martha said nothing to her mother and sisters of her encounter with the princess. she had a way of locking very close in her heart her most personal and sacred feelings, and all that related to the princess was sacred to her now. during her earlier years she had so often been laughed at for an enthusiast that she had learned to keep back what she felt most strongly; and for that very reason, perhaps, the intensity of her feelings grew greater as she grew older. the enthusiasm of her life was for her only brother, whom she worshiped with a blind idolatry of the extent of which even he was unaware. there had been one or two other divinities in her horizon, always second to harold; but at this period of her life she was suffering from a sense of disappointment in these as, one after the other, they had come short of her ardent expectations. she was now, therefore, in the exact state of mind to take on a new object of worship. this the princess had become.

it was not surprising that martha’s ideal had been so repeatedly unrealized, for it was a difficult one. she had suffered acutely from her former disappointments, and had even resolved never to pin her faith and hope on another woman. but the princess was not to be resisted. martha felt that even if her goddess never spoke to her again, she was worthy of all adoration.

as the young girl drove through the streets of paris in the early morning of the day following her brief interview with the princess, her heart was very happy.

in appearance martha was small and rather plain; and no one would have noticed her, perhaps, but for the concentration of expression on her face as she looked out of the carriage window on her way to her atelier in the latin quarter. the people abroad at that hour were not of a class to pay much attention to such a look on a girl’s face. the little army of street-cleaners, occupying their brief hour with busy industry to produce the beautiful effect of gay cleanliness which the world enjoyed later in the day, had no time to notice martha, and{14} she was as unaware of them. even the ice on the figures in the fountains of the place de la concorde, which she generally admired in passing, she did not so much as see to-day. the “cold sea-maidens” wore an unusually beautiful veil of mist, made by the freezing spray, and martha might have got an impression for some future picture if she had studied it with the early sunlight on it.

but she was thinking only of the princess as she drove along and crossed the bridge and entered old paris. here, too, all was familiar, for martha had taken this drive daily for months, and there was nothing to disturb her preoccupation until she reached the invalides, where her hero-worshiping soul never failed to offer a passing tribute of awe to the ashes of napoleon.

as she turned into a cross street farther on, a little funeral procession met her. this sight, too, was familiar; but no wont and usage could keep martha from being deeply moved as often as she witnessed the pitiful little ceremonial which attends the burial of the very poor in paris.

it is usually in the early morning that these funerals occur, as there seems to be a demand upon the poor to give up to the more prosperous even the space in the streets which they, with their dead, lay claim to for so short a time. this was a child’s funeral, or, rather, it was the funeral of two children. there was neither hearse nor carriage. each little coffin was borne upon a wretched bier carried by rough and shabby men, who appeared cross and reluctant in their miserable, faded trappings of mourning. looking carefully, martha discovered that there was a separate family of mourners to each little bier; and as the whole procession was under the command of a tall old man, who held his shoulders very erect, as if to atone for a limp in one leg, she comprehended that this bedizened old undertaker, with the ragged crape on his cocked hat and the dirty bunches of black and white ribbons on the end of his long staff of office, had consolidated his duties, probably at a slight and very welcome discount to his poor patrons, and was burying the dead of two families at once. directly after him came the bearers of the light coffin, and just behind it were five little children, four girls and a boy, walking abreast, and dressed in mourning. this mourning con{16}sisted of hastily fashioned aprons made of dull black calico, and so carelessly fitted that the many-colored undergarments of the children showed plainly at every opening. the children were regular little steps, the boy being the youngest; and cold as it was, they were all bareheaded. each carried a sprig of yellow bloom, which resembled, if indeed it was not, the mustard-flower. this they held very stiffly and correctly in their right hands, and they walked with an air of the utmost decorum. behind them came their father and mother, the former looking more apathetic than sad, and the latter carrying with some complacency the dignity of a dingy and draggled crape veil, in frank contrast to a blue-and-green plaid dress. she was taller than her husband, and leaned awkwardly upon his arm, keeping no time whatever to his shuffling gait. then came the other coffin and the second group of mourners, who were evidently not so fashionable as the first; for they made no effort at mourning, and walked after their little dead one with nothing like a flower, and in their common working-clothes.

