HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1899-1-13, Page 6}
BET\TEN
t 1
nee BERTH # et. CLAY.
(Continued.)
CHAPTER. I.
" WOMEN PLAY AT I.OVIL"
"I alp not so unreasonable as to ex -
Peet emelt reason from a gentleman,
Sir Centime; your illustrious Sex is not
firmed toe it; bat I think there are few
men ell the zvoeld brave enough to deny
one feet."
"and what is the .fact, Lady' May?"
Inquireai $ir Clanton.
"it is this: 'heat, let what may bap
pen after Aaa,aritag,:, beirAre marriage a
lady s".ecoid In. every in once have her
own way."
Tee eel:den:an looked slightly puz
tied, and then answered:
whaught la1ies alas had their
own way •t31rou;;dz life --rill that I have
known have d"oue so. My mother. then
whom a sweeter, truer woman never
iSvaKl, pexis quite a parade :of wifely
obedient* and subm^:saaon, but in reality
Elle ruled every thought and every action.
of my father's life."
Lady Mares answer virus a rippling,
neactitl laugh
that was sweet as the
Mere of sil, er bells, yet had in it
Beene l.hin, of •quiet sarcasm that made
tier lover's face flush crianson,
"You laugh, Lady Mee." he Sall,
quickly, "but I plead guilts to eaten'
taiu ng old.-ttebioned notions about
tfeeee things, I believe that raen were
tetra le rule; to command to govern;
women to obey, to advise, to counsel—
to penile, If you will—but decidedly to .s
obey."
"It iv kind of you to adndt that we
eau � gaele end//... counsel," she rep,ltied,
. ode:tigiy. "Ser1ous1y .-Teh klot,'"`,. blip=
toe, I de not tbiuk I shall ever obey,
11 feet a great isaeliurttion to cemmand,
to rule, and to govern --cone for sub-
mission or enething of that kind."
The handsome face oi her lover grew
anxious, half sad, .ashe looked at her.
Bo Mair, ao iraper*ioua, with the pretty
aim .at a rebellious child added to the
chain in of her bewitching beautee
laxly May ecntdaued
"I, myself, no Matter what poets my,
aiev,�r celled admire he Griseldas of the
fvEaridi they have no charm for me,"
ips it would be better for you
ee they bud, May," said Sir Clinton.
She azt4d up one pretty, white Angel,
ss though in Warning:
"You are hound to think axle perfect"
she said; ,a
ed thateiilwields as
though you thought me capable of
great Improvement."
"'So 1 do," be replied, hastily; "at
Inuit, that is--o'lh, May, you r•ontatse
mo, you bewilder me; first with, your
beutttifail eyes, thea with your subtle
*Met"E:1A. I know that my request is a
reasonable one; you cannot drive me
trove the position."
"Pe.-b41As not, bet I may lead you
tem it, Clinton; you know the old sty -
bag about the "thread of silk.'"
"
"I am neither to be led nor driven,"
be eoid; "you are my betrothed wile,
sand if 1 object to anything you do, and
there is meson in my objections, you
aught to yield to me."
"And you really choose to object to
cry waltzing with Count Soldeni—the
count with the dark, dreamy eyes and
musical voice?"
"1 strongly object to it, Lady May. I
object, es I 'have told you before, to
your waltzing at all,"
"That is very absurd," she replied.
" Nt et all," he said, his face flush-
ing, his eyes filling with a deeper light;
"not at ell, May. I have won you from
the wiodd; you are the fairest, the
loveliest woman in It. 1 have won you
for my own; I have held your hard in
mine; I have kissed your lips; I have
sailed you my promised wife. I have
won you by wooing you as I think no
smear ever wooed a woman before."
He paused for the passion of his
Words overcame him.
She looked up in his face.
"You are too earnest," wile said,
chatty.
"Ori, Lady May, do mot be so cold,
se cruel to me, o heartless, sto unlike
reurrelf. How can I bear it after hay-
ing won you thus? how can I bear to
see you waltzing with others, another
msra,s arms round you—you, who ought
only to be approached with the rever-
ence dne to a queen? When you were
waltzing with Count Soldeni, I saw one
of those bright coils of hair lie un-
fastened on his shoulder, and he touch-
aed it --he touched it with his band, and
Reid something laughingly to you."
"Whet of it?" asked Lady May, ells
dninfuily.
