Evening Star Newspaper, January 19, 1895, Page 18

THE SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1895-TWENTY PAGES. PRESCOTT porren murmured again in the de st on the hair, im- in the en innumerable stories told monds. They had been in Beauxlieux since th for all that men The Beauxlieux of the time ot that di barbaric others ut stones, one le: t the Beau 2g who h for the antine Prin ith them b ing the » that they ha Been recut many times reset, and it Was believed no woman of 2 ud and chalance of the present dark skin colo lke liquid might s: carved e curve of the le that took one onder that th from her 3. without a portion. ud gone dow he duke to his estates t ais with a couple of friends for noting. At least, that s his | In reality ad > meet a ative rt in some e: vor to the hostile and brin from before ch like the set on a 1 looking. tenanted bats and owls or by nds. exclaimed the last misfortune has arrived the night coming on in the last quarter of the moon, here in this land of b nd- age would like b to be ay ttle 2 dame | the ¢ “How goes have ttle suppers and to had was the reply. “Hark, somewhere high in the tower, singing an r tie than gppe: mblanc and this constant ¢€ an’ that the duke’s fathe led the younger man to the s of his heir. inly no one knew anything with exactress of the ante- — Covered His Hand With Kisses. cedents of M. Etienne, other than that hi: education had been of the most comple that he was a gentleman to the tips of hi fingers, that his telents were exceptional that ne could have commanded fame and fortune in his chosen profession of su: 1 he not preferred to be simply of the usehold of the duke. But the fact is if th vere any bond of a common parentage across a bar s\ resembia was not so apparent ai jong acquaintance as at first, for M. E enue was much the younger—yet neithe the duke ror M. Etienne ever spoke of it to h other. But the duke was restless if 1g lost sight of M. Etienne; and, as a ways was his shadow. Time is aot very long to young men pos- saw the young gir hours when they ece pot cut with the baron aud the dogs were endured for the sake of the mornings when she was to be d with Olympe watering her roses in behind the tower, and of the fou | the gard evenings when, for a balf hour, it m: t be, she joined them in the hall or on the stone benches of the courtyard round the choked feuntain. There was some about her that the duke had never That virgin air of inno- th rendered her ilimitably acred. When he saw M. making more gbold and m the garden, he fan- of the glories of the auxlieux and the excellences of the duke, as he knew M. Etienne sounded them to the old baron. | Somehow the duke could not make the headway here that M. Etienne did. The wail was one not to be broken down as | with some other women. He saw there thing | observed befor cence and tr remot SHE PLACED THEM ON THE TABLE. evening song to the Virgin, a young girl's Voice it might be, as soft and clear as the twilight itself here among the hills, and that the echo took and refined away to a very voice of the air. “Good!” said the duke. “If there are brigan where that voice 1s my purse Is at the service. Come, ts there a gate, a door, a postern, to this enchanted castle?” And suddenly a wild alarm of baying and bellowing arose, drowning the singing voice, and an old man stood in the gate, with his hounds leaping about him, and looked at the riders questioningly. Then, bidding the dogs begone, he asked the strangers to ride into the paved court, dismount and be welcom “We are three gentlemen of France,” sald M. Etienne, “and one of our horses, as you see, has gone lame. Can you give us shelter for a night, and perhaps put us in the way of another mount tomorrow “My house is yours,” was the reply. “Take the bridles, Ambroise!” And anoth- er old man who followed him closed and barred the gate and led away the horses, while his master threw open the inner door and bade his guests enter. As the duke glanced at the arms carved above the great door, “It is Baron Rene Vaux," he said, ina low tone to M. Etienne. “He was one of those that went wild over the Corsican. I remember hearing that our friends had stripped him of every- thing and dismissed him to—" “Not so, monsieur,” sald the quick-eared old baron, towering over him. “He dis- missed them to—their own masters!" “A thousand pardons!” said the duke. “All the world knows the distinguished career of Baron Rene Vaux, and that he «has