while martha’s carriage was passing this procession, she saw on the other side of them, going in the same direction with her, a smart turnout in which a gentleman was driving, with a groom behind. the horses shone like satin, and their harness jingled and glittered in the morning sunshine. the gentleman and his servant were dressed with a brilliant effect of care and detail. the former was smoking a cigarette, and had a scarlet flower in his coat.

as the little funeral procession passed this carriage, the young swell who was driving bared his head, with its smoothly parted blond hair, remaining uncovered until the procession had passed, his servant imitating his act. this little tribute of homage to death which the french take the pains to perform always touched and pleased martha. she thought of the absurdity of this man’s uncovering his head to that pauper baby alive; but the mystery of death imparted to it a majesty which the equal mystery of life could not. this child was a partaker of the knowledge of the unknown, into which napoleon, lying near by, had also entered, and was, with him, divided from the merely mortal.

martha thought of this as she watched the showy carriage, which had relaxed its speed for a moment, whirling rapidly away toward the outskirts of the city. she wondered where that handsome, prosperous-looking, well-bred man was going at this early hour. probably to fight a duel, she thought, in her romantic way! perhaps in a few hours’ time he might be as dead as the poor little baby; and perhaps there was some one who loved and adored him as she did harold!

these were the ideas which filled her mind as she reached the atelier, there to learn that there was a disappointment about the model, who had failed to come.

she was about to take off her wraps, and go to work on some drawings from casts, when an exquisite voice behind her said suddenly, “pardon, mademoiselle,” and she turned to meet the gaze of the princess fixed upon her with a smile of lovely friendliness.

“what are you going to do?” she said in that faultless french which martha had already admired.

for a moment the girl was quite overcome at such unexpected graciousness. then she managed to say in her own faulty though perfectly fluent french, that she had thought she would go on and do what she could without a model.

“it is so dull, after having that glorious antonio to pose for one,” said the princess. “i am not in the humor, and my carriage is gone. yours, perhaps, is gone also. do you feel like drawing to-day? or do you, perhaps, feel more like calling a cab, and taking a drive with me? i should like it. will you go?”

martha crimsoned with pleasure as she accepted the invitation. there was no mistaking her delight at the suggestion.

“you are very good to go,” said the other, “especially as you know nothing of me, i suppose.”

“i know only that you are the princess—the russian princess,” said martha.

her companion frowned slightly, and, martha thought, looked a little annoyed. she reflected that she ought not, perhaps, to have told her that her secret had been discovered.

the little frown soon passed, however, and the princess smiled genially as she said:

“i am living incognito in paris to study painting, and i do not go into the world. when i am not working i am often bored, and i frequently long for companionship. you make me very grateful by giving me yours this morning.”

the princess was very tall—so tall that when martha walked at her side she had to turn her face upward to speak to her. they walked along in the most natural companionship until they reached a cab-stand nearby, and martha thought her divinity more worshipful than ever as she stood wrapped in her long cloak, with a large, black-plumed hat crowning her beautiful head, and said some words of gentle pity about the poor old, weak-kneed cab-horses drawn up in a line.

when they had entered a cab, and were seated side by side, the princess said abruptly:

“if you had not heard something of me, i should have told you nothing. why should we ask questions about each other? we meet to-day, art students in a paris atelier, and we shall part to-morrow. what have we to do with formalities? of you i know that you are a young american studying painting here, and i think, in a way, sympathetic to me. i am content to know that, and no more, of you. do you feel the same about me?”

martha replied eagerly in the affirmative, and in five minutes the two had come to a perfect understanding. the girl felt her awe at being in “the presence” gradually fading away,as this winning young woman sat and talked with her on a footing of friendly equality. it was after a short silence between them that the princess said:

“there are one or two things that it will be necessary for you to know—that is, if you like me well enough to come to see me, as i hope you do. i am living in the rue presbourg, and when you come to see me, you are to ask for the apartment of the princess mannernorff. you will come, will you not?”

“oh, if you will only let me, it will be my greatest happiness!” said martha. “i can’t understand what has made you so good to me!”

“simply, i like you. it isn’t hard to understand. i’ve noticed you a long time, and i’ve liked you more and more. i like your manner; i like your face; i like your devotion to your work; and i like your work.”

