When I was in Paris, a year or two before the terrible war broke out, I
often went to the church of St. Sulpice. A grand old place is St.
Sulpice, not so majestic outwardly as Notre Dame, but far more
interesting to me. Its painted chapels, its noble altar with the royal
seat in front, its chairs full of kneeling people, from the splendid
dame to the bonnetless peasant, its gorgeously dressed priests, its
magnificent organ,--everything about it charmed and interested me.
One day I saw a little girl asleep at the foot of a statue. The calm,
white, marble face seemed to look down in pity on the child, whose
beauty startled me. Her white cape-bonnet had fallen from her head, and
curls, lustrous as gold, and quite as yellow, fell over neck and cheeks.
What long, dark lashes she had! Her complexion seemed blended roses and
lilies. But her dress was very shabby. The most beautiful feet will get
soiled if they go shoeless, and this child seemed one of the very
poorest of the poor.
There came a grand burst of organ music, with which a thousand voices
joined, and the child awoke. She lifted her head, and the great brown
eyes seemed to drink in the melody. Then, seeing that we were watching
her, she held out a little palm. The mute appeal was not resisted; I
gave her my last franc.
She followed us out of the church. On the stone steps we could see the
fountains playing. Omnibuses decorated with gay little flags, horses
decked out with ribbons, merry groups passing, the red sunshine, the
distant beauty of the green park, with its gravelled walks and flowery
borders, made a picture that I shall never forget. The child touched my
dress.
"I must sing for you, madame," she said, holding up the franc.
Then she stood back a little, let her pretty arms drop, and sang in a
sweet contralto, a little French air. Her voice was charming.
"Why do you beg?" I asked.
"I do not beg, madame, I sing;" and her cheek flushed.
"Where do you live, my dear?"
"Rue St. Pere."
"Near Hotel St. Pere?"
"Not far from that, madame. My father makes wooden images; perhaps you
pass his window. At least I call him my father."
I had often passed his window, filled with a melancholy collection of
well-carved animals, boxes, heads, quite yellow by exposure. Nothing
seemed ever to be sold.
One day I went in to ask the price of a stag's head. The poor man,
broken down by sickness, sat whittling in the corner. His face was like
saffron, while his thin hair was black as jet. A heavy curtain was hung
across the shop. Presently the rings that supported it rattled a little;
the curtain opened midway, revealing a bit of French home life. A cradle
of an antique pattern, a woman ironing at a table, a tiny stove, two
windows full of flowers, everything poverty-stricken but clean. As I
was paying for the stag's head in came my little one of St. Sulpice. She
knew me, but with only a nod and a smile passed into the other part of
the room.
"That is your little girl, I suppose," I said.
"Oh, no; I care for her; that is all. Her mother is dead; she is no kin
to me, but one cannot see a little one suffer. Besides, she does very
well with her voice; she will work her way in the world. We do not
suffer; we have bread." Nevertheless I knew by his voice and the aspect
of things that they did suffer sometimes, so I often made little
expeditions that way, and spent for carved wood every franc I could
spare.
Now comes the wonderful part of my story. I had been at home six months
when the French war broke out. While reading the dreadful tidings, and
seeing with my mind's eye those fairy-like palaces, over which I had
wandered so often, sacked and destroyed, I thought of the little girl of
St. Sulpice, and wondered what had become of her. Where were the wooden
hounds with their life-like eyes, the stags' heads so beautifully
carved, the long, French faces with the dust lying in their grotesque
goatees? Where were the sick old man, the tidy little mother, the large,
rosy baby?
One day, only a very few weeks ago, while walking down Pennsylvania
Avenue, in Washington, a splendid carriage drove past, and I caught a
glimpse of a face that set my heart beating. I turned to look, and,
strange to tell, the child was also turning to look at me. Could this be
the little French girl of St. Sulpice? Impossible.
On the following day I was called into my sitting-room to see some one
who wanted a donation.
"They're always a beggin', Miss Alice," said my maid. "There was three
men with papers yesterday, and now come these flipflappers."
The "flipflappers" were two Sisters of Charity. One of them, the
youngest, with large, loving, dark eyes, and one of the finest faces I
ever saw, won me at sight. She was soliciting money she said for an Old
Folks' Home. "You are not an American," I said.
"Oh, no; I am only five months from Paris. This is my sister, who can
talk only French."
An hour passed during which I had told all about my St. Sulpice child.
The women looked at each other.
"It seems like Marie," said one.
"It certainly _does_ seem like Marie," responded the other.
"And who was Marie?"
"Marie was with a wood-carver. Marie's mamma was an Englishwoman. Her
husband brought her to Paris. They both died when Marie was a little
one. Marie used to sing, and she lived in rue St. Pere."
"It must be my St. Sulpice girl!" I said, excitedly.
"During the troubles," continued the woman, "the old wood-carver died.
His wife, whose sister was a nun, went to one of the charity homes. She,
alas! was shot, and soon after her baby pined and died. The sisters took
care of Marie for awhile, she was so beautiful. No, madame, it is not
to be denied that they would have liked it if Marie could have grown up
in their midst, and become one of the holy order, but the war forbade
that. Some of the sisters escaped to England, and Marie went with them.
In London, Marie sang a little now and then, for we were much reduced.
"One day she was listened to by a lady living in some villa. She had the
child brought in, and kept saying to herself, 'It is a wonderful
likeness!' Then she called her husband and all the family, and they each
one said that it was a wonderful likeness.
"Well, madame, they found the child was one of them, the child of a
sister who had married imprudently and gone off, and after that we had
little to do with Marie. But we came over to America in the same ship,
and the little lady was very kind to us. Her friends have given largely
to this fund since she has been here. Will madame contribute?"
On condition that they found where the child lived, I gave them what I
could spare, and they went away grateful.
Only the next day a grand equipage stopped at my door. There were two
men in splendid livery on the box, and a tiger behind, who sat with his
arms folded like a statue of ebony.
Ah, but there was my sweet little St. Sulpice girl, with her nurse, or
companion. How lovely she was! Her white hat and blue feather, beautiful
blue silk, trimmed with costly white lace, her buttoned gloves, and
dainty parasol, spoke most eloquently of the change in her
circumstances. But to me she seemed just the same.
"Then you have not forgotten St. Sulpice," I said.
She shook her head and her lips trembled a little.
"It was so awful before we came away!" she said, with a shudder. "They
took St. Sulpice for the soldiers, and they killed the nuns and shot the
good priests, and, it seemed as if everybody was dead or dying. Oh, how
we did fly for our lives!"
"But you are very happy now?"
"Yes; I have a governess, and I am studying English; but I shall always
love my dear, dear France, and I would go there again, but poor Pere and
Mere Bouve are gone, and their little child. If they could only have
come to England with me!"
"And does your aunt stay in America long?"
"Till the next September. Oh, how I felt when I saw you on the street! I
knew it was you. To-morrow we go to Cape May, and I shall never see you
again."
"Oh, yes, you will. I shall come over to England next summer."
The child's eyes brightened.
"Will you?" and she threw her arms round my neck in true French style,
and declared that she loved me.
I hope I shall see my little one of St. Sulpice again. If anybody meets
an English family at Cape May, with one of the loveliest little girls in
the world, I have no doubt she will answer to the name of Marie.