The veins on his forehead grew dark,
his hands were tightly clenched.
"Street of it?" he repeated. "Why,
for one Ming, May it opened my eyes;
it showed me the fearful depths in my
awn nature that I did not even know
existed: it showed me of what I was
cape hie if the demon of jealousy were
once fl oused in me." •
"And all because the poor count was
kind r•nous;h to tell me, in the most
flowery enol gallant style possible, that
1 era. of Devat's finest efforts had come
to grief; that—let me try to remember
l drib own wards—that the sun was shin-
ing on his shoulder. It was sem
A:nd again Lady May laughed musi-
aaiay.
"lie 'had no right to say anything of
the kind," was the angry reply. "That
is why I object to waltzing. I main-
tain that It is a light, frivolous dance, !,
and tends to make people forget tlhey
tae strangers.: -Do you think that Count
golden; wouid have dared to ton.yi
your hair even after an acquaintmnee
• of years. had you gait been 'waltzing
i
with him?"
"'rate cause led to the effect," see
said. laughingly. "I cannot see in it
inlay reason 'for such high tragedy se
this.,'
"Peat I do," he persisted. "You wo-
rrier', nfiter ail, have little feeling, Lady
Mans-1itt1e depth -of feeling. Love see,na
to be only a pastime with you. The
mighty passion of a man amuses you;
his heart is a ptaytheng; the fierce fire
of jealousy something to laugh at. You
wave your white hands and lead men
into a very inferno of pain and anger.
You dissect his sufferings, end take
each sepatsaate pang as an extra tribute
tolou,rsel vee. ;I say that you play st
, Ave, and knownothing of its depth or
mesal ing "
She raised her beautiful eyes to lite.
"Perhaps," she said, gently, "the da+
racy come when I sheen remird you of
those wards—"Women play at love, ant
know nothing of its depth and mean.
tee.' You hear that F can repeat them
correctly, and. I repeat also that, elan(
day or other! I sthall bring them ag:,inst
You."
He thew nearer to her; he was to
deeply in earnest that he did pat per
eeive her mood was changing.
"Women play at love, do they, ClIn-
t.w? What of those grand old stories
pieta tell us --are they all untrue? Did
Juliet play at love? Was poor Deade
mead's love play? Was Lady Rue ell's
love for her husband all play? What
of the hapless Sp u dse queen, who for
years refused to leave her dead bus.
band? What of those who have periled
litre, frame, happiness, all for the men
they loved—was it all play? Was it
clay when Eleanor drew Pram the
poisoned wound its venom, and so saved
her king? AIA, Clinton, history, poestee,
fiction, do not tell us wow's leve is
plea y. "
"Times have changed," he said, g1oom-
ily, "Women, used to be earnest, God -
tearing, after a simple faaleion; now
they are, by edea ation, by training, al -
meet by nature, frivolous, night, vain,
t9a•peicious---playing with, great paszeons
as children play with, fire. A.h, May..
why: do you make me say these thiugs?'"
"You any them early enough --they
do not seem to cause you any greet
pain."
"My darling, YOU do eat know what
pain is. You will think ane fierce,
vialeaa- I cannot 'help It• I declare to
you teat, wtben I saw that man's pre-
srunptuous fingers "touch your hair, I
could have slain him; it was as though
e.
fierce fire crept tram nay heart to
zny brain, and nerved my hands to do
strange deeds. Tbere is no fiend. Ito
cruel, no demon so ax+ng, no pain so
terrible as aealouse. You must give
nee the promise I ask, May—that you
will not waltz again, except with me."
A gleam of misehlee hrigiAtened her
lovely face.
"It any eair should leappen to fall os
your shoulder, and you should toucb it,
it would, at course, not natter, Clhr-
tcu?"
"C'ertainiy not; when you pmrwieed
to be my wife, you became all mine ---
that fairest of all Laces, the soft white
hands, every golden hair on that queen-
ly )lead, became minae, No rash hand
nAuet touch you." ,
"It would bare been better had. I
been made of wax; you would have
p'.aaeed me under a rem case then."
"You may laugh, darling; but it is no
laughing matter for me. I could be
jealous of the sun that shines on you,
of the wind that lasses your face, of the
flowers that you caress. I love you, so
dearly that I would take you in the in-
raeet depths of my heart, and keep you
there, shielded from every eye."
"And you would not think that sel-
fish," she said, gently.
