Evening Star Newspaper, November 1, 1890, Page 7

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D, C.; SATURDAY. IRMA SALLE, Or, A POET’S LOVE. WRITTEN FOR THE EVENING STAB BY ALPHONSE DAUDET. —_—— THR ENGLISH ADAPTATION BY PHILLIPE PREVOST. — CHAPTER L HAT A YOUNG NOBLEMAN who had inherited from his ancestors a dis- inguixhed name, ® snug fortune and simost striking manly beauty should have Seon @i to enter the literary areua, take the hard knocks of captious critis and beer Patiently with editorial contumely uutil he had wrested from them distinct and marked recog- nition as a poet was something which the gay Parisian world of ten years ago could not com- preheud. But Count Charles d’Athis-Mons, although his suave and debounair exterior might lead you to list him almost anywhere else than among earnest men, was nevertheless gman of radical thought and in no way a contemner of the conventional. For the third time now the poet had left his writing desk, the top of which was strewn with papers and magazines, and walked to the window. He was evidentiy expecting some on Each time as ie made his way back to his ¢: chair he aused to gaze upon the face of i ant, which lay almost 1 an elegant wicker crib richly ornamented with oid lace and blue satin ribbon, the upper cover- let of which bore embroidered in goid thread the arms of the Counts of dst ion, Snd- denly a vigorous pull set the door boll dancing and caused Count Charles to give a dep sigh of relief as if he were glad of something or other. In a moment « tall woman of most dis- tinguished appearance, her beautiful features being admirably set off by a great wealth of snow wiite hair, fairly burst iato the room. “Mother! Myson!" were the words rapidly | @xchanged, and then, scarcely waiting unti) Count Charles had had a chance to press & hasty kiss upot her forehead, the countess dowager threw herself upon her knees beside the sleeping babe. For an instant her eyes were riveted in breathless silence upon that little face, her lips were parted and her gloved hand clutched ner- vously at the embre jot, but almost aa quickly the tears tilled her eyes and a smile | of great sweetness spread over her placid, “Tl go to grandma myself, Monsieur Bebe Viscount Robert d’Athis-Mous.” cried Count Charles, laughingly, “aud make your npolo- gies.” ‘The countess dowager for once seemed quite reconciled to tho lows of the visit which brought her so much joy, und after the usual exchange of the compliments of the day sho bade her son close the dvor of her boudoir and take a seat beside her. “Myson,” she began in an almost solemn tone, ““I've been thinking a great deal about you of late.” “Oh, mother——” “Nay, don’t interrupt me, Charles,” she con- tinued, laying her hand on his arm, “And the thought came to me that i was growing old and that I would be willing to fage death so much more contentedly if I could first see you happily married.” Count Charivs gave a etart, and the blood surged u to his brain, Ler,” he stammered, “you forget— replied the dowager, with singuiar “L have chseovered to my inexpress- a certain young girl of the oldest uthouta dowtr, aud one who has loved you and adored your genius, is in 200 by Robert's existence— Count Charles dared not look upon his mother’s face. He felt asif the whole world was crumbling away beneath bis teet, His mother pretended not to notice the look of mingled dread and anxiety which had settled upon bis countenance. “Yes, me dear son,” she went on coldly and calmly, “this adorable young girl met Kobert here only last woek and such was the warmth with which she clasped the child to her bosom that 1 was emboldeued to interrogate he son, you are a fortupate man. Attribute this concession to your genius, for I can assure you that France holds ne nobler, purer-——" “Mother, mother—" cried Count Charles, springing to his feet. “Silence, my soa!” exclaimed the countess dowager, her face purple with rage, “you shall hear me out. I tell you you stand upon the brink of # precipice. Collect your thoughts snd call to mind, sir, that it lies witihin my power to name the iegatce of 20,000 francs in- come, my private and separate estate, to which your father had no claiz, and that unless you consent to marry Aurelie de Seychelles within ible joy thi bi broke in Count Charles, facing ith visage so inflamed with an- never had seen her son's calm and placid coun- tenance thus distorted, “Impossible, leay, madam!" he burst out. “You have thought of Robert, but there is still another, of whom you have not thought— you have not thought of Irma!” It was the first time Count Charles had ever mentioned Irma’s name in his mother's pres- ence. It hadcost himanewfort, but now that his ears had heard the souad it bad no more motuerly face. HOW PEAUTIFUL BE Is. “Oh, my son, how beantiful he is,” she mur- | mured, «Ho How like your father. Tha But I must at! | ing to have his | nest, for he felt | mother lift ident that when its glorions eyes. so nite contd fall of wouderment, were fixed upon the little "3 triumph 4 . only | Count ¢ was forced to admit t erance his | fa ther one- half as many pet nw s of en- Gearment and ¢ Thess us | welled up from that nother’s heart. But | sfter an hour sp a toxsmg, coddling and he light-hearted listic being, which ecoantess’ attentions with an PPIy of suriles med suddenly th » few words of adieu | withdrew from bis apartmeats, e to her son, Scarcely had the countess dowager when a female figure, clad in @ loose silk house robe, richly garn.tnred with Ince, glided across the room, and, as if hardiy daring to ask fof news of the uiterview, passed an arm in silence around the poet's neck. “Just as Lexpected, my darling Irma,” said Count Charles, other lighted with him. How could it be otherwise, dearest? There never was anything quite so beautiful as our little Robert. Ly the way, Irma, destroved those verses which I made yesterday and am going to try again. My art never scomed so helpless as it does now. “Will your mother come again soon, Charlie: tumidly quired the young woman addressed as Irma, “Oh, bless your heart, yes,” cried Count Charles, “every other day for the present, and when the weather is fair I've promised that Robert shall be carried to see her now and then. These grandmothers, Irma, are very exacting and we must submit to their whims. my dearest, with as good a grace as possible.” A troubled look overspread the strangely beautiful face which was bent over Count Charles, and the faultiessl; vunded arm still encircling his neck tightened convulnively, “Be patient and trust in me, my darling,” were the words which fell from his lips. In spite of the native dignity of the young woman and the rich and eleant gown which she wore she seemed to be out of place us she stood