She has two other daughters and four sons. That is too much for any woman."

"You had better not say that to mother," laughed Molly. "The only time I ever saw her lose her temper with Aunt Clay, who would try the patience of a saint, was when Aunt Clay intimated that it would be much more economical if there had been only half of us, three children and a half instead of seven. I was a tiny little girl, but I can remember how I crawled under the table I was so scared. I had never seen mother get really mad before and she turned on Aunt Clay in such a rage that I felt sorry for her. You know it must have been pretty bad if I felt sorry for Aunt Clay, for she is the one person in the world I can't like."

"Molly, we are alike in more ways than one! She is an abomination unto me! Sarah Clay made my childhood unhappy. You see, I had no regular home as my mother and I were very poor. We spent much of our time visiting and Cousin George Carmichael, your grandfather, was goodness itself to us. The Carmichael place was more like home than any other to me. I simply loved it and spent many happy hours playing with your dear mother; but Sarah never lost a chance to rub it in on me that I was in a measure a dependent. As a child it would cut me to the quick; but as I got older and made my visits at Cousin George's, I would retaliate by making game of my older cousin; and no one can abide being made fun of.

I tell you I gave her t.i.t for tat and usually came out ahead. But we must stop this whispering. Your mother can't stand any criticism of her sister. Some day we can get together and say all the mean things we've a mind to about old Sarah!" Then the marchioness was transformed in the twinkling of an eye from the naughty Sally Boiling to the gracious hostess, seeing that her guests were seated and leading the conversation into the most agreeable channels.

The dinner was perfect, every detail in absolute taste, served beautifully but with an elegant simplicity. Molly made mental notes on the sauce with the fish, trying to find out without asking what was in it; and then the gravy with the filet of beef occupied her attention.

Such a wonderful gravy with a character all its own. She remembered what Edwin Green had told her of the Frenchman who was visiting America. When asked his impressions of the country, he had said: "America is a country with a thousand different religions and one sauce." She wondered what Miss Morse would think of this gravy, and smiled as she recalled the lecture on gravies delivered by that highly educated teacher of domestic science and the smooth, perfect specimen she demonstrated, with no more flavor than Miss Morse herself.

"What is the little joke my Cousin Mollee is having all to herself,"

asked the marquis.

Molly frankly confessed what had made her smile, since her cousin wanted to know, and of course in her confession praise of the gravy had to be included.

"Brava, brava," and the Marquis d'Ochte clapped his hands. "She is like my Sara in all ways. She is also a discriminator in foods. This gravy, my dear Mademoiselle, is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of my chef. You notice the butler, Jules, has left the room. _Pourquoi_ does he go? He cannot wait to tell Gaston, the chef, that Madame's cousin from across the seas has been so gracious as to praise his work of art. If you will turn ever so little you will see the happy face of Gaston peeping in to view the beautiful young lady."

Molly turned, and sure enough, tip-toeing to see over the shoulder of Jules the butler, was Gaston, his face radiant.

"Molly is a wonderful cook herself," said Judy. "She has an instinct for food that is truly remarkable. At college an invitation to a Molly Brown spread was looked upon with greater reverence than being asked to have tea with the President. But has she not learned from Aunt Mary, that dear old colored woman who cooks like an angel? We trembled for fear that the domestic science teacher would ruin Molly's touch and make her too academic, but I hope it hasn't."

"Dear Aunt Mary, I had almost forgotten her!" exclaimed the marchioness.

"Don't tell me you can make Aunt Mary's spoon corn bread, Molly! If you can, I'll make the Bents move out of their studio to-morrow so you can move in. And I'll come to live with you and get you to make me some for every meal until all the cornmeal to be purchased at the American grocers' is used up!"

"Indeed she can, Sally, and many things besides. Aunt Mary has initiated her into all the secrets of her trade," said Mrs. Brown. "I remember so well hearing the old woman say to Molly, when she was a little girl, 'Ef you wan' ter know how ter make bread, you have ter begin at de beginnin'. Now yeast is de fust an' maindest thing and tater yeast is the onliest kin' fit ter use, an' you can't git taters 'thout diggin'

'em; so fer the fust step, s'pose you go an' dig some taters.' So, you see, my Molly can do it all."

"Oh, how I love to hear about Aunt Mary!" sighed Philippe. "Am I to have some of this ambrosial bread, too, Cousin Molly?"

"Yes, indeed, but I am afraid the meal we get in Paris will not be right. Tell us, Cousin Sally, about the studio in the Rue Brea. Can we get it? We have had so many things to talk about, we have not asked you about it."