"I suppose, I imagine, all great lone
must, of necessity, be selfish," he re-
plied.
"Therein also you are wrong. You
have made two false accusations to -day
—one is, that women play at love; the•
second, that great Iove must be selfish.
Now, I am not superstitious—far from
it—but I have a presentiment that, In
the time to come, I shall be able to
prove to you botch those assertions are
false."
Was it a shadow of the etramge,
weird future that fell over the beau-
tiful face and darkened it? The smiles
faded. Lady May sat for a few min-
utes indeep, silent Thought.
"Shall I ever tame you, my darling?"
said her rover, fondly. "Yon are like
a wild, bright forest bird—shall I ever
tame you?"
"No," sbe replied, and in one min-
ute the bright, gay spirit was all alive
again. "When you can grain an eagle,
a wild r ountain bird, to come and eat
crumbs as the robins do, then you may
tame me, Clinton."
"That will be never; but, May, we
need not spend the whose of this bright,
sunny day in arguing. Give me the
promise, my darling—tell me that you
will never welts with any one except
myself."
There was evidently a struggle in
Lady May's mind; then sbe said, quietly;
"I cannot give you the premise, Clln-
tan; I should not keep It if I did."
She had hardly finished speaking when
the door opened, and a footman enter-
ed the room. A small card lay upon
the silver solver he carried in his hand.
"The Count Sotdeni, my lady," he
said
"What have you told him?" asked
Lady May.
"I said that I did not know whether
your ladyship was at home or not, but
that I would inquire."
"The answer is—not at home," said
Lady Mey, and the servant went away.
She turned with a playful smile to
her lover.
"Now, will you call me cruel? I have
seat the _comet, with his dreamy eyes,
away."
"You sae all that is charming." he
replied.
She •held out her white, jeweled 'brand
to him.
"We wll not enamel any more tae.
lay, then, Clinton. I cannot give roe
the promise, but I will do as the *ewe-
Capers say about. petitions—I wilt take
it into consideration: And now I must.
say good -morning; you have been here
two hours; I have visitors coming; the
two hours hare passed very .quickly."
"My love; -my desitng, make me
happy with that one promise," he said;
but she laud ber white hand , on •hie lips.
and Mewed them.
Those who were conscientiousresign-
e4 after a time; those who were not
made Ago attempt at correction. The
se' tess did when her little daughter
relied her sixth year, and the earl
cared but little for his home. Morda sit,
Earl of Treviyn, was by no means a
model peer; he preferred the gay cities:
of the Continent to his country sect;
he preferred the gay abandon of Con-
theneen life to the calm, measured pr -
priety of English Life. He cared little
about his native land, less about the
duties that should leave detained Wm,
there. He was well pleased with hie.
little daughter, simply because she was
his heiress; and the fact of having an.
heiress saved him from the trouble of
marrying again. Tee edetates of Tre-
vlyn were like the title, unentailed— a
daughter could succeed as well as a
sou, He considered that he had done
his duty remarkably well. He had mar.
ried and his wife, Miss Constance Lock-
wood,
ockwood, was a great heiress; he had lived
with her in peaee .and prosperity—they
had never disputed, She had been fax
too proud ever to say whether her mar-
riage was a happy one or not. ')those
who saw the expression of relief on her
face when she heard that she had to
die, said she could never have known
whet happiness was. Her little daugh-
ter caught her last words, and they
were, "It is all disappointment,"
Then, when his wife died, the earl
had busied her, and had mourned for
lien after the most approved fash )Oil. tis
erected a stately monument to her me -
ivory; a stained-glass window in the
church et Elsdene; a row of aimshousee
called. "Lady Constaance's Bounty,"
were all so many tributes to hex Ane•
teary.. He placed his daughter, atter
her mother's death, under what he con-
sidered proper guardianship, and then
thought it high time that he should en-
joy hlnself.
