"Do you think to persuade me that
yonder is the sun--the great, golden, glorious, bountiful sun? No, no, my
child! Where I come from, we have the only true sun, and believe in no
other!"
"But you come from France, don't you, Monsieur Maurice?" I asked quickly.
"From the South of France, petite--from the France of palms, and
orange-groves, and olives; where the myrtle flowers at Christmas, and the
roses bloom all the year round!"
"But that must be where Paradise was, Monsieur Maurice!" I exclaimed.
"Ay; it was Paradise once--for me," he said, with a sigh.
Thus, after a moment's pause, he went on:--
"The house in which I was born stands on a low cliff above the sea. It is
an old, old house, with all kinds of quaint little turrets, and gable ends,
and picturesque nooks and corners about it--such as one sees in most French
Chateaux of that period; and it lies back somewhat, with a great rambling
garden stretching out between it and the edge of the cliff. Three
_berceaux_ of orange-trees lead straight away from the paved terrace
on which the salon windows open, to another terrace overhanging the beach
and the sea. The cliff is overgrown from top to bottom with shrubs and wild
flowers, and a flight of steps cut in the living rock leads down to a
little cove and a strip of yellow sand a hundred feet below.
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