only to take his place in the world and mmce to the king to have new And none would there than his give all honors thrust upon him. greet him more eagerly servant, Duke des Sari with an offer of the hand that the oid baron could do no less than accept with as stately an air as it was given. But the inside of the tower attested the truth of the a remark—the bare stone floors, the scant remnant of ancient fur- nishing, the eld armor and the newer swords that were the only ornaments on the w ad later, when they had rested and refreshed them a little,,cleansed of the dust of their long riding, the coarse the worn silver of the icity of the repast served by @ young un in @ peasant’s dress. Was it she that we heard sing?” mur- d the duke to M. Etienne. jod forbid!’ said M. Etienne. “This Olympe—is it they call her?—is one of the maids of this narrow household. That ce—it was the voice, if you remember, of the enchanted prince “An enchanting voice, at all cdds,” said the duke. And at that moment the door opened, and @ young girl entered with candles in her hand. She advanced and placed them on the table, and turned and made a rever- ence to her father and his guests, letting the lids fall over two eyes as blagk as mid- bight stars, as soft and lustrous as May mec n: Sh with a silver girdle, and her long, hair, plaited in great braids, fell over either shoulder in front nearly to her knees. wore a plain gown of white wool, was but one course for him. And his im- patience getting the better of caution, of any thought of second nuptials with prince- ly houses and great dots, he made pro- posals to the astounded and well-pleased baron for his daughter’s hand and an im- mediate marriage. It was not to be thought that the Baron Rene Vaux, even at the prospect of his own increased loneliness, should hesitate before thé offer of such a brilliant future for his only child; and he straightway told her to put herself in readiness, since the matter was arranged. There was no dis- inclination on his daughter’s part; and surely no prettier bridal procession than hers ever wound up the mountain to the chapel, she seated on her gray donkey, around whose neck Olympe had hung a wreath of roses—the chances of lunching able and the | black | presently on which he was calculating with his long ears, M. Etienne leading him and walking by her side, he: father and the duke following on foot and Ambroise and Olymps bringing up the rear. As they all stood before the altar, it was with an air of confiding innocence that she turned to M. Etienne. But her father, leaning on his staff just behind, stretched forward his long, gaunt hand ard took hers and placed it in the hand of the duke, where it seemed to that gentleman like a melting snowflake. She had thought, until that moment, that it was M. Etienne who was the duke. An accident of introduction, the fact of her ignorance of correct phrases and her habit of using ncne, and perhaps some natural bias as well, were responsible for the mistake. But what did {t sigrify to a wellbred and dutiful young girl? Obedient to tra- dition and discipline, she quietly accepted the duke for her husbard. She had no other choice, indeed; and the duke, re- furaing to Paris, took the duchess with oh = And when she had accustomed herself to her fate, beginning with being charmed by the delights of the life her husband gave her, and by the prodigality that con- trasted with the simplicity of her poor home, she ended by a sincere affection for the knightly gentleman,and held the house of Sarazines Beauxlieux as something greater than the house of France itself. And when her son was born she seemed te forget she had any share in him her- self, so proud ard glad was she over this concentration and completion, this erystal- lization in one of all the glories of the house of Sarazines Beauxleux. Only when | she saw how black was his hair, how dark | his splendid baby loveliness, she had an aching self-remembrance that half the blood in the littla princeling was her own, and that somewhere in her own line was a peasant strain to which she owed her beau For years she watched the child lest the strain should anywhere ap- pear, and half the teaching that she gave him was cone=rning the greatness of his ancestry, the mightiness of his inherl- tance of renown, the grandeur {t had given him and the duty he owed it In turn. So absorbed was she in the magnitude and virtue of her husband's house, that even the