there by the id Grace she had, wild an nd quality and d the delicacy of the high bred woman, and yet, there was such a purity of outline about her face and figure and her sbapely head was poised so exquisitely upon her shoulders that«t med, as Count Charle ‘was wont to say, like a “Greek goddess return- ing sunburnt from « summer's outing.” Cer- tainly there was that avout her which seemed to entitle her to the ciaim playfully made in her bebalf by the poet that she was o daugh' of the east and that one of; ber ancestors was among the number of Greek colonists who settled at Mar- seilles in the olden time. but in sober fact, Irma Salle was of the humblest origin, being @ daughter of a poacher wio was still alive and whose cottage stood on the edge of Kambouil- let forest, where Irma had been reared and where, barefooted, bareheaded and barearmed, she had ranged in shadow aud suushine and | acquired the wild woodland grace and delicious abandon of the true child of nature which had served her so weil in later hfe. When scarcely arrived at womanhood stories of her beauty had been borne to l’aris by stroll- aud it was not long before old Father Salle was moved by visions of a golden to wend his daughter to the great city | of the plain, where her exquisite Greek face | soon looked from the canvases of the eminent painters of the day and was eagerly sought after by the visitors of the various exhibitions, Irma was oppressed by ber sudden fame; but while it d her it fascinated her, and she gave herself up to its full enjoyment as if it were as barmiess as a mad chase through Ram- bouillet forest, D’Athis’ verses had more than once added verve and zest to Irma’s bewitching personality, although her portrait had been his sole inspira- tion. Now, however, the hour was drawing | near when their paths were to cross. | Upon leaving the theater one night he had | fnterfered to su oman from it thought, at the t he was her chosen escort. D'Athis ed greatness as a duelist even be- fore he bad acquired fame as @ poet, and when, door closed behind the | terror for him, and he repeated: “You have not thought of Irma, of Irma, I say “Tut, tut, wild boy, compose yourself,” ro- femea his mother, taking one of ‘his hands in ers. “You wrony me; 1 have thought of her.” “And—" half gasped Count Charics, “] will provido ior her geuerously, very gen- erously, my son. Don's worry; eie'll be de- lighted, mark my words; shell be handsomely fixed for life, and ina few years she, you, I, all of us will forget everything, everything, my son!” “Spare me, mother, sparo me!” exclaimed Count Charies, hiding bis face in his hands, At that moment Mademoiseile Seychelles Was anuounced, and as scon as the countess ad passed into the salon her sou the house; bat he dared not go back ents. Irma would read kis most “Tiuast calm down betoro red to himseif. “She of the forest and would scent an euemy instautly. Ob, my poor boy, my Robert, my Lobert!” ot until after a jong walk did Count Charles return home, and eveu then it required all his depth of de Irma that nothing unioward had taken place. ‘Lhe countess dowager had been somewhat startled by her son's show of opposition to her aad re d the fact that she must chante b inorder to insure even a instinct of the promise of victory im the end. Heace, from now oa, although Mademoiselle Aurelie was from ¢ to time skillfully brought to Charles’ notice, 4 the yonng poet often found himself in some mysterioas way alone with her in his mother’s upou which oc- casion she never fatled to quote to him from his own poems in a most flattering aud seduc- tive mavaer, yet the count good care not to mention Irian ay however, to Charles that this was not a , but rather @ Lait to peepare for a more little Robert turned his first ne with as chubby « little pair of legs as elighted a grandmother's heart, and ao + how much of indefinable regret that 8 sharp tug at the bell pull may have car- ried to other hearts, it was a. joyful signal for little Robert. It were vain to attempt to de- seribe the countess dowager’s bliss on the moruing the bebe count frst toddled to the door to meet her. ‘The reader need scarcely be assured that Aurelie de Seychelles never accompanied Medam d’Athis-Mons on these visits to her sou’s apartments, Lut that fact had not pro- vented Aurelie and little Robert from becoming the best of friends, for the bebe viscount was pretty sure to find’ the “lady with the golden hair,” as he called her, whenever he visited his grandmother. and many were the tales of won- der which he carried home with him concern- ing this same lady with the golden heir. The period set by the countess dowager within wich her son was to make his election was now drawing rapidly to a close. Charles Was conscious of 1, and conscious, too, that Aurelie had succeeded in wresting a sort of mute admiration from him. Aurelie de Sey- cheilos nad much about her to fascinate a man of d’Athis’ intellectual and emotional build, Her large and expressive bluc eyes, which seemed forever glistening with an wished tear, and especially Ler full, round, sweet and sym- pathetic voice, which she knew how to use in a deliciously seductive way m reciting Charles’ dainty and ote pathetic verses, would have Tendered her a dangerous woman for any poetto meet, But for Charles d’Athis she was particularly daugerous, for either wittingly, through the assistance of the countess dowage ossibly, quite unconsciously, she had dis- ed the weakest joint in the poet's armor, and she uever les slip an opportunity to set her gainst it. but so skillfally did d’Athis the wound that Irma’s hie was begin- ning to rid itself of that indescribable fecling of pressure, that secret dread of something sus- peuded by too slender a thread, something bal- anced upon too frail s pedestal, when Count Charies himself, by @ careles# ‘act, gave to irma’s suspicion the very form and potency of fact Entering his apartments hastily one day about the dinner hour he proceeded to attire him- self in evening dress, and although Irma com- plained’of a migraine and low spirits, and fixed her glorious eyes pleadingly upon bim, he urged teuderly but forcibly that Lis mother had sent for him and that there was no help for it. Searcely had the door closed upon him when, as Irma turned to take up his coat from the sofa where he had thrown it, a folded sheet of rose-linted paper met her gaze. She drew it forth and, although the tiny square of pink glowed like a shect of flame before her eyes, | she succecded at last in deciphering the words traced upon it: “My Dear Poet: 1am at madame, the count- ess dowager's, where I have been kept by « sight illuess for several days, Will you not come to your prophetess for a brief half hour this evening, dear master?” With a