Looking back on hie life, the emit enm
well pleased with it. As a bachelor, a
married man, and a widower, he am
sidered himself to have been without
reproach. Now that an heiress was
provided for his estates, he gave him,
self up to the enjoyment of the life he
loved, Ile feriae to England at rare
intervals to visit his daughter; he was
satisfied to find her growing more and
more lorely, and in some vague way
seemed to consider there wag greet
eredit due to ham for it. Of her faults
or her virtues he never thought; she
const be highly educated, highly accom-
plished; but he never said she must be
good. Even this guardianship, indif-
ferent
aa itwas,
ended ween Ladya
was only Aileen. The earl enjoyed
him-
self
self too mucic; he died from a sudden
attack of gout, leaving his lovely young
daughter, one et the richest heiresses
and one of the loveliest girl in England,
'What could be expected? Nature had
done much for her; she was marvelous-
ly fair ee face; she was dowered with
some of the richest gifts; she had a
smile like suesbine--a laugh like clear,
sweet music; she had a generous heart,
a large, frank, noble nature, a grand
soul. She was impetuous, imperious,
charming, capricious, and fascinating
beyoud the power of weeds to tell; she
dazzled, bewitched and enchanted; yet
she was never for two hours together
in the same mood; the strange thing
was, that greatly as her snoods varied,
each one seemed to suit hes best. Slue
was gay, laughing, animated, bright,
vivacious, witty, sarcastic, all by turns.
She was thoughtful, silent and given to
reverie, ail by turns; she varied as the
sky and the clouds vary, yet was always
charming.
She had great virtues and great faults,
this fair Lady May; she was by no means
a flirt, yet there were times when one
thought ger the very queen of coquet-
tes, her every action, every gesture had
such an irresistible charm of its own.
At the age of edxteem, Lady May Trey-
lyn was almost alone in the world; she
had a host of distant, titled connections,
but none whom she particularly cared
for. Be the advice of her guardians, she
chose a cousin of her mother's, Miss
Lockwood, to Iive with her, but Miss
Lockwood was a mere cipher—Lady
May ruled with the most absolute so-
vereignty.
CHAPT.B t II[,
"LET ME ENJOY MY YOUTH."
There was perlhsups, no prettier room
in London than this boudoir in Cliffe
House. There was certainly no lovelier
woman than this one who refused her
lover the promise he asked. Cliffe House
was the town residence of the Lady
May. Trevlyau, the sole daughter eare.
heiress of the late Merdauat, Earl ot
Trevlyn, the fairest girl and the wealth-
iest heiress in England. Those who
spoke of Lady May's faults, always ex-
cused , them by saying:
"What could be expected? her mother
had been one of the proudest' women of
the day, far too pi and to see any fault
in her little daughter—far too proud to
believe that any child ofhers could
be anything except perfect."
(TO BE CONTINUED.]
Saw the New Bonnet.
Mrs. Billson—So you met Mrs. De Fash-
ion an the street? I'in so glad 1 They say
she is wearing a new bonnet just import-
ed. Did you see it??
Mr. B.—Y-e-s, I noticed it.
Mrs. B.—That's splendid! How was it
trimmed?
Mr• B.—Well, it had a cowcatcher in
front, a tailboard behind, a flower garden
on top and a job lot of assorted ribbons all
round. You can easily make one like it.
—New York Weekly.
As the Judge Viewed It.
The Judge—That fellow who was be-
fore me today has been fined at least a
dozen times for fast bicycle riding.
Hie Wife—He must have money to burn.
"I don't know how that is, but he cer-
tainly has money for scorching purposes.
—Yonkers Statesman,
Tatting No Chances.
Spacer -Scribbler is an odd stink.
Sorawler—In wbat way?
Spacer -Why, he not only incloses a.,
postage stamp for return of Ms copy, if
rejected, but also a revenue check stamp
in ease it should be accepted,—Town
Topica.
Criticism.
Gifted Amateur -e -Now, Mrs, Vivash, I
really want your opinion. no you think
a glass would improve it?,,
Mrs. Vivnsh (who has had enough of
It)--:M-yrs, "I think ` it would — ground
!sm.—Punch.
Erdal gi
r.)Al2.
J W Li.$ CLARE I
"Ah, , Bernardet, 111,'. Bernardet,"
laughingly said the magistrate, "you
have a weakness for reporters. Do you
want me to tell you something? You
will finish by becoming a journalist,"
"And you will certainly fiuish in the
habit of a member of the academy, M.
Giuory," said the little Bernardet,
with bis air of a mocking abbe.
• CHAPTER XVIII.
Very often after leis release from pris.
on Jacques Dautin went to the corner
cat the cemetery at Monttnartre, where
his friend lay. And ho always carred
Rowers. It had become to him, since
the terrible strain, of bis detection, a
necessity, a habit. The dead are living.