"The Bents expect to go to Italy for six months and are very much pleased to have good tenants in their absence. I am going to take you and your mother and Miss Kean, if she can come, to see the place to-morrow morning. The rent is reasonable, ridiculously cheap even, one hundred and twenty-five francs a month."

Mrs. Brown's face fell at the rental named by her cousin. The marchioness saw it and gave a merry laugh. "I know just what you are doing, Milly; you are thinking in dollars. I said a hundred and twenty-five _francs_; that is only twenty-five dollars."

"Oh, how silly I am! I did think you meant dollars. Of course, that is cheap and well within our means. We are so grateful to you, Sally, and I am sure it will suit," said Mrs. Brown, blushing at her mistake, which she need not have done as it is no easy matter to think in foreign money.

The dinner went gaily on. Molly and Judy told Philippe all about Wellington College, and he in turn had much to tell them of Nancy, where he had been studying forestry after his course at the Sorbonne. The marquis and marchioness had many questions to ask Mrs. Brown of the relatives in Kentucky. The talk was interesting and delightful and they felt as though they had known one another always.

They lingered over their coffee and cheese until the butler announced that the limousine was at the door ready to take them to the Opera.

There was a general move for wraps and gloves, but Philippe stopped his mother long enough to embrace her and whisper in her ear: "Both of them are jewels and I can't tell which one is the more precious"; and Molly and Judy, unconscious of their being rivals, hugged each other in Cousin Sally's boudoir and said in chorus: "What an Adonis!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE OPERA.

The ride through the brilliantly lighted streets; across the Seine with its myriad of small boats with their red and green lanterns; through the Place du Carrousel where the Louvre loomed up dark and mysterious; under the arch and across the Rue de Rivoli; then into the Avenue de l'Opera, seemed to Mrs. Brown and Molly the very most delightful experience of their "great adventure." It was an old story to Judy but one she could not hear too often, this Paris at night; and the marchioness confessed that after thirty years, the Avenue, if you approached it as they were doing, gave her a thrill that was ever new and wonderful. They proceeded slowly, as the procession of automobiles was endless.

"The horse is almost an extinct animal in Paris," said the marquis to Mrs. Brown, who had remarked that she feared she was coming to Paris too late to see the much written of type of "cab, cab horse and cabby." One sees occasionally a specimen of the old days: rickety cab, thin horse and fat, red-faced _cocher_; but such an equipage seems to be in demand only by the very timid who are afraid to trust themselves to the modern means of locomotion. Those poor souls are not, as a rule, on the boulevards at this hour, but shut snugly behind doors, locked and barred, safe from the "dread Apaches and all the terrors of the night."

"I love automobiles," exclaimed Molly, "but nothing could ever take the place of a horse to me, even a poor, abused, old cab horse."

"Ah then, you can ride!" cried the delighted Philippe. "And you, too, Miss Kean? American girls are the finest on earth surely," (only he said "sholy"). "We have horses at _Roche Craie_ and all of us ride. Mother is a splendid horsewoman."

"Yes indeed, I am going to ride just as long as a horse can be found big enough to carry me," laughed the marchioness. "Sometimes I think my poor beast must look like a pet duck I had when I was a child. It got run over by a wagon, and my old mammy said, 'Yo' lil duck got run over, honey chile. He is right down in the back but still able to bear up!'

"But it is fine that you girls can ride, and when you come to visit us at _Roche Craie_ you can have some famous gallops. I hate the English riding horse with his eternal trotting and the rider working himself to death posting. Our horses are good Kentucky riding stock with gaits. I hope you brought your riding habits."

"I did!" and "I did!" said Molly and Judy almost in the same breath.

"I never move without my riding habit, bathing suit and skates,"

declared Judy. "I learned my lesson about my bathing suit once when I spent the summer in camp with Papa. I did not know we would have any bathing worthy the name and did not put mine in the trunk. When we got there we found that the only form of bath that could be had was in a creek as there was not even a basin in camp, and there was I without a bathing suit! Papa was furious at my stupidity. We were miles from any kind of shop. 'Necessity is the mother of invention,' so I took a big laundry bag, cut slits for arms and legs, tied the draw string around my neck, and with a neat belt I looked quite chic. It did not give me much freedom for swimming but I could at least get the necessary bath."

Every one roared at the picture Judy drew of herself tied up in the laundry bag and just then they got out of the jam on the Avenue, crossed the great Boulevard des Italiens, and stopped at the beautiful entrance to the Opera.