sob that seemed to have cleft her heart in twain Irma threw herself upon her knees, her head pillowed upon d’Athis’ coat, Minute after minute went by and yet | the made no motion, uttered no sound. Were curses dropping from her lips? Praying; she was praying for strength, for counsel, for help in that terrible hour. Just then little Robert's soft child voice, tase silver bell, rang out its gentle “Mamma! “I raust go! Imustgo! There is no place here for me, poor, weak, wretched, wicked woman that I am. Farewell, Charles, fare- No, she was with the wisdom of Sofomon, he proposed to Settle the dispute by offering himself as the lady's escort and champion, all three accepted this happy end:ug to what promised to degen- erate into s breach of the peace. Thus Irma Salle entered the life of Count Charles d’Athis, He found her ignorant, will- ful and deceitful. He began by teaching her to read and she ended by teaching him to love ber, although time and time again the impetu- ous child of nature broke away from the gen- tler lessons of affection and respect, yet such was the hold which d’Athis had apon ber better mature that she invariably returned to bim and at last returned to stay. Count Charles’ happiness knew no bounds when be saw that this fair garden which had #0 lately threatened to run to noisome weeds and poisonous vines was now in a fair way to giadden his heart and evhance his soni with its fragrance. He had in his poet's dreamings ictured such @ woman, and passages like the following seemed to loug for the coming of loved with a love thst fa warm. Ae the radiaut isles of Greece: Oh, to be loved with 3 love taat is true A's the tide to the moon's increase, One day just as little Robert's toilet had been completed for one of his customary visite to ‘the countess dowager the sun suddenly disap- and the weather thickened so that it Becessary to postpone the visit, well!” and prossing her lips in passionate and oft-repeated kisses upon his coat, to which she had clung all through her agony, Irma spran, to her feet, hastily “threw a long, thick "cloak over her shoulders, buttoned it and drew the capuchen up over her head. Then catching ap ablanket she lifted little Robeft from the floor. wrapped him carefully in it and swathed up the burden with still another cov- ering—a sil waterproof, ‘ttle mouth, and him warmly to her heart she turned and fled fom the house out into the wind and the rain, out into the chill and murky streets of Paris, CHAPTER IL Scarcely had Count d’Athis been ushered into Aurelie’s presence when the thought flitted through his mind that he had forgotten to destroy the little sheet of rose-tinted paper upon which Mademoiselle de Seychelles had traced her message; nay more, that he had even carelessly flung the coat containing it upon the sofa in his work room, It required all of the music of Aurelie’s voice sided by the seductive charm of her manner to keep d’Athis for a brief half hour by her side. In vain did she labor, Look in hand, to fasten bis attention upon the newly discovered pearls of thought in the limpid stream of his verse. The poct’s thoughts were elsewhere. He only seemed to listen and the stammered words of thanke had adry and hollow sound. Mademoiselle de Seychelles was in despair. She dreaded to con- front her patroness again with the now oft-re- peated report that the poet had proven deaf to all her wiles, that he had snapped like twine the strongest web which her potent art had been able to weave about him. tiny sheet of rose-tinted paper, and tear stained, met the poet's he wank witha groan in his chair and his fell torward upon bis desk. He knew the wild and wayward child of nature only too well even to deem it necessary to open the door and satisfy hii if that she had fled. His poetic instinct, intensely impression: er- ceptive, told bim all, It whispered to him: “She has fled! Irma has fied!" But one thought came to Count Charles to temper his grief, and it was that Irma hada sure and safe asylum toward which to turn her faco, namely, the cottage of the old poacher on the edge of Rambouillet forest, where a tender and affectionate welcome would fall to the share of the beautiful prodigal when she came timidly to hft the latch and advance to the wide-open fireplace, where her old father was wont to sit and smoke his pipe in order to piace the baby viscount on his knees. And what a joyful moment it would be for little Robert, For already wondrous tales of bome on the edge of Rambouil- where white pigeonscircle around leat out of bis hands and little piga with curly tails follow at his heels, had danced through the child’s head until he dis- coursed upon “what they did at grandpa Salie’s,” as if it was all known to him from actual observation, But great as had been the countess dowager’s chagrin at Aurelie’s failure to make a succe ful assault upon the poet's heart on that fatal night her alarm was even greater when sho learned of {rma's flight. It complicated mat- ters terribly, tor fo:lowing as it did so closely upon the heels of Aurelie’s failure it might eusily have the effect of precipitating a cri and ending forever all her hopes of between her som and Mademoiselle chelles, Hence madame the countess dowager recog- nized the umportance of an immediate change of attitude. and summoning her son, she spoke a few words of tender sympathy and proposed that they should pay avisit toan old frieud whose villa was situated at Rambouillet, so that be might be near Robert, Of Aurelie there was no mention made, and Count Charles hastened to accept bis mother’s suggestion, and the next day he had the sweet satisfaction of clasping little Robert in bis arms and of tinding hun rosy and happy in the old poach- er’s home, of the wonders of which he had dreamed so long. “We shall not getso many eggs,” said the old peasant laughingly, the baby viscount in velvet and silk scattered the fowls to the right left in his mad gambols, “but those we do get will taste better.” A warm pressure of the poet's white and aris tic hand upon Father Salle’s horny knuckles thanked him for that touch of human- ity so quaintly and charmingly evidenced. Irma met Count Charles with a smile full of the old-time sweetness. Init was hope min- ged with forgiveness and so grandly noble and womanly was the bearing of this Greek girl, whose Parisian gown could not wholly conceal the native grace of her carriage, that the poet gazed upon her with feelings akin toawe. He felt his soul lifted up as he took her hani and pressed it respectfully to his lips. If Irma had any resentment in her heart it-vavighed as she fixed her lustrous dark eyes upon Count d’A'titie’ face avd saw the suffering visible beneath the affected calmuess, “Poor boy! Poor boy!” she murmured, slowly and softly, and