"Four years ago he came from Paris here to spend the summer--he was
ver' ill--his heart. We had been living happily, my daughter and I,
but for the one anxiety of her not marrying. He met her and proposed
marriage. He was ver' good--he asked no dowry, and, besides, my
daughter was twenty-five years old--past her first youth. But she
attracted him, and they were married. He took her back to Paris, where
he had a little theater, a hall of the dance--but he grew worse again,
and came back here. It was then that he found out that I had another
daughter, whom I had given to a rich American. I was ver' poor,
monsieur," she added piteously. "My man had died--"
"Yes, madame, I know," I said, touched by her emotion. Plainly she was
telling the truth.
"So he wrote to friends in Amerique, and made questions about Monsieur
Holladay. He learned--oh, he learned that he was ver' rich--what you
call a man of millions--and that his daughter--my daughter,
monsieur--was living still. From that moment, he was like a man
possessed. At once he formed his plan, building I know not what hopes
upon it. He drilled us for two years in speaking the English; he took
us for six months to Londres that we might better learn. Day after day
we took our lessons there--always and always English. Cecile learned
ver' well, monsieur; but I not so well, as you can see--I was too
old.
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