downfall of the king gave the young duchess but little concern, since in her estimation there could be no downfall for the Ducs des Beauxlieux; and even when, after the many agitations, the new empire was proclaimed she regarded It as all a disturbance that would presently com- pose itself. For the sake of her fathey’s love of the Corsican, as the duke phrased it, she might herself have looked h favor on the imperial order of thir it was enough that her husband, loyal to his past, remained a violent partisan of the dethroncd king, for her to shut her- self up in the superb seciusion from the ile of the new perha mpt for the If, and all unw re the mean nto the obscurity to which he pre ¢ best to retir had been a #3 and power. thening his people, the duc o which the empress had giv nd udiance of her amon, » charm wlist party had ht appear g t to her husban ‘They rallicd round her the udor of their ancien w h ht in all and ent. But, soot the imperial bes, with some man of power | her, wore her m with as fin ice and Was n agnificent vet—she could m utify ho duchess he own lovely It was w duke wait wife e, and th ately to d F i the young with ik, and went back to the carriage which iting. d upen his returned ienne s ‘return. “It we eard it? Wi eur with notice race. Not at all. It is a sous-lieutenant of the fal guard—born in some barrack—and h the n unrivaled an, b sure than it this M. Lezonte is the finest sman in France.” annot believe it!” ‘As your #1 pleases. But it all the same if it is pistols, f hall—I raade inquiries—goes straight sunbeam.” Gh, M. Etienne!’ cried the du sping hi “Do you mean: [ mea . Etienne, quit less in that it is exceeding- ly doubtful if ike is alive tomorrow to regret his fol, CHAPTER If. h bien, prophet of evil,” said the du the reom, “with what tal frightening the duchi Come, rd: and sauntered oft comi are you shall ‘it be bil with him. And the du ment, where Olyap< minutes afterward, w foot in a vast ¢ chess went to her own aps aw ited her; and fi. yped from e, she had down & private passage to the street Olympe beside her. “We must gendarme, Olym: we may have to go io the prefecture; we must learn where h Leconte, is to be found.’ And learn sb did; and in less than an hour an angry concierge had beea pacified with a handful | of gold pieces, and bad room, where the youns lieutenant sat from th yu: sister busy with a letie courtr} The moment that the door closed the | duchess dropped — ber wrap into s hands, and stood before him in arry beauty, the sheen of her pale arkle of her innumerable zle of her white shout come from the ope For a moment he was aghast. But he had sprung to his feet. “To what do I owe the honor—" he began. “Oh, monsteu: eried the duchess, “I come to yuu a supplicant! An hour ago my husband insulted you—” sitterly!’ yh, monsieu' ping her beautiful uplifteé hands ig to his the eyes overflowing with tears. “And it means— pristi! It means bloodshed, mada’ he exclaimed. “Oh, nono! she cried. “Not that! that! And fer such an idle thing—oh, never that! Oh, monsi , you a successful, you are powerful, the emperor is yor friend, you can afford to be magnanimou: I beg, I beg you to let it pass—” “Let it pass, madame! You what you say. Let it pass! Ha! “What good, alas, what good w you to take his life?” “It will efface the stain on my honor, the sting of his blow. Behold, my cheek burrs with it yet!” And mine, too, believe me,” she said, lifting again the great innocent eyes to his. “It was hot-headed—it was wrong—oh, if there is any reparation—” ‘Sacre! ‘There is no reparation officer, like a hero of tragedy, —his death or min “Oh, do not say so! death 1s so dreadful—and, forgiveness is so beautifui!’”’ “Forgiveness of such 2 humiliation $s it more of a humiliation than I under- go; 1, a woman, who come to you in your apartment, and beg my husband's life of you? 1 have asked—I have heard—they tell me your ball never fails—” “And is it monsieur, your husband, who perhaps sends you here?” ‘Ciel! 1t is you who now insult him as grievously! Oh, you cannot, for that mo- mentary burst of foolish vexation, be w ing to take from him life, from me my hu: band, trom my little sleeping son his father! limplore you—" “Duchess,” said the Heutenant, only wasting time, and compromising your- self here in my apartment.”” “I confide in your honor, your silence,” she cried. “Lt is well,” he answered. a kK too. much.” ‘Oh, have you no mere: one. ‘he insult was given in the face