then each turned away from the other, Irma to go to the little cham. ber beneath the tiled roof, where, asa hap; girl, she had sat at her mother’s feet and learned to knit and sew; Charles, Count of Athis-Mons, to return to the beautiful villa, where he fouud his mother, accompanied by Mademoiselle de Seychelles, strolling in the garden. He avoided them, however, and pass- ing up the stairway to his room, closed the door after he had rung for a vervant and sent word to his mother that his work would pre- vent his appearance at dinner. The countess dowager made one or two visits to Father Salle’s to sce little Robert, who tertained her ith delightful stories about Grandpa Sulle’s wonderfal home and what it contained, indoors and out, b, Grandma d’Athis, this beats Paris,” cried the boy, his cherub face illumined with celestial radiance; “I want to live here for- ever. But just wait, grandma, until next week. Grondpa Salle and I are going to have a brood of ducklings with a ben for a nfother, Think of it, dear grandma; won't it be royal fuu to see them frighten their old mother by going into the pond for a swim? Butit’svery naughty to frighten one’s mamma. Isn't it, grandma? I would rather die than frighten ‘poor, dear mamma.” The old as he no dowager. “Ah, these little ones touch our old hearts, don’t they, countess?” said he, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe. “Will you not go back to Paris with me soon, Irma?” asked Count Charles, timidly,one day, The old smile so sweet and sad came back and played around her beautiful mouth as she shook her head mournfully, ot mow, mon ami,” said she quietly. “Robert is ‘very happy here with Grandpa Salle, He grows so strong and rosy in the sun- shine, It would be a shame to take him back to gloomy Paris,” A shadow passed over the poet's face at these words, “Yes, Count d’Athis,” exclaimed the old peasant. “Irma is right; a city is no place for achild, City children are hot-house plants. ‘They have no strength. I never slept but one night in Paris, aud 1 gasped for air the whole night long. It was terrible. It can’t be possi- ble that you people have two lungs.” In decided manner Irma now entered a protest against the countess dowager's vi to the little cottage. She calied Charles’ attention to the fact that her retirement to her room upon Mme. d’Athis’ arrival was noticed by Robert, and that the child was perplexed and hurt by it. It was incomprehensible to him why his mother should not be present to talk with his ‘dear, kind grandma,” who always came with presents, Charles was quick to appreciate the point made by Irma, and he expressed in tender words his deep regret that he had not saved her from this uncalled-for humiliation. Hence- forth Robert must be taken to the countess dowager—a decision which filled that lady with grief and anxiety, for the villa was nearly a mile away, and even with the best intentions on Irma’s part it would often happen that the visit must needs be tponed, the weather would change suddenly or little Robert would have a coid or be some way ailing. The result would be that these interviews so omnes de-~ sired by Mme. d’Athis would grow less and less payee dashed a tear from his cheek ded confidentially to the countess frequent, and Irma’s influence over and hold upon the a correspondingly strength ed. It was a prospect which filled the mind of the countess dowager with strange forebodiugs. The arrival of a messenger sa: that little Viscount Rebert had coughed once in the night and it was not deemed prudent to permit him to go out, sufficed to plunge Mme. d’Athis into a fitof melancholy. Her sweetly cherished visions of @ serene and peaceful ending to her life beneath her son's roof faded away like a and even the possibilities of the case “Don't jndge bim as you would another man, Aurelie,” impiored the countess dowager. “He is a poet, nota reasoning being, a it child of genius. Treat him as stch; treat as if he were a lad in his teens, save him for his genius’ cake, for his own, for my sake, for your sake, dear Aurelie. Have your wits about you, my child, [I glorious chance for you, a a one, I sa} it was arranged on the poet's approach- ing birthday a fete should be given in his honor at the villa; that all preparations should be made secretly, so ax not to alarm him or to give him time to map out any fized plan of action, A dclightfal autumnal day was followed by an evening of unwonted mildnoss and serenity. ‘The villa gardens were full of glory and fra- ce and the air was caressingly soft and almy. In the bosky depths of the pleasure grounds the nightinxales poured forth sweeter songs than any earthly poet had ever aung. Oa his way home from old Father Sulle’s co Charles had halted again and again to stcep his soul in this delicious harmony. ‘Lhe moon had not risen yet, and the dull, liquid opaloscont glow of the star dust like oil on troubled waters stilled the conflict which was raging within him, and gave him pence and comfort exquis- itely delightful to his tired soul, Suddenly » burst of joyous laughter broke upon his reverie with harsh and discordant effect, He turned quickly toward the villa and was more than surprised to see a flood of light pouring from very window and to find the verandas iilumi- nated with festoons of colored lanterns, With lightning-like swiftness the truth flashed upon him that it was a fete arranged in honor of his birthday, and the idea—why he could not tell —seemed abhorrent to him. He removed his hat and passed his hand over his heated brow and pushed his hair back to let the cool breeze faaole his throbbing temples. Then fixing his eyea for a moment upon the brilliantly illumi- nated ville, and bending eagerly forward to catch the low murmur of giad voices, he sud- denly broke loose from the fascination of the spectacle and turned his footsteps toward the peasant’s cottage, his pace quickening almost into arun, as if he were escaping from some sudden and real danger. All at once the tall, lithe, graceful figure of a woman blocked his retre: as be halted an arm was passed gently, almost lovingly, through his and a deep, soft, mellow voice whispered: “Why, Charl © you running away from your fete? It will never do; come back. I'll 0 with you to the door.” “Great heaven, Irma, is that you,” stam- mered the poet as he looked into her beautiful face illuminated with a light as mysterious as low of the stars, “Yos, mon ami, it is I,” she replied softly, “but don't be astonished to see me out here slone. I could follow these paths with my eyes shut, so well are they known to me, and he would be a swift runner indeed who could over- take me or find me in my hiding places, But come, you'll be late for your fete,” and gently urging him, Irma led tne poet toward