
also, his conscience proved a stumbling block. He soon discovered that
men employed him not to teach them how to obey the law, but how to evade
it. Again he rebelled. He refused cases that did violence to his
principles no matter how profitable they might be. He declined to defend
law breakers whom he knew to be guilty. Those persons of whose innocence
he was assured, he would defend with all the energy and skill at his
command, giving his services gratuitously to those who could not afford
to pay, and in the court-room his outbursts of eloquence seldom failed
to convince the jury. Thus for years he plodded on according to his
conscience. He was not rich. Such rare triumphs as he scored in the
courts could not make him wealthy. A long spell of hard work had caused
a breakdown in his health, and on his physician's advice he had taken a
trip to Europe. In Paris he had run across Paula Marsh whose
acquaintance he had made in America.
He had first met her when she was doing Settlement work in New York's
Ghetto. A consistent altruist, even after he began to practice law, he
did not lose his interest in the splendid organizations which seek to
improve the conditions of the poor. He found Paula the leader of a group
of ardent young women--all girls of easy circumstances, yet willing to
forego social pleasures, and spend their days in congested districts,
visiting filthy tenements reeking with disease-laden air, in order to
alleviate human suffering and bring a ray of comfort to unfortunates who
had almost abandoned hope. This, mused the lawyer, was true
Christianity. He found that Paula had convictions and ideas which were
in sympathy with his own views and this naturally drew them together. As
the intimacy grew Leon Ricaby began to nourish in his heart the hope
that one day he could make Paula his wife, but the wish thus far, at
least, had found no response in his companion. She enjoyed the society
of this man who had struggled and suffered, whose ideals had been
shattered. She admired him for his moral courage in living up to his
principles, but that he expected she might ever be more to him than a
friend had never for an instant entered her thoughts. A good friend he
certainly had been. When her mother died he alone consoled her in her
sorrow, and now that this new crisis had arisen in her life--the sudden
death of her father, necessitating her immediate return to America--he
stood ready to assist her again with his advice and protection.
"Well--where have you been all morning?" she asked lightly.
"Running all over Paris," he answered. "I've seen the house agent and
arranged for the cancellation of the lease of your apartment. I've been
to the steamship office and booked our passages. We sail on the
_Touraine_ next Saturday."
Paula dropped her palette and looked up in consternation.
"Next Saturday--the day after to-morrow?" she exclaimed. "It's
impossible! It will take another fortnight to finish this picture."
Mr. Ricaby shook his head.
"Then the picture must remain unfinished," he said impatiently. "We must
sail Saturday." Changing his tone, he went on almost coaxingly: "Surely,
Paula, you realize what is at stake! There is no time to be lost. The
cable announcing your father's death reached you five days ago.
According to his instructions the old will was not to be opened until
three weeks after his demise. That will give us just time to reach New
York before the old will is offered for probate. Don't you see the
danger of delay? A large fortune awaits you. If you don't go to America
and claim it, you may lose it all. Can't you be ready?"
The girl's pale face flushed with anger. Hotly she said:
"I can't go until my work is done. You lawyers are all alike--only the
material, sordid things of life have any weight with you. I think more
of my work than of all the money in the world--you know that. Why must I
go to America? To be compelled to meet and be pleasant to relatives who
at this moment are unaware of my very existence, and who will have every
reason to detest me and consider me an interloper. I hate America. What
has America ever done for me? It robbed me all these years of a father
who, had he seen more of his only child, might have learned to love me.
Its severe climate killed my mother, and, when she went, I was
alone--without even a friend."
"Have you forgotten me?" he interrupted quietly.
Quick to remark the note of reproach in his voice, she held out her
hand:
"Forgive me," she murmured. "It is most ungrateful of me to talk like
that. Yes--you are indeed my friend. I shall never be able to repay all
that you have done for me. Forgive me. This sudden terrible news from
America has unnerved me. I'm all unstrung. Don't mind what I say. I'll
go to New York if you think it necessary, but my work--what of my work?"
"Your work?" he echoed gravely. "Haven't you other work left undone in
New York? Work more important than that you are now doing?"
"What work?"
"Your Settlement work--have you forgotten those poor people in the slums
who each day looked forward to your coming as if you were an angel sent
from Heaven to dry their tears and bid them not despair? Has it not
occurred to you during these past few days what God might wish you to do
with the large fortune your father has left you? You are so different to
most women. You are not vain, selfish, preoccupied only with foolish,
trivial pleasures. At least I think you are not. I like to imagine that
you are one of those noble women who would not hesitate to devote her
life, her fortune, to the cause of suffering humanity. Think what good
you might do with your inheritance. Paula--surely you realize that this
is the opportunity of your life!"
He spoke eloquently, pleadingly, his resonant voice resounding rich and
mellow through the empty corridors. As the girl listened, her face grew
thoughtful. She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. Her large,
luminous eyes shone with a new light. Rapidly, spasmodically, with
growing exaltation, she replied:
"Yes--yes--you are right. I had not thought of that. My work is
there--not here. We will go at once--at once. I'll start packing
immediately."
Mr. Ricaby smiled.
"That's the way to talk," he said cheerily. "You see I knew you better
than you knew yourself. Of course, it won't be altogether plane sailing.
You must be prepared for----"
He hesitated.
"Prepared for what?" she demanded, looking at him curiously.
"Well, you see, you'll have to meet your relatives, and, as they are
totally ignorant of your very existence, your sudden appearance will be
a shock to them, especially to your Uncle James who, during all these
years, has come to look upon the money as his own."
"Poor Uncle James!" she murmured. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't waste any sympathy on him. He isn't worth it," smiled the lawyer.
"Your uncle, I'm sorry to say, does not enjoy a very good reputation in
New York. His brother knew his character and would have nothing to do
with him. Your father kept his marriage a secret from him and rather
than destroy the old will, in which he had left James everything, he
made a new one leaving everything to you."
Paula turned away in order to hide the tears that filled her eyes.
"Poor father," she murmured. "I would rather have had his love than his
money."
A lump rose in the lawyer's throat, and, the better to conceal his
feelings, he suddenly became interested in the surrounding paintings.
His heart went out to this orphaned girl. Practically she stood alone in
the world to fight her battles. He realized the probability of the later
will being fiercely contested. He thought with forebodings of the
impending and long drawn-out legal battle, of all the insults that the
disappointed James Marsh and his family would heap upon this defenceless
girl--their hints of illegitimacy and other unscrupulous methods of
attack, all of which would distress and humiliate a delicate and
sensitive girl. If she knew what was in store for her, perhaps she would
hesitate. But she would not fight the battle alone as long as he was
able to champion her cause. He would see that her rights were fully
protected.
Taking up her palette and brushes Paula went on with her painting.
Quietly she said:
"Very well, Mr. Ricaby. You know best. We will sail on Saturday."
"That's a sensible girl! I came to take you to luncheon. It's just
twelve o'clock. Can you come?"
She pointed at the canvas.
"I have still a little to finish. Then I'm done for the day. I can't
work in the afternoon--the light is not good. Couldn't you make it half
an hour later?"
"Certainly. That will give me time to go to the American Express office.
I must see them about shipping your baggage. I'll come back for you in
half an hour."
He lifted his hat and went away.