know not it do Life is so precious— oh monsieur, “But no more. of ail the world, and in the face of all the world it must be wiped out. “Monsieur Leconte, you have proved your valor on the battlefield. It is not the first rencontre you have had with pistols and with swords. Your courage is a bywo If you treat this affair as beneath notice, as the action of an exasperated man whom you have reason to pity, it will not injure you. it will give you great friendships, of which you may be glad in the future. Your friend, the emperor, does not wish an added excitement just now. Oh, believe me, you can well afford to send no challenge—to act as if nothing had taken place—to give it your disdain.”” The officer gazed at her wonderingly—so young, so beautiful, so resplendent, so sad, so imploring. Perhaps her last arguments gave him cause. And then the statements relative to his courage—they were certainly true—it was well known. And to win the Sarazines Beauxlieux, perhaps, to the em- pire—it might be worth while. And then a mad, rash humor seized him. “Madame,” he said, “1 will accede to your wishes on one condition. Your husband's blow still tingles on my cheek. 1 repay it—by leaving my kiss upon the cheek of his wife!” For a moment the duchess turned, gasp- ingly, holding both hands to Olympe, and her pallor, where the rose bloomed be- neath the ivory, became the pallor of death. But directly she had summoned her re- sources. What had she come here for but to purchase the life of her boy's father at any cost? She turned again and glanced up at him, and then dropped her lids the long black lashes swept her ma cheek. “Volontiers, monsicur,” she and she made a step forward, softly turn- ing her cheek. But the man did not move. The beauti- ful creature there, so proud, so chaste, will- ing to purchase safety for her child's fatk: at the price of this insult to herseif, th insult of which in all the years of her li she would be sensible, the color now rising slowly in her cheek, vividly, in a stain, as if to meet the affront. No, he could not! “Forgive me,” he ‘And go. You have saved your husband's life—for my bullet would have pierced his heart. Go. I will keep your secret.” And doubting her senses, bewildered, full of joy, the duches sudderly fell on her knees before him seized his hand and cevered it with ‘And then Olympe had the cache-mis about her, and the officer had gone down with them and put her into the carriage. When the duchess recalled that scene and its expressions of her gratitude, she knew it never would have happened so but for that Basque woman, her peasant grand- mother. c ‘And so it came about that no challenge arrive at the Hotel Beauxlicux the next ushered into the | day, ror any day thereafter. And when his wonderment had subsided, the contempt that the duke already felt for the new peo- ple was a thousand times enhanced by the circumstance. he cried. An imperial guard who silence under a slap on the face—they were all part and parcel together—he despised them, and was at no pains to keep his despising quiet. And thus this very [of the duchess was the cause of his mak. ing himself more offensiye to the impe sts than he had been, 4 offensive that a t it was open war wifh Duke des Sa zines Beauxlieux, and he found the old chateau in the Landes @ place better suited health than the house i where i been his gucsts. ter all, it was not love, certainly not wifely love, that had-made the duchess interfer husband’s account in that matter of the challenge. It was a life to I Am Net 2 King, nd she herself the it would have been save— trouble. r to try to ave ed concer ort or nd quiet range onse bel and admi tor him, but th sal When the duke 1 and Jeft her with his on she wept; was bereft. But here was the duke, and now all the more the duke, all more proudly and fondly in- on since shorn of imperial favor. For before the duke died, after he had re- friendship of the emperor and had confronted his hostility, and had re- | turned with his wife and child and the peo- | ple of his court to the old residence on th Atlantic shores, it was with fortunes sadly impoverished by the reckless expenditu with which he had promoted the legitimist issues, while relying on success and ulti- ate repayment. During the d sequent illn numerable wrongs done his estates, winked at by and never orted to the central po Undertakings into which the duk lowed himself to be drawn, in the fever of n adventure belonging to