“And you went to school there,” mourned one of her daughters—Jefferson was not yet entirely sure which was which—“and saw all those fashionable people and the king and Napoleon and spoke French all the time, and we have to learn French with that stupid Miss Fraker. You should hear her, Grandpa. She pronounces French as it is spelled in English.” “She says ‘Owy Owy,’ and we know it should be ‘wee wee,’” piped up a smaller one. Was this Virginia or Ellen? He would have to put his family tree in order soon before he mortally offended some of them. “Grandfather will teach you proper French when he gets time,” promised their mother. “He spent four years over there and I went to school there and so did Aunt Maria. But not all that we saw was happy. We saw too many beggars and hungry people in the streets, something you will never see in Virginia.” “We see blind Remus when we go to church,” said one child. “He sits on the path with his hat in his hand and says, ‘Please, li’l missy, give ole Remus a penny?’” “And if we put our penny in his hat, then we have nothing when the verger comes around with the alms basin and he gives us a disgusted look,” said another. “Remus doesn’t have to beg,” said Jefferson. “He is owned by a family able to take care of him.” “Maybe he likes it. Sitting in the sun and hearing people pass.” “If he’s sitting there now, he’s being snowed on,” said young Francis Eppes gravely, standing at the window. It was the first time the quiet, brown-haired boy had spoken and Jefferson from his seat in the old revolving chair looked at him sharply. This was his beloved younger daughter Maria’s only child. Maria, christened Mary, called Polly, and later changing her name in the convent to Maria, pronounced in the Italian fashion. Maria was gone now these four years but the pain of her loss was still a quivering fiber of anguish in Thomas Jefferson’s heart. She had died, as his own young wife had died, when her daughters were small, having borne too many children, wasting away after the last childbirth, fading slowly day by day. Polly’s young husband, Jack Eppes, still lived at Eppington not far away, but Francis spent a great deal of time at Monticello with Martha’s healthy, noisy brood. “Come here, Francis,” Jefferson called gently. “Come here and let your grandfather look at you.” “He’s always moping and looking out windows,” volunteered a young Randolph. “It’s because he hasn’t any mother.” “Come and talk to me, Francis,” urged Jefferson. “You and I should be friends. I have no mother either.” The boy came obediently and stood by the arm of the chair, his big eyes, so like Polly’s, very sober. “Old people don’t have mothers, sir,” he said. “But I did. Till I was a grown up man. I had a handsome mother whose name was Jane and I still think about her when I stand and look out of windows. I wonder if I’m the kind of a man she would have wanted me to be.”