**** ROTATE **** **** ROTATE **** **** ROTATE **** **** ROTATE ****

Find this Story

Print, a form you can hold

Wireless download to your Amazon Kindle

Look for a summary or analysis of this Story.

Enjoy this? Share it!

PAGE 9

A Procession Of Umbrellas
by [?]

“Very pretty–” still the same monotone.

“And you love her!” It was up to the hilt now.

“She is the only thing I have left to love, Monsieur,” he answered, calmly.

Then, bending over me, he added:

“Monsieur, I do not think I am mistaken. Were you not painting along the river this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And a little child stood beside you while you worked?” Something in his voice as he spoke made me raise my head. To my intense amazement the listless eyes were alight with a tenderness that seemed to permeate his whole being, and a smile of infinite sweetness was playing about his mouth–the smile of the old saint–the Ribera of the Prado!

“Yes, of course; the one playing with the priest,” I answered, quickly. “But–“

“No; that was me, Monsieur. I have often been taken for a priest, especially when I am off duty. It is the smooth face that misled you–” and he passed his hand over his cheeks and chin.

“You the priest!” This came as a distinct surprise. “Ah, yes, I do see the resemblance now. And so your sweetheart is the woman in the white cap.” At last I had reached his tender spot.

“No, you are wrong again, Monsieur. The woman in the white cap is my sister. My sweetheart is the little girl–my granddaughter, Susette.”

* * * * *

I raised my own white umbrella over my head, picked up my sketch-trap, and took the path back to the river. The rain had ceased, the sun was shining–brilliant, radiant sunshine; all the leaves studded with diamonds; all the grasses strung with opals, every stone beneath my feet a gem.

I didn’t know when I left what became of Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud, with her last lover under the sod, and the new one shut up in the kiosk, and I didn’t care. I saw only a little girl–a little girl in a brown-madder dress and yellow-ochre hat; with big, blue eyes, a tiny pug-nose, a wee, kissable mouth, and two long pig-tails down her back. Looking down into her bonny face from its place, high up on the walls of the Prado, was an old cracked saint, his human eyes aglow with a light that came straight from heaven.