the auperb home which loomed up inthe distance like a castle of enchantment, “There, here begius the main path to the front entrance of the villa. I may go no further, Go straight on. God bless you, good night.” Elrmat" almost shrieked Count d’Athis, but he had disappeared in the dark shadows of shrubbery. Again he turned to make bis 0, but it was too late. He had been seon by servants placed upon’ the lookout to an- nounce his arrival and in almost an instant cries of ‘Count Charles has arrived! Our dear poet is here! Let the fete begin! On with the fete!” resounded on ull sides, Ere d’Athis could recover from the bewilder- ment into which Irma’s sudden interference to prevent his escape from the fete, her ex- quisite tendetness in leading him back to the viilu and her almost mysterious disappearance had plunged him, a bevy of maid clad in white had surrounded him and begun to scatter white roses in his pathway as they led him into the villa, meanwhile i known beautiful ode, “To the Victor,” had been set to music by Mademoiselle do Seychelles, Like « man suddenly awakened from a dee sleep, Charles d’Athis walked into the bril- liantly lighted salon, the walls, candelabra, ictures and statues of which were fairly uried beneath festoons, garlands and wreaths of white roses, ‘The scone was entrancingly beautiful and gradually the poet recovered his wonted serenity and entered upon the task of accepting this homage gracefully and grate- fully. But atiil bis heart seemed heavy to him and he made haste to lift « glass of wine to his lips, After an hour spent in heaping congratu- lations upon the poet, silence was commanded by the countess dowager and Aurelie, her !us- trous blue eyes filled with a radiance so soft and soulful as to seem born of another world, opened a volume of d’Athis verses and began toread his poem, entitled ‘The Chariot of Fire.” Never had Mademoiselle de Seychelles seemed more uncarthly beautiful to Charles, Her golden tresses falling in studied disorder upon shor shoulders set an ours of celestial light avout her face, and d’Athis trembied as he gazed upon her. With the ever-increasing pathos of the poem, her beauty took on new ef- fulgence, and as she drew near the end a deop stillness, broken only by the soft, round, sympathetic voice of Aurelie fell upon the assembled guests. D’Athis himself wage deeply moved, and seized with some uncon- trolable trend, as mysterious as it was delight- ful to be yieided to, the poet threw himself upon his knees at Aurelie’s feet. Had this act been part of the program and carefully calen- lated it could not have been more charmingly oppurtune, for at a signal from Aurelie a beau- tiful child, richly dressed in the costume of a page, approached her, bearing upon a purple cushion a laurel wreath, and this the fair Aurelio now set upon the poet's head and then taking his hand amid the boisterous plaudits of the lookers-on exclaimed: “Rise, child of genius, son of the gods, arise! & a Thou art Orphous the Persuader and Apollo the Driver. Thou alone canst guide “The Chariot of Fire” as thy genius alone could have created it.” CROWNED WITH WREATH OF LAUREL, Ras heartfelt congratulations were show- ered upon the poet, who stood rivited to the spot, a thousand bewildering thoughts crowd- ing his brain and robbing him of speech. “Come, my dear son,” cried the countess dowager, taking his arm; “come into the open, air and collect your thoughts after this superb triumph!” The crowd fell back respectfully and the poet, accompanied by his mother and Aurelio, passed out upon the veranda. The cool night air was deliciously refreshing. The moon had risen and the pleasure grounds of the villa looked enchantingly beautiful. Charles awoke from a sort of dream to find himself wandering through them, now passing beneath an arbor, now skirting a trellis heavy with flowering vines. On, on, gontly onward ho was led by ne figure, which clung to him in silence, Suddenly a faint, peculiar perfume reached his nostrils. He shuddered, for it was the per- fame of Aurelie’s hair. would have recog- nized it in heaven or in the heated chambers of despair. It intoxicated him, maddened him, isoned him. His first thought was to throw imeelf into the pond by the side of which they were walking, his next was to strangle the beautiful creature by his side. his last to flee from her as if she were contagion. He did none of these, He stuggored toaseat and drew the yo girl down beside him, balf upon his aps Her head fell backward on his breast and her mass of golden hair, upon which a ray of moonlight lay at that instant, seemed aflame—aflame with a fire which thrilled him his feet and ran, ran as if for liberty, as if for life, as if for salvation of his Tory tau crying Robert, oh, ever and anon as he ran: “0! voice to call unto her? She is so fair, so young to die, and the death will be so terribie. Look again; she stands upon the very brink; another step and all will be over. Help, some one, cry out some one, ere it is too late! « “That's not the way, madam.” acalm, low voice. “I'll set you right. You should have turned to the left Give me your band; Tl chow you the way back to the villa.” CHAPTER IIL The next morning Count Charles had disap- peared. At break of day, upon finding his room unoccupied, the countess dowager had almost with fear and trembling dispatched a messenger to old Father Salle’s, A sigh of relief burst from ber lips when word was re- turned that Couut Charles had uot been at tho cottage since the evening before. A messenger to Paris likewise failed to discover the where- abouts of the poet. The countess dowager struggled hard to satisfy herself that her son's flight might with justice be accepted as a favorable omen, Aurelie had not to.d hor all, That wretched girl scarcely knew herself what had and what had not taken place on the.ter- race. Sho only knew that fur some reason, utterly incomprehensible to her, Count Charles's breath, which for @ blissful instant had fanned her cheek like the perfumed ether of some philter, had sudgenly fillled tho air with appalling objurgation, that the gentle Orpheus, the sweet Persuader had in a wink of msformed into Apollo the , the irate god, and that she, poor inck- less, woebegone maiden, had been pitilessly hurled from ‘the Chariot of Fire,” and fallen bleeding aud torn upon the dull and insensibie cart! It was terrible for Aurelie, too terrible to put into formal speech, and hence the countess dowager was strongly inclined to regard as tavorable the outcome of the fote, and she was prone to repr ie for her despondency, “My sweet child,” cried Mme. de Athis, “I thank you with all the fervency of a mother's heart, You were heavenly as the priestess of this demi-god of ours, No wonder that he fol- lowed