CHAPTER X

MISS ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO

The breeze blew from the West.

Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the great Redmount Rowrer, had just arrived in Paris. She was preceded by the fame of her father, the famous Chicagoan, a business Napoleon. From his office, the center of a network of telegraph and telephone lines, he communicated with the financial universe; and his tremendous toil was building up a world-wide fortune. He thought himself poor, for he had not yet reached the billion mark; but his fame grew. Ethel adored this father. She was proud that men spoke of him. She felt herself a part in his glory; but, really, she could have wished people should pay less attention to herself. Every day the society papers devoted space to her.

“Yesterday evening, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous _milliardaire_, was present at the opera”—and so forth; and there followed a description of her dress.

“To-morrow, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous _milliardaire_, accompanied by her grandmother, will be present at the horse show.”

They told how she passed her day; people learned that she had tried on gowns at Paquin’s, chosen a hat at Stagg’s, eaten chocolates at Marquis’s—while in reality she had stayed at home with “grandma.”

All this gossip annoyed her. One day, however, she laughed heartily. She learned from a paper her intention of buying the tomb of Richard the Lion-hearted to make a bench of it in her hall at Chicago. This earned for Ethel a newspaper article, grave and patriotic.

“Foreigners, touch not our illustrious dead!” was the journalist’s conclusion in the evening “Tocsin.”

Richard the Lion-hearted went the rounds of the head-lines of the Paris yellow press. Then, one fine day, the papers spoke of an interview of the ex-Empress Eugénie with Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous _milliardaire_, R. K. Rowrer. Vieillecloche, in his “Tocsin,” had seen and heard everything. He accused America of mixing itself up with French politics. Miss Ethel did not read the article, otherwise she might have gathered that the “Tocsin” was very ill-informed. That she had seen the empress was true, but there had been no word of politics.

The empress was making a short stay in Paris, as she did every year. Her sorrows had given the former sovereign the love of retirement. She passed her days by her window at the hotel, sometimes looking sadly toward the empty place where the Tuileries had been.

“I see by the paper that Miss Ethel Rowrer is in Paris,” the empress said one day to her _dame de compagnie_. “Is it the granddaughter of the Rowrer I knew? The emperor had great esteem for him; I remember him well. Mr. Rowrer was charged by the government at Washington with a report on the Exposition of 1867. My husband loved to look into everything himself. Social questions were near to his heart, and it happened that in the evenings he would receive Mr. Rowrer in his private cabinet. The extreme simplicity and moral robustness of the man struck the emperor. He found him full of new ideas which he would have wished to apply in France. I was present at one of their conversations. My little son was playing around them. _Ma chère ami_,” Eugénie continued, “I remember it as if it were yesterday. I beg of you to find out if Miss Rowrer is the granddaughter of that man.” The next day she learned that this was the fact.

“I should have been astonished if it were not so,” said Eugénie. “The emperor foresaw the success of Mr. Rowrer; he knew men.” She at once made known to Miss Rowrer that she would be happy to receive her; and Ethel came. Entering, she saw but one thing: in an arm-chair by the window a lady, with her head covered by a black mantilla, sat in the clear sunlight like a dark figure of sorrow.

“Madame,” said the lady in waiting, “I present to you Miss Ethel Rowrer.”

Ethel saw the dark figure rise from the chair.

“Thank you for coming!” Eugénie said. “I am glad when people come to see me,” and she held out her hand.

Ethel bore the hand to her lips and bowed with a grace which charmed Eugénie.

“Be seated, Miss Rowrer,” said the empress; “here, beside me,” and she pointed with the slender hand of an aged woman to a seat.

Ethel sat down. She was in the presence of Eugénie de Guzman and Porto-Carrero, Countess of Teba, Marquise of Mopa and Kirkpatrick, Empress of the French—Eugénie the beautiful, the beloved; and it was an old lady warming herself in the sun and looking around timidly.

“How happy I am, madame,” said Ethel, “to thank you for the kindnesses shown long ago to my grandfather! His Majesty the Emperor loaded him with favors.”

The empress was greatly touched by the sincere accents of Ethel and her faithful remembrance. No one thanked her, now that she was nothing; and this daughter of a _milliardaire_ had not forgotten slight kindnesses done long ago to her grandfather.

“I thank you,” she said. “The emperor had great esteem for your grandfather; he liked to talk with him. Mr. Rowrer was a remarkable man—rather, he was a man!” added the empress, who had seen so many who were not men.

Ethel blushed with pleasure. Newspaper head-lines constantly made sport of her family, and here was the one-time arbitress of Europe glorifying her grandfather and saying to her “I thank you!”

Then they chatted for a while. Eugénie admired this young girl in her simple elegance and superb health. At the court itself she had never seen a figure more princess-like and radiant.

“When I was a little girl,” Ethel said, “my grandfather often spoke to us of those days of glory.”

At the word “glory” Eugénie interrupted her.

“Miss Rowrer,” she said, pointing with her hand toward the Tuileries, “see what remains of it. There is nothing left. All has passed, all has changed around me. This was once my Paris. It is now yours. I say yours, for, don’t you see, mademoiselle, the true sovereigns are young girls like you with their grace and health? To you the world belongs. Ah, what happiness it is to be young!”

There was a moment of silence. The _dame de compagnie_ was arranging flowers in a vase. The empress sat dreaming. Did she see again the eighteen years of power wherein she held in her hand the scepter of France? Or the palace which had been destroyed, crumbled into dust, leaving not a wrack behind? Did she think of Miss Rowrer, to-day’s young queen, who came to pay her tribute of respect to the royalty of other days? of the conquering force which this young girl represented, the supreme outcome of an ambitious race? of the temptations without number which would assail a creature so spoiled by fate?

Ethel made a motion to take her leave. The empress rose painfully.

“Madame,” Ethel began.

“Allow me; I wish to accompany you,” Eugénie insisted. “Your visit has done me good.”

She leaned lightly on Miss Rowrer’s shoulder as she crossed the room.

“Miss Rowrer, I am going to tell you a great secret,” said the empress, as she was taking leave; “but one must have been an empress to appreciate it rightly. It is this: remain always simple and artless as you were at fifteen. That is the secret of happiness; there is no other, believe me! Adieu, mademoiselle. I wish you all happiness in life.”

* * * * *

Ethel retained through life the vision of this woman in her mourning garments, with the white hair crowning her forehead. She recalled her gentle voice, her refined features—still resembling the portraits of other days, but without the adorable smile.

“Our people,” Ethel said to her grandmother, “interest themselves only in Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe. I wish to make a collection concerning the Empress Eugénie—photographs, statuettes. And I will take back to Chicago her portrait in oils. I’ll have it done here in Paris under my direction. Who is this Phil who, they say, has so much talent, and has painted so fine a portrait for the Salon—a young girl seated among flowers with doves around her? Cecilia Beaux admires it immensely. He has had a second medal, I believe—he has everything he needs to succeed; and he is an American, they say, and poor and ambitious.”

“He is poor and ambitious? Give him a chance,” replied grandma.