“my work! my scratching and smudging, you mean! oh, how can you notice it or care for it when you look at yours? every one must see that etienne knows that you are his best pupil. he does not speak to any one as he does to you, and you must know as well as i that it is not because you are a princess.{22}”

“yes, of course; i know that perfectly well. but i fancy that etienne, in his little critical heart, feels that he hasn’t got out of me what he looked for at first. at least, i have that idea; and you see i have studied enough, compared with you, to be a great deal further ahead of you than i am. i have digged and delved for that treasure more than you realize. i hope to do something tolerable some day; but i’m not as confident about it as i used to be, and i fear etienne is not, either. oh, i wish i could!”

she said this with such fervor, and followed it by such a wistful sigh, that martha, who had not yet taken in the idea that the princess might not be the all-fortunate creature she imagined, felt a sudden protest against the thought of her wishing for anything vainly.

“surely you will!” she said. “i can’t imagine your wanting anything very much without getting it.”

the princess laughed, throwing up her chin, and looking at martha with an indulgent smile.

“you can’t?” she exclaimed. “well, if you take the trouble to continue my acquaintance, you will find that i’ve missed pretty much{23} everything in life that i very greatly wanted. it is sad, but true.”

martha did not answer, but she looked as if she would like to speak out something that was on her mind, and her companion saw this, and said:

“what is it? speak! i give you full permission.”

“it was nothing,” said martha, rather confusedly. “i was wondering about you—as, of course, i can’t help doing. i don’t want to be told things, however. i would far rather imagine how they are.”

“very, very sensible. i see that i shall like you more and more. there are a few things, however, which it will be well for you to know. for instance,”—she paused, with a slight look of reluctance, and then went on rapidly,—“no doubt you wonder whether i am married.”

martha’s eyes confirmed her.

a cloud seemed to have settled with surprising suddenness upon the face of the princess. she looked fixedly at the passing prospect outside the window as, after a moment of difficult silence, she said almost brusquely:

“i am a widow.” then she turned and looked at martha. “you will understand, for the future,” she went on more naturally, “my wish for silence on this subject. i am living temporarily in paris with my aunt. i used to know french society well, but i am out of it now, and i don’t regret it. painting is the only thing i really care for—that, and music, and some books; some, but not many. books give such false ideas of life. i think it was what i read in books that led me to expect so much. i was not to be convinced but that all the happiness i imagined was quite possible; and when it would not come to me, i thought there was a force in me which could compel it. as a rule, i’ve given that idea up; but there are times even yet when it rises and conquers me. i know it is very foolish, and that experience cures one of such feelings, but i’m not altogether cured yet, in spite of hard and repeated blows.”

martha had listened with intense interest, and now, as her companion paused, she felt that she ought to volunteer, on her part, some sort of sketch of herself and her surroundings.

“i don’t care to tell you anything about myself,” she said, “because it’s so uninteresting. my father has been dead a great many years; mama is delicate; and we live in paris{25} so that i may study painting and the younger girls may have lessons. we go to america for the summers. my brother is the eldest of us, and he lives there. the younger girls are pretty, and mama wishes them to go into society and to be admired. she used also to wish this for me, but she saw how i hated it, and how little chance i had in it, so she lets me alone now, particularly since i got harold to speak to her.”

“are you sure that she would not disapprove of your friendship with me, knowing of me only the little that you are able to tell her?”

“yes; i’m certain of it. she wouldn’t mind. she knows i never get into mischief. i feel perfectly free to do as i choose about this, and i don’t mean to mention you to any one—not because there would be any objection, but because you are too sacred to me, and if you let me be your friend, i can’t share that knowledge and possession with any one.”

martha was determined to say this, but she did not accomplish it without a good deal of hesitation and embarrassment. her companion looked at her with a sort of wondering scrutiny.

“where do you get that earnest, concentrated nature, i wonder—so different from mine!” she said. “does it go with the american character? your words are very foolish, child; but it is so long since any one has held me sacred that i am ridiculously touched by it.”

there was something that looked like rising tears in the beautiful eyes of the princess; but a gay little laugh soon banished the shadow from both her face and her voice. suddenly she sat upright and said:

“suppose you come home with me now! i want you to learn the ways of the place, so that you may come and go as you please. will you come with me there to-day?”

martha agreed at once, and with evident satisfaction the princess leaned out of the window, and gave the address to the cabman.