you so willingly into the garden. No wonder that his eyes clung to you with a look that would have burned into your very soul could you have caught its full potency. Cheer up, sweet Aurelie, ail will yet be well. Charle absence is most fortunate for us; nay, it is a divine interposition to save my poor boy. Now that there is no danger of having him overhear me I intend to have an interview with—with— P A Aurelio gave a start and the blood ran back- wardin her heart until a touch of death seemed almost upon her cheek, so cold it felt to own touch, ” continted the countess dowager, with a smile as full of meaning as it was of crime, “now is my opportunity and I'm going to try the effect of—of—gold upon her. Ah, Aurelie, you don't know what @ world this is and whst sort of people there are in it. Gold is their god. and that is the divinity which I intend to invoke to save my son! I shall suc- ceed, too, never fear, Aurelie, You have acted your part nobly, sweet child. Charles flees from you because he loves you. I know men; i na of render, this retreat. @ poacher’s daughter, knows this too, and it makes her just so much cheeper for me—just so much cheaper for me, Aure- lie,” added the countess dowager, with such a hissing sound of long pent-up wrath escaping from the heated chambers of her inmost heart tuat Aurelie drew back horror stricken at the purple-dyed visage of the poet's mother. “Go, my dear child, to your room,” resumed the countess dowaxer, checking ber flood of hatred and smiling on Aurelio as she kiasod her tenderly. ‘Go and write to Charles, your dear heart in words, Never fear, he ex- pects it, and use some of his sweetest lines in | so doing. I'liseo you again upon my return from the poacher’s cet, and, mark what I promise you, Aurelie, I'll bring you good news,” irma Salle had never come face to face with the countess dowager d’Athis-M She had heard the voice of the poet's mother, as that lady poured out her love for little Kobert as only can be done by a woman in whom the maternal instinct amounts almost to a passion, and in listening to the delicate modulations of that carefully trained organ, for madame the countess dowager bad becn lady of honor and favorite reader to Queen Maria Amelia, Irma had with the simpuicity of the child of nature pictured the poet's mother to be grandly and gloriously beautiful and sympathetic, a being | of anotuer world, rich in that sweet and placid expression of a genuinely aristocratic face when framed and softened by a wealth of white hair as fine and silky as spun glass. ‘The countess came upon Irma unannounced. Old Father Salle and his daughter we ii in the shade of the over the cottage roof, he smoking his pipe with that haif-solemn demeanor so characteristic of old people, the best of whose hearts seem dying ¥ co; she busy repairing a tiny garment belonging to little Robert, who was visible in the distance so much engrossed with his brood of duckiings as not to note his grand- mother’s arrival, Father Salle was the first to eresive the countess dowager’s approach, for irma’s eyes, though apparently fixed upon her work, were really closed to the world about her. ‘The old peasant made haste to wipe the dust from chair and invite “madame the countess” to be seated. Irma sprang up and uttered an involuntary ab! but in another instant she had recovered her composure and bent her tall, statuesque figure with grace that would have taxed the powers of the former reader to Queen Maria Amelia even in her palmiest days. For a bricf moment the eyes of the two women met full and fair. They were both stricken with won- der, the countess dowager to tind herself con- fronted by a woman of rare and almost start- ling beauty, but what was still more unex- pected, by a'woman of such noble bearing and goddess-like dignity; Irma to discover that ber ideal was far, far sbove the actual, that the poet’a mother, while she had much of the stately elegance of the great iady. yet behind itall and shimmering through this mask of sweet and noble condescension there was a hard aud carved expression, a sharpness of line that meant unyielding 'purpose and in- domitable will. It was, in reality, a work of supererogation on Mme. d’Athis’ part to proceed to put into words what layso heavily upon her heart, With the instinct of the child of nature, Irma knew itall, It had rung in her ears for long and weary months, had come to her sleeping and waking aud with fiendish crueity had taken on new emphasis and additional solemnity at every coming. But one thought had busied her weary vaind of jate and that was “how shall I bear it when it does come?” At last the moment had arrived when this fearful question was to reccive an answer. ““Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle—Saile, be- n the countess dowager, coloring deeply, for rma’s large dark eyes were riveted upon her with # power that seemed as if it ee dis- solve the thin shell enveloping her thoughts aud lay them bare in merciless show to the whole world, “my errand here today is a sad one, As God is my witness I come to you only because a sacred duty commands it, a duty from which there is no escape for me, and to neglect which would sink me into well-merited infamy. No matter how it may wound you it must speak; nay, I must, if need be, entreat, implore on bended knee. You love my son and he loves you, but, mademoiselle, I gave him life and I must save him now from what would be worse than death, Forgive me if I speak harshly, It is a cruel world, but we are in it, and we are part of it, and must be governed by it. My heart goes out to you, and vet be of good cheer. What I ask at your hands is an act of such gracious devotion that it will fall like honeyed balm upon your wounded heart, Yon will, ere many months have passed, thank heaven that I came to you as I do now and ask you to let go your hold upon my poor bo} Give him back to me, mademoiselle, You are 80 beautiful, be as good as you seem to be able to be. Pardon s mother’s love for such a twice-ennobled son by birth and genius, I read your answer in your beautiful face, You say yes. You consont. God's blessing on you! God's blessing on you!” ‘True it is that Irma's head fell forward in sign of her willingness to let go her hold, as Madame d’Athis termed it, upon Count Charles this-Mons, the young poet whose handsome aristocratic face was thus early but surely turned toward the highest literary hon- ore in land. Not that she yielded to the mother’s entreaty. No, @ thousand times no; but what she felt to be the t's own wish. ‘This it was which caused that tiful head to sink in sad and silent acquiescence. Unseen, but not unfelt, Irma had been pres- ent at that glorious fete at which a being al- most too beautiful to be called a