and she never relaxed a sort of old-fashioned courtesy, which might have
been trying in such close quarters, were it not for the real simplicity
of the life and the spirit and lightness of their race. One night
Florian--there were Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile
--the eldest, drew Medallion aside from the others, and they walked
together by the river. Florian's air suggested confidence and mystery,
and soon, with a voice of hushed suggestion, he told Medallion the
romance of P'tite Louison. And each of the brothers at different times
during the next fortnight did the same, differing scarcely at all in
details, or choice of phrase or meaning, and not at all in general facts
and essentials. But each, as he ended, made a different exclamation.

"Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P'tite Louison!"
said Florian, the eldest.

"Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P'tite Louison," said
Octave.

"Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P'tite Louison:" said
Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion.

"Bien, you should see the linen and the petticoats!" said Isidore, the
humorous one of the family. "He was great--she was an angel, P'tite
Louison!"

"Attends! what love--what history--what passion!--the perfect P'tite
Louison!" cried Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental. "Ah,
Moliere!" he added, as if calling on the master to rise and sing the
glories of this daughter of romance.