The d'Ochte box was in the first tier and proved very roomy and comfortable, commanding an excellent view of the house as well as the stage.

"We have come early on purpose," said the marchioness, "as I wanted you to see the house fill. I can point out any celebrities I happen to know before the performance begins."

The girls and Mrs. Brown were seated in the front, with the host and hostess and their son in the back of the box. There were two extra seats, but madame declared that she liked to have some left for visitors.

"_Louise_ is the opera of all others to introduce strangers to Paris,"

explained Philippe to Molly. "It is Paris, Paris sounds, Paris sights, the tragedy and comedy of Paris."

Molly was devoutly thankful that she had bought the libretto of the opera of _Louise_ when she and her mother had ventured out to see the tomb of Napoleon after the visit of Cousin Sally in the morning; and when they were taking their much needed rest before dressing for dinner in the Faubourg, she had read it aloud to her mother.

"I was so afraid I might miss something," she explained ingenuously to her cousin. "You see, mother and I want to see and hear everything we can. We have done so little traveling and seen so little in our lives that this coming to Paris is like a visit to fairyland to us. I am afraid I'll wake up and find it is all a dream."

"I feel as though I were in a dream, too," said Philippe. "I have had so little chance to talk to girls like you and Miss Kean. _La jeune fille_, _bien elevee_, in France is so missish and afraid to speak out to a man.

You and your friend look me straight in the eye without the least affectation of timidity, just as though you were boys instead of girls; and at the same time you are delightfully feminine. It is a strange thing to me to watch one of these girls of my country, with downcast eyes and so much modesty she can hardly speak above a whisper. The moment she becomes _madame_ all this timidity disappears, and in the twinkling of an eye she is the charming young married woman, full of all the arts and graces. The transformation is so sudden, it makes one doubt the sincerity of the former modesty. Mother says the French girl is thus because it is what the average Frenchman wants, the old story of supply and demand. But I am half Anglo-Saxon and want no such person for my wife. My mother has spoiled me, and I can never be happy with a hypocrite."

Molly smiled, thinking that while her cousin was declaring himself Anglo-Saxon, he was certainly not talking like one. Such candor is seldom seen in the male Anglo-Saxon. His warmth and fervor were decidedly French.

The house was beginning to fill and many gla.s.ses were leveled at the box of Madame la Marquise d'Ochte. The general verdict was that it was a very effective grouping. Certainly there were not two middle-aged women in the whole audience more distinguished looking or handsomer than the marchioness and her cousin; nor were there two fresher or sweeter looking girls, charming in their eagerness to see and not for one moment conscious that they were attracting any attention. The marquis and Philippe formed a pleasing background of masculinity to these beautiful women.

The opening scene, _Louise's_ garret room in her father's house with the view through the window of her lover's studio; the duet with her lover in which she tells him of her father's refusal to their marriage; and then her promise to run away with him in event of her parent's persisting in his hard-hearted resolution to separate them, seemed to Molly most wonderful and touching; but when the mother came in and berated the lover, _Julien_, as "a rascal, a starveling, a dissipator"; and when _Louise_ defended him as being "so good, so courageous," and the mother retaliated by calling him the pillar of a wine shop and attempted to beat her daughter, Molly covered her eyes and wept, all unconscious of the amused glances of the occupants of the neighboring box.

But in a moment she was watching again: The father has come in and there is some sort of reconciliation between him and Louise, although her mother is still furious and slaps her in the face when she takes up for him; then the father interferes and embraces _Louise_, and they are finally all seated around the table, the mother with her sewing, the father with his pipe, when _Louise_ starts to read aloud from the newspaper: "The Spring Season is most brilliant. All Paris is in holiday garb." _Louise_ stops reading and after a moment sobs: "Paris----" and the curtain slowly descends.

There was a storm of applause, and Molly came to the realization that she was in a fair way to have a red nose if she did not control her emotions. She gave a sad little smile and hoped that Philippe would talk to Judy and let her be sure of herself before she trusted her voice.

As she looked out over the "sea of upturned faces," she saw Mr. Kinsella and Pierce in the pit. They were applauding vigorously but Mr. Kinsella had an eye on their box, evidently in hopes of recognition. Molly gave him a delighted bow and then told her mother and the marchioness of his presence. The marquis overheard her remark.

"What! Do you mean my old friend, Tom Kinsella? Where, where? Point him out to me. I'll go and bring him to our box."

He hurried out and made his way to where the Kinsellas were seated. The twenty-five years since he had seen his American friend were forgotten.