They wait, they uuderstaud, they listen.
It seemed to Dentin that he had but
one aini. Alas, what bad been the
wish, the last dream, of the dead man
would, never be realized ! That fortune
which Rovere had intended for the
child whom he had no right to call his
own would go, was going to some far
off cousins of whose existence the ex-
consul was not oven aware perhaps, and
whom be certainly had never known—
to some indifferent persons, once rela-
tives, .strangers.
"I ought not to have waited for him
to tell me what his intentions were re-
garding his daughter," 'Dantin often
thought. What would become of her,
the poor girl, who knew the secret of
her birth and who remained silent,
piously devoting herself to the old sol-
dier whose name she bore?
Qne day in. February, a sad, gray day,
Jacques Dantin, thinking of the past
winter so nnbappy, of the and secret
grave and heavy, strolled along toward
that granite tomb near which. Rovere
slept. Ho recalled the curious crowd
which bad accompanied his dead friend
to his last resting place, the towers,
the undercurrent of excitement, the
k �t
�Ce*S
j, 'e1wrt,
e is e
r—. -
Very often Jacques Dantin went to the
cemetery where his friend lay.
cortege. Silence now flhled the place 1
Dark shadows could be seen here and
there between the tombs at the end of
paths. It was not a visiting day or an
hour usual for funerals. This solitude
pleased Jacques. He felt near to him
whom he loved.
Louis Pierre Rovere! That name,
which Moniche had had engraved, evok-
ed many remembrances for this man,
who had for a time been suspected of
assassinating him. All his childhood,
all his youth, all the past! How quick-
ly the years had fled, such ruined years.
So much of fever, of agitation—so
many ambitions, deceptions, in order to
end hero!
"He is at rest at least," thought
Dantin, remembering his own life,
without aim, without happiness. And
he also would rest soon, having not
even a friend in this great city of Paris
whom he could depend upon to pay
him a last visit. A ruined, wicked, use-
less life!
He again bade Rovere goodby, speak-
ing to him, palling him thee and thou
as of old. Then he went slowly away.
But at the end of a walk he turned
around to look once more at the place
where his friend lay. He saw, coming
that way, between the tombs, as if by
some cross alley, a woman in black,
who was walking directly toward the
place he had left.: He stopped, waiting
-yes, it was to Revere's tomb that she
was going. Tall, svelte, and as far as
Jacques. Dantin could see, she was
young. He said to himself:
"It is his daughter!"
The memory of their last interview
game to him. He saw his unhappy
friend, haggard, standing in front of
his opensafe, searching through his pa-
pers for those which represented his
child's fortune. If this was his friend's
daughter, it was to him that Rovere had
.-^had to anon tier fatale.
Me walked slowly back $o the tomb.
'Phe woman in black was`now kneeling
near the gray stone. Bent over, . arrang-
ing a bouquet of chry santhemums.whicla
she had brought, Dantin could see only
her kneeling form and black draperies.,
She was praying now.
Dantin stood looking at her, and
when at last she arose he saw that she
was tall and elegant in her :mourning.
robes. Lie advanced toward her. The
noise of his footsteps on the gravel.
caused her to turu her head, and Den-
tin saw a beautiful face, young; and sad.
She had blond: hair and large eyes,
which opened wide in surprise. He saw
the same expression of the eyes which
Rovero's bad borne.
The young woman instinctively made
a moveineut as if to go away, to give
place to the newcomer, but Dautiustop-
ped her with a gesture.
"Do not go away, mademoiselle. I
am the best friend of the one who sleeps
here,"
She stopped, pale and timid.
"I know very well that you loved)
him," he added,
She unconsciously let a. frightened?
cry escape her and looked helplessly
aroulHe told me all," Dantin slowly
said. "I am Jacques Dantin, Ho has;
spoken to you of me, I blink"--.
"Yes," the young Woman answered.
Dantin involuutarify shivered. Her
voice had the same timbre as Rovere'::.
In the silence of the cemetery, near
the tomb, before that name, Louis Pierre
Rovere, wl 'eh seemed almost like the
presence of his deed friend, Dantin felt
the temptation to reveal to this girl
what her father had wisher) her to lbiow.
They knew each other without ever
having met, Ona word was enough, one
Dente was sudioient, in order that the
secret which united them should bring
there nearer each ether. What Dentin
was to Revere, Rovere bad told Marthe
again and again,
Then, as if from the depths of the
tomb, Rovere had ordered him to speak.
