PROLOGUE
The boy was sitting in a corner of the shabby room. The mother watched him from her pillow.
“What are you doing, dear?”
“Drawing, Mother Lovely.”
“Strange! Always drawing. Did I ever tell you that your father was an artist?”
The boy looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes were like her own, dark and velvety; but his sunny hair contrasted with her black braids.
“No, Mother Lovely. Had I a father?”
“Yes, dearest. He died just before you were born. I came here hoping that his people, so rich, so proud, would be glad to see you. But, no, they cannot understand.... We’ll go home together, you and I, to my home.”
“Where is that, Mother?”
“Monaco, the great rock that rises from the sea, where my family has lived for generations. Listen, little son ... if I should not be able to go with you, you must go alone. You will find the house where lives my mother, a plain, quiet house with brown shutters near the Cathedral. In front four pepper-trees shield it from the sun, and through the pines one can see the blue glimmer of the sea....”
“Always beautiful. The people sing from very joy. In the garden of the Prince, just in front of our house, there is a broken pillar covered with ivy. Beside it is a spring where flowers bloom even in summer heat. It was there we used to meet, your father and I.... Ah! I have never regretted it, never....”
Her girlish face was as sweet as a flower, but her eyes held memories too tragic for tears.
Then the door opened and a woman entered with a masterful air.
“I’m preparin’ yer potion, ma’am. The doctor said you was to take it at eight o’clock. Come on, sonny, it’s bedtime. Ma wants to get a good long night.”
The child looked imploringly at his mother. She shook her head.
“No, dearest, you must do what the lady tells you. Come, good-night.”
She held him in her arms, kissing him again and again. “You, too, will be an artist ... but you must be brave, my little son; for you have a hard, hard life before you.”
Then she let him go, but he turned at the door. “Good-night, Mother Lovely.”
“Good-night, darling one. Think of what I told you,—of home....”
She was alone now. Closing her eyes she saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it, the terraced town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. All was glitter and gleam and radiant beauty. Yet yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous, moody, mediæval.
Once more she climbed the long steep hill; she crossed the sunny square in front of the palace; she passed into the cool gloom of the narrow streets. Then at last she stood before the low brown house with its tiny porch and its four pepper-trees....
Home.... Home. Would she ever see it again?
Moaning, she turned her face to the wall.