the era, came to nothing--perhaps at an imperial frown. Banking houses failed etors funds, government sei here, destreyed vineyards there; and in the of the : after her wi robbe nd. left, lic and private, disp of vast When ‘she atte to look for herself she was litle ; but she discovered that niss her ladies and the household, amd live a: sser nob! or even ople, lived. Her one faithful friend | ned with her—her adviser and the tutor. That he ‘was a physician of for the © thought fertunate n did not*knéw of how r and consulted with > never _khew! thes: and income he matie maining: with ber. But it wa: ven had it trary to hi tion, for M. also to seme, a man of anc ne left had scued b iter part of U Was closed, to lowly to ¢ What did § 2 and her boy few rooms aad. simple nts that were indispensable she knew as a girl at home r she took fp life again, » too pr pose he one the nd too humiliated to ¢ condition to, cid. friends—one by old friends, themselves in gric: fon, or exiled With o: r the oth a ale ed to whom save allegiance, disappearing from the ‘ace of the earth. s . . Sut nor fe less was she a duchess of the Sa 1 son the di auxlieux, None the ing love as hi: adcri ation for him as the last of the Ss S rx<lieux, “You remember,” she said to the child, holding his hand as she beside his bed at night— 1 not been able to delegate this delight even when service was abundant, and formaltty triumphant, although she half feared it was a survival of that peasant strain in her again. “You Walked Beside the Sea. will not forget, Beauslieux, even in your sieep you will not forget who you are.” “How 1s it that I can forget?” asked the child. “bo not all children remember themselves?” “All children!” said the mother, “There is only one Beauxlieux! And it is that which you must rectll. All that it means, all that the Beauxlieux have been since the begiuning of the world.” “Were we there then?” The qvestion gave her pause. “The strongest, ihe bravest, the best, came early to their own, Beauxlieux,” she said then. “And in that, it signifies to you that in veins tlows the last best drop of their ye blood, and you can never be anything but as strong, as brave, as best, as th “Well, mamma, it is that 1 will try,” said the child, dreamily, and contentedly fold- ing both little hands over hers, as he fell asicep. You will not try,” she said. “You will be, At another time, after she had seen him conduct himself too masterfully toward two little lads he had come across in the ferest, she reminded him that he was not the Duke des Sarazines Beauxlieux for his own pleasure. “It would be an injustice on the part of heaven,” she said, as they sat in the firelight, “if'a king were a king for his own happiness. He is a king because he is fit to rule, because he can care for his subjects better than they can care for themselves, because he is great and gener- ous, and the good God trusts to him the lives and happiness agd honor of his peo- ple. A great trust, Beauxlieux, a vast re- spcnsibility.” : “Tam not a king, mamma : “No? But you are g duke—-a leader.” “Then, my mother,” said Beauxlieux, ‘al theugh ‘they may not be«my people, yet there are Jean and jer and there are my books and M. Etien if they shared with me. s “In your instructidg? % do not know,” aid the duche ret#at™g into her fort- ress of haughtiness. 2‘I Still, they are two souks— them—I will speak of, And thus through ¢ and ruin the duches Id ness, and moved wit it vill think of it. let the light on it Pith monsieur.” fis@ation and wrong pt Hhe idea of great- a dignity becoming nd let come what dy Wation would, the Beauxlieux diamonds remained in her pos- session. If any one in the outside world thought of them at all, it was supposed they,had gone with the rest of the vast Bur they reposed still in their the iron strong box, in a secret place of her own apartments. And evi few years, on the evening of some of the young duke, she opened receptacle and saw the great live things shining at her, and they seemed to her the embodiment and expression of all the old and rightful Beauxlieux splendor The poor duchess had—no new dresses; but her faithful Olympe kept her clothed from the almost boundless resources of her former drobe, according to the rumor of the modes that reached them. And she would have some garment put on, the shimmer of whose luster was softened by the cobwebs of the ancient lace belonging to the ladies of Beauxlieux, and with the largest of the