Jacques Dantin, in the solemn silence of
that city of the dead, confided to the
young girl what her father had tried to
tell. hitn, Ile spoke rapidly. The words,
- A legacy—in trust ---a fortune, fell
frown Iain lips, but,the young girl quickly
interrupted him with a grand gesture.
"I do not wish to know what any one
has told- you of me. I am the daughter
of a Haan who awaits title at Blois, who
is old, who loves only rue, who needs
only me, and I need nothing."
There was in her tone an accent of
comniaud, of resolution, which Dentin
recognized as one of Rovere's most re-
markable characteristics,
Iiad Dantin known nothing this
sound in the voice, this ardent look on
the pale face, would have given him a
hint or a suspicion and have obliged
Lim to think of Rovere. Revere lived
again in this woman in black whom
Jacques Dantin saw for the first time.
"Then?" asked thisfriend of the dead
man, as if awaiting an order
"Then," said the young girl in her
deep voice, "when you meet mo near
this tomb do net speak to nee of any-
thing, If you should meet me outside
this cemetery, do not recognize nee.
The secret which was confided to you by
the one who sleeps there is the secret of
a dead one whom I adored, my mother,
and of a living person whom I rever-
ence, my father."
She accented the words with a sort of
tender, passionate piety, and Jacques
Dantin saw that ber eyes were filled
with tears,
Jacques still wished to speak of that
last confidence of the dying man, but
she said again:
"Adieu!"
With her hand, gloved in black, she
made the sign of the crops, smiling sad -
]y as she looked at the tomb where the
chrysanthemums lay; then, lowering her
veil, she went away, and Dantin, stand-
ing near the gray tomb, saw her disap-
pear at the end of an alley.
The martyr, expiating near the old
crippled man a fault of which she was
innocent, went back to him who was
without suspicion, to him who adored
her and to whom she was in their poor
apartment in Blois his saint and his
daughter.
She would 'watch, she would lose her
youth, near that old soldier whose ro-
bust constitution would endure many,
many long years. She would pay her
dead mother's debt; she would pay it
by devoting every hour of her life to
this man whose name she bore—an il-
lustrious name, a name belouging to
the victories, to the struggles, to the
history of yesterday. She would be the
hostage, the expiatory victim.
Witli all her life would she redeem
the fault of that other.
"And who knows, my poor Rovere,"
said Jacques Dantin, "thy daughter,
proud of her sacrifice, is perllaps 'hap-
pier in doing this!"
In his turn he ]eft the tomb. He went
out of the cemetery. He wished to walk
to his lodging in the Rue Richelieu. He
had only taken a few steps along the
boulevarcl, where it seemed but yester-
day he had followed, talking with
Bernardet, behind Revere's funeral car-
riage, when he uearly ran into a little
man who was hurrying along the pave-
ment. The police officer saluted him,
with a shaking of the head which had
in it regret, a little confusiou, some ex-
Cu88al.
"Ab, M. Dantin, what a grudge yon
must have against me!"
"Not at all," said Dantin. "You
thought that you were doing yonr duty,
and it did not displease me to have you
try so quickly to avenge my poor Ro-
vere.''
"Avenge him! Yes, hewn' be aveng-
ed! I would not give 4 sons for Charles
Prades' head tomorrow, when he is
tried. We shall see each other in court.
Au revoir, M. Dantin, andall ray'ex-
cuses!"
"Au revoir, M. Bernardet, and all
my compliments!"
The two Arlen separated. Bernardet
was on his way home to breakfast. He
was late. Mme. Bernardet would be
waiting, and a little red and breathless
he hurried along. Ho stoppedonhear-
ing a newsboy announce the last num-,
ber of Lutece.
"Ask for the account of the trial to-
morrow, the inquest by Paul Rodier on
the crime of the Boulevard de Clichy 1"
The newsboy saluted Bernardet, whom
he knew very well.
"Give me a paper P•' said the police
officer. The boy palled out a paper from
the package be was carrying and waved
it over his head like a flag:
"Ab, I 'understand; that 'interests
you, M. Bernardet!"
And while the little man looked for
the , heading Lutece in capital letters,
the title which Paul Rodier had given
to a series of interviews with celebrated
physicians, the newsboy, giving Pier
-
nutlet his change, said:
"Tomorrow is the trial. But there is
no doubt, is there, Mi Bernardet? Prades
is eondemped in advance!"
