All is disaster. Jacques Bonhomme's blood waters in vain his native fields. Oh, for the great Napoleon! Alas, for the days of 1805! As he wanders among the pictures he makes friendly acquaintance with rising artist and humble imitator. The old padre is everywhere welcome. His very smile is a benediction. He pauses one day at the easel of a young man who is copying a Murillo Madonna. Intent upon his work, the artist politely answers, and resumes his task. Spirited and artistic in execution, the copy betokens a rare talent. Day after day, on his visits, the padre sees the glowing canvas nearing completion. He is strangely attracted to the resolute young artist. Dark-eyed and graceful, the young painter is on the threshold of manhood. With seemingly few friends or acquaintances, he works unremittingly. Padre Francisco learns that he is a self-supporting art-student. He avows frankly that art copying brings him both his living and further education. Fran‡ois Ribaut is anxious to know why this ardent youth toils, when his fellows are in the field fighting the invaders. He is astonished when the young man tells him he is an American. "You are a Frenchman in your language and bearing," says the priest doubtfully. The young artist laughs. "I was educated here, mon pere, but I was born in Louisiana. My name is Armand Valois." The old priest's eyes glisten. "I knew an American named Valois, in California. He was a Louisianan also." The youth drops his brush. His eyes search the padre's face. "His name?" he eagerly asks. "He was called Maxime Valois," says the priest, Sadly. "He went into the Southern war and was killed." The artist springs from his seat. Leading the priest to a recessed window-seat, he says, quietly: "Mon pere, tell me of him. He was my cousin, and the last of my family. I am now the only Valois." Padre Francisco overstays his hour of relaxation. For the artist learns of the heroic death of his gallant kinsman, and all the chronicles of Lagunitas. "But you must come to me. I must see you often and tell you more," concludes the good old priest. He gives Armand his residence, a religious establishment near Notre Dame, where he can spend his days under the shadows of the great mystery-haunted fane. Armand tells the priest his slender history. Left penniless by his aged father's death, the whirlwind of the Southern war swept away the last of his property. Old family friends, scattered and poor, cannot help him. He has been his own master for years. His simple annals are soon finished. He tells of his heart comrade, Raoul Dauvray (his senior a few years), now fighting in the Army of the Loire. The priest learns that the young American remained, to be a son in the household, while Raoul, a fellow art-student of past years, has drawn his sword for France.