Praise enough was awarded to
the art, but none of them remembered the artist, who stood apart, grave,
calm, with a certain serene dignity that could not be degraded because
others chose to treat him as the station he filled gave them fit right
to do.
Only one glanced at him with a touch of wondering pity, softening her
pride; she who had rejected the gift of those mimic squadrons.
"You were surely a sculptor once?" she asked him with that graceful,
distant kindness which she might have shown some Arab outcast.
"Never, madame."
"Indeed! Then who taught you such exquisite art?"
"It cannot claim to be called art, madame."
She looked at him with an increased interest: the accent of his voice
told her that this man, whatever he might be now, had once been a
gentleman.
"Oh, yes; it is perfect of its kind. Who was your master in it?"
"A common teacher, madame--Necessity."
There was a very sweet gleam of compassion in the luster of her dark,
dreaming eyes.
"Does necessity often teach so well?"
"In the ranks of our army, madame, I think it does--often, indeed, much
better."
Chateauroy had stood by and heard, with as much impatience as he cared
to show before guests whose rank was precious to the man who had still
weakness enough to be ashamed that his father's brave and famous life
had first been cradled under the thatch roof of a little posting-house.
"Victor knows that neither he nor his men have any right to waste their
time on such trash," he said carelessly; "but the truth is they love the
canteen so well that they will do anything to add enough to their pay to
buy brandy.
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