"He has confessed; it is an accom-
plished fact," 13eruardet replied, pock-
eting lyes change.
".1u -avoir and thanks, M. Berns
del."
aM
" Q
Bent over, arranfl eg a bouquet of chr?!s
anthem tens trtceela she had Lrou(.tlat-
And the newsboy, going on his way,
cried out:
"Ask for Luteee--the Rovere trial.
The affair tomorrow. Paul Rodier's in-
quest on the eye of the dead man." His
voice was et last drowned in the noise
of tramways and cabs,
M. Bernardet bnrried on. The little
ones 'would have become impatient,
yes, yes, waiting for him and asking
for )Aim around the table at home. Ile
looked at the paper which he had
bought, Paul Realer, in regard to the
question which he, Bernardet, had.
raised, bad interviewed savants, phys-
iologists, psychologists, and in good
journalistic style had published the
evening before the trial the result of
his inquest,
115, Bernardet read as he hastened
along the long titles in capitals in large
headlines:
"A. scientific problem apropos of the
Rovere affair."
"Questions of medical jurisprudence,"
"The eye of the dead Arrau."
"Interviews and opinions of MM.
les Drs. Brouardel, Roux, Duclaux,
Peau, Robin, Pozzi, Blum, Widal,
Gilles de la Tourette"—
Bernardet turned the leaves. The in-
".erviews filled two pages at least in sol-
id columns.
"So much the better. SV pluck"the
better," said the police officer, enchant-
ed. And hastening along even faster he
said to himself:
"I am going to read all that to the
children—yes, all that. It will amuse
them. Life is a romance like any other,
more incredible than any other. And
these questious—the unknown, the in-
visible, all these problems—how inter-
esting they are! And the mystery—so
amusing!"
TEE END.
Where Is Henson?
"Perhaps the first question that pre-
sents itself regarding heaven is its lora
tion;" writes Evangelist Dwight L.
Moody in The Ladies' Home Journal.
"For my part, I am not satisfied with
the vagueness that describes my future
home as everywhere and nowhere. I
read that the Master promised his dis-
ciples au' abode in his Father's man-
sions, whither he was going to prepare
them a place, and in the Revelation the
Auostle John described the wondrous
beauties of the city of God. The Evan-
gelist Luke tells us that Christ ascended
from the little group of his disciples as
they followed him out toward Bethany
and that while they stood gazing up in-
to heaven there appeared unto them two
messengers to cheer them with the
promise of his Doming again, and so it
is with the child of God when the earth-
ly pilgrimage is over. The soul ascends
to those mansions which Christ has gone
on before to prepare for those who love
him. The location of heaven is not an
important matter. Christ said very lit-
tle about its situation, but a great deal
about its being with God. To be sure,
God is everywhere, but heaven is his
home; it is the Father's house. It is
not the homestead that makes home the
most attractive place on earth, but it
those who live there, and so it will be.
with heaven."
Women Bullfighters.
Two of the most popular and richest
bullfighters in Spain are women, the
sisters Lola and Angelica Pretel to wit,
natives of Brandenburg, in Germany. As..
girls they were circus riders, and then
it occurred to their manager to make
them toreros. The Pretel sisters were
successful from the, beginning. Now
they are owners of a large troop, or
quadrille, composed of women >bande-
rillos-fighters on foot—and picadors,
or horseback riders: They take this
troop from town to town in . Spain,
giving exhibitions wherever they are
'booked during the season, which lasts
from May till October each year. • Bach
of these women earns about 500,000 pe-.
setae in a single season (£25,000). Out
of this amount she must furnish all her
elaborate costumes, for indeed she is
dressed in `"spangles and gold, and
pay all expenses of the quadrille. They
have a magnificent villa near Madrid,
with training quarters unsurpassed in
Spain.
Unfortunate.
The Lady -You brute, you've pawned
everything I"ever had of any value.
The Brute -Just my luck. If I could'
pawned you and kept them, what a
happy man I should .be 1—Pick Mie Up.
Two Heurte That Beat as Two.
I' bel—So 'theyare married! Are
they, still two souls with but a single
thou .ht?
s
Ma —Yes; how.tb be as disagreeable
say tile. -Brooklyn Life.
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