daughter of the base and earthly clay had crowned the poet. This was the fair and radiant creature whom her little Robert had named “‘the lady golden hair,” this was the high-born Seychelles, who loved Count Charles wit Jove so far beyond all ordinary bounds close her eyes to the shadows g etl Perse : 4 F e ! Irma. is too that VEMBER 1, 1890-SIXTEEN PAGES. Put) voice broken by sobs. “Oh, noble, generons woman, how can I ever my thanks? Here, take this, Irma; it is but a feeble token of my gratitude. Here are the title deeds to real property which will assure you an income of tenélousand francs, And now there is but one thing further to be settled between us, Wheu will you turn little: Robert over to my custody?” As if = thunderbolt had crashed into the earth at her vory feet, Irma started wildly for- ward, her eyes filled with mad terror, her fin- gers clutching convulsively, her beautiful face overspread with a fiendish glare, which made her father rub hiseyes to satisfy himself that his daughter had not been tranformed into a fiend by some sudden and mysterious spell put upon her. “Little Robert?” half shrieke Irma “Oh, God, can it be tha: yon deem ms base and vile enough to sell my child? Away! Aw Tsay, wicked woman that you are, away, or by heaven, PU—PN——"and with th ma threw | herself upon Medame d’Athis as if she wore | about to tear the lips which had dared breathe | such aword, The old pensant sprang between his daughter and the countess dowager. “Oh, mamma, mamma.” cried a shrill, child- ish voice,*‘don’t, don't. don't hurt granima, She isso good té mo, don't strike her. She'll never bring me any more presents, Don't, mamma, don't!” SHE WRAPPED THE CHILD IN HER ARMS. With a wild cry of mingled fear and joy, Irma fell upon her knees and wrapped the child in her arms as if she'd press it back a the very bosom from which it had drawn its fe. “Robert, oh, Robert, oh, my angel, what do you think, they want to buy you from me! Your grandma couics with gold to buy you away buy me. grandma? Go buy Grandpa Sallie's pigs and fowls ir you will; but Lam not for sale, am I mamma? For I'm not like every-day children, I'm Baby Viscount Robert d’Athis-Mous, and my father’s a poet, too. You can’t buy me, grandma!” With a wild shriek of joy that echoed through Rambouillet forest, where Irma’s brown, feet had so often trod, she pitched he c to the ground so nearly dead that the old Peasant whispered as ke stooped to lift her uy “Merciful heaven. madame the countess, you have killed hor, 1 fear!” * * . ked me . . . With confused mind and uncertain step Mine, | @’Athis made her way back to the villa, where she hastened to seek the priv: 5 ment, denying admittance even to Madem- oisello de Seychelles, While true it was ¢ efforts to influence Irma Salle to relinqui: hold upon Count Charles, yet tho ¥: lacked that completeness which would have carried such sweet satistaction with it. To b inexpressible amazement Mme. been oppressed, weighted down, hum where she had expected to carry eve with a high hand, Irma’s beau @Athis hi at: A eed nity and air of untutored loftiness had astounded the countess dowage of first time in her life this lad oble Li must needs confess t! e had in rious way created a being and end: her with qualities which as the world rea can only be called into existence by the re ing influences of long lines of noble ancestry and centuries of mental and spiritual eultiva~ tion. The peasant's daughtor, with the exception of book knowledge, had all that Aurelie de Beychelles possesse3, ‘This fact countess dowager to tho quick. It w her case. It almost made her tremble wher she thought of facing ber son—as soon she must—with the report of her interview with Irma Salle, and with the announcement that there was nothing now to prevent an namedi- ate solemnization of the uuptials of Count Charles and Aurelie de Seychelles. At any rate, the countess dowager realized the necessity of speedy action in the matt Accompanied by Mademoiselle de Seyc! elle: she at once returned to Paris and had the satis- faction of learning that Count Charles was once more at his desk, apparently repossessed of that physical calmness and mental equani ity so characteristic of him. After a consulta. tion with Aurelie, Mme. d’Athis resolved to leave the poet to himself for a day or #0. con- tenting herself with a few delicate attentions be apparent in everything that was done. Count Charles was the first toact. A note from him to his mother carried joy to tha‘ anxious heart. Hastily summoning Aurelie, Mme, d’Athis handed her the pvet's epistle, which read as follows: “Dear Mother: Pardon me that I ask youand Mademoiselle de Seycnelles to come to me. My physician has forbidden me to leave the Louse. “Yours in all love and respect, _ Charle: “Aurelie, my darling,” cried the co: dowager, throwing her arms around the girl's neck and kissing her tenderly, a glad tidings, He surrenders at list. Ob, my daughter, how long and how eagerly have I yeurned for this happy moment!” And yet, some way or other, Mme. d’Athis’ heart made apainful halt as she crossed the threshold of her son's apartments. But the poct’s sunshiny smile dissipated all her wppre- | hension, for after Count Charles had spoken a few tender words to her he turned and greeted Mademoiselle de Seychelles with frank cordial- ity. Mother," he began in a low, almost solemn, tone of voice, “I have always striven to keep steadily in mind the debt which I owe you, a debt unpayable at best, but a debt to which your inexhaustable tenderness has made such constant addition that it seems to me I ought throught mere gratitude to bave no wish, no thought in conflict with yours.” Mme. d’Athis’ lips parted, *-But, mother, the time hascome when our wills must part company, ay more, perhaps our hands must fall apart, too. Ido not love, I never have loved this fair and accomplished ideux—" son,” ejaculated Mme. ‘Merciful heaven, my @ Athis, “you do not mean——’ “IRMA SALLE IS NOW MY Wirz.” “J mean, mother,” continued Count Charles, raising his voice and looking Mme. d’Athis full in the face, “that Irma Salle is now my wife before man, as she has been from the first be- fore God.” “Oh, my son, my son,” sobbed the countess dowager. ° ere success had crowued the countess dowager's | ~ | down from Moutreal « and taking good care that Aurelie’s hand should | at Grandpa Salle’s She's the best mammaI ever had!” ‘That grandmother's beart at this angel's tep and gently constraining the kneel- n to rise the comntess-dow. folded ife in a long and sileatembrace, ie was the first to adame la Countess,” ssid she, her hand to Irma, “your voice has betray you, Lrecognized it at once, and now I know who saved my life on the terrace,” In spite of Irma’s entreaties, Aurelie pro- ceeded to describe to the wondering t and his mother bow Irma had pat forth her hand tosave when she might have been justified im letting fate have its way. The post drew his ishing Irma to his breast and his kisses, which fell upon her brow and hair, had all the fervor of a poet's love. “Ob, lady with the golden hair,” cried tittle Robort, “tell us soraething out of papas book, “Ob. the poet hath found Od the port atk r As the tide to the 0 Copyrighted. 1899, by the Authors’ Alliance, HisTORIC CIHAMPLAIN, Many Spots Made Famous During the Revolutionary War. ARNOLD'S TERRINLE MAR ROUGH THE WILDRR- NESS TO QUEBEC —MIS SURSEQUENT BRAVERY af THE BATTLE OF VALCOUR ISLAXD—JUSTIOR TO BIS GOOD QUALITIES. Special Corresponience of Tne EVeNtwe Stam. Lake Cuamprary, Oot. 20, The student of history and lover of nature find real pleasure in ing this delightful region at this particular season. The autuma has been remarkably fine; rarely are the moun- tain forsets more agiow with brilliant colorings, the tintage most varied and exquisite, This beautiful Champlain valley is rich in historic lore. you enter from Lake George, or Skeensborough of colonial days, the most famous and conspicuous point of interest is Ticonderoga; ruins of Howport stand boldly before yon aud Ethan Allen's gigantic figure rises up in spectral v ess demanding @ surrender in the n f the “Great Jehovah and Continental rises by the wide Whose prese: of valor, her Another figure Au that of araold, ce here has left enduring rec: ¢ bearing and patriotism, d the one hundred and four: ¥ of the battle of Valcour Islan, in which Arnoid contended ina naval engagement of «reat vigor against Sir Guy Carle ‘Ss superior armament. As this battle and Arno. lure have been much com- mented on resting to reter | to tt now in d g historical connections ding to the battle. After the capture of za, Arnold, with a small force, sted down the lake in a schooner, surprised on at St. zod «a Briteh veral batteries, and with his prie- | rned to Ticonderoga, thus getting ai en, { mplain was now virtually under | aus, who also controlled the St ve Quebec, ail the English ia were substantially within our cept the capital, his now became the object of eager enterprise. THE MARCH TO Qvi Washington took the be anarmy through the tr ness to Quebec. At the head of this little army he placed Arm knowing his ski, courage, } daring and incomitable will, The hardships, pri- EG. d resolution to send less northern wilder- ¥ | vations and suffering of the heroic little army tose of Haunibal on his famous gained tho r, who was at d the citadel and fell m the attack, mm whom devolved the command, pla smself before the capital, resolutely Jetermining t ure the stronghold, Rein- for cute were harried forward, and the gak ader iinmed.ately promoted. to be briga- ueral, | _ With the openi ing Gen. Wooster moved 1, out ranking Arneld, doubtess dissatis- to continue in au- be might have struck nwith leit for Montreal, | took comm! fied at not be | thority ata ctive biow, fo .and thus | not oniy 11 that Montgomery died for and Araold’s rand so severely suffered, bi | more than these, sue last hope of conquering Canada vanished. | With the opening of 1776 two te cam- | Pains Were contemplated by th | for the recapture of Ticonderoga, the other ainst the eity of New York, Gen. Howe was | sent against the latter and Sir Guy Carieton | into Lake Champlain with 13,000 troops under Phillips, Nesbit Generais Burgoyne, Frazer, | and Kerdes: | During the summer the English were active |p etting up a fleet for service on Lake Cham- in, wh le the Americans were slike busy at he upper end of the jake in building vessels, | &c, | Gen. Arnold was placed in command, and by | the close of summer he was ready to #ail from | Crown Point with nine vessels, carrying fifty- e guns and seventy-eight swivels, with four j hundred men, With this force increased by | three nore vesseis he cruised around the lower nd of the lake until late in Ne he cast anchor in the narrow c tween Valcour Isiand and the main shore, He was Seed c bury with the galleys Washington, Congress and Trumbull, ARNOLD'S FLEET. The fleet now consisted of fifteen vessels, carrying 66 guns and 152 swivels, ‘The English fleet comprised twenty-nine vee sels, mouutiag eighty-nine guns, manned by 700 5 en. Early on the 11th of October the English fleet bore up the lake toward Crown Point, where it was supposed Arnold had retreated, ineut, and soon the attack | A battle was imr | made, the ae Yuring the night a council of war decided that ¢ fleet should retire toward Crown Point <d that it would be useless te conten superior force of the enomy. His ad fought with desperate bravery and over | sixty officers aud men were killed; many of his vexsels were badly crippled: nearly ail his am- unition spent. Arnoid, hotly pursued by the British, made into Y on the eastern side of the lake about es irom Crown Point, Here he barned and four gou- dolas, afterremoving all the small arms they could nee, and marcted up the lake shore to | Chiay Point, where thes were ferried over .to | Crown Pot, His report to Gen. Schayler | states: “I reached Crown Point through the woods that evening aud very luckily escaped the savages, who waylaid the road in two hours after we passed.” ‘This terminated Arnold's naval expedition on Lake Ch He has been sharply criticise: the battle of Valcour. but our best historians and contemporary writers de him ample jus- tice. This ill-starred officer, bad as was his subse- quent career, behaved with consammate cour- age on th His gallantry and cour- age inspired b: Gates refers to him in the highest terms of “praise, writing to Schuy- ler: “It hes pleased Providencp to preserve Gen, Arnold,” &c. Whateher (Military Journal) says: “Several letters received from Canada acknowledge that no man ever maneuvered with more dex terity, fought with more bravery or retreated wiih more firmness tuan Gen. Arnold did on the 1ith and 12th instants.” His retreat from Arnold's bay (as now to Chiay Point, opposite Crown Point, bas even been questioned—that it could not have been made within the time stated. I have re- centiy passed over the ground and can state with confidence that the distance could be made in three hours. The ground is firm and dry with the exception of asmall marsh at Hos- pital creek. At Chiny Point the lake is much contracted and the ferrying could be expe ditiously made, one hundred and fourteen occurrence, at the ruined walls of Ticonderoga, Fort St. Frederick and Amert's stupendous fortification, at the charred timbers of Arnold's flat and the vessels lost at Vaicour (to be seen at low water) we can contemplate the early struggle for liberty and on this voarsing lake, Many relics have been gathered from Ar vessels, but