diamonds around her throat and on her hair, would sail down the grand staircase to the salon, where the young duke and monsieur, his tutor, awaited her, as resplendent, as stately, as beautiful as a goddess. At least so it seemed not only to Jean and Pierre, who, according to Beauxleux’s request, and on monsieur’s ad- vice, had been admitted to share the young duke's studies, Pierre’s eyes opening as if the riches of the earth suddenly blazed upon him, but Jean feeling as if a queen of heaven were no lovelier or no more fit- tingly adorned, but to her son also, who felt in her presence scarcely the need of heaven, and to M. Etienne, who never, by so much as a glance, said what he felt. CHAPTER III. Life went on, then, at the chateau in a still and peaceful manner, and, living only like & gentlewoman of most restricted means, perhaps the duchess did not really know how happy she was. Frequently M. Etienne went away for a br Bordeaux, to London, to Paris and back, sometimes to assist at an operation, some- times on consultation. T! who had once only to express it seemed as if the forces of nature fell in line to g1 cally the gr in the hi was that brought hor those journe, have commanded en rather to re- and of her child. no could Seldom thing bro ; noton e Beauxlieux was drowned, and the joy of his r en at the re more than joy could have he toration of power and wealth. Once J broke his le; nd the monsieur set it, 2 the du s tended him, the little fai haired fellow, with his aling face, d them if he had been her own, and he lov sa dog might love them, or rather @ who had still the memory of ribe and cabins. As for little Pie happened to him; he out of ev trouble; he was al- brought in innocent ‘from ev you might suspect him, but you bring jet’ home to him, Victorine, the Olympe, | who had been brought to the chateau at j the wish of madame when the child’s pa- rents died, was Pierre le abettor; and many a time did Jean suffer in silence a reprimand for the fault of those two imp- ish things. But Victorine was very pretty and little and tender, and it Pierre could connect her with his misdemeanors he knew he was safe from betrayal from Reauxlieux and from Jean. The duchess liked to see Victorine’s pretty youth and brightness about her, thinking of no pos- sible ¢ ces, and had her taught by Olympe to rip and’sew and dress hair; and then, in the motherliness of her nature, and ‘because there were no daughters of neighboring siegneurs, as_in old times, to be taught the fine arts of home, she would a Door. ‘And Swept Through t self in the m rning, leading her into the embroidery, history and reading. Olympe” remaking rinting, tly to imes Duc < smiled to b vy to think that the niece of her se woman and the children of a chare x and of a fisherman should be the half of her household. But while her son grew ard iner ir ture and strength and in all the fi and not ects of his being, the duc ed no more, Under M. Etienr are hi holarship wi Ml that coulda be wishe nd in the matter of ph: ent the tall, lithe si complis ed dnd boxed and rode and s r best; and his mother thought with f de how well he would take his plac n ke should be called to it. fonally now the monsieur took eauxlieux with him on his journeys to Paris or elsewhere, mother was satisfied that he should first see the world, and per what is called life, with M. Etienne beside him, ‘They made no use of his title, however, then, “It would be ab- surd,” said Beauxleux, “without a sou, so to say, in one’s pocket.” But he was aware that that was something not to dwell on before the duchess. When he came home he had much to relate to her, and much to tell Jean and Pierre. On one occasion M. Etienne had taken him, as if he were his t, to a grand house, where a fi s surgeon had requested the monsieur help, and where Beauxlieux had at first been dazzled by wealth and then dazed with wonder, They had gone afterward in haste across Austria, on another occasion .for M. Etienne’s services, to a half-savaxe Roumanian prince, where, owing to his incognito, Beauxlieux saw much of the life beneath the barbaric splendor, the Parisian syrgeon leaving the case with M. Etienne, so that for several weeks Beauxliew among conditions of life of which he had had no conception, found himself, un- aware, in his lelsure as M. Etienne’s su- perfluous attendant, studying them, get- ting a close interest in the people of the forest, on the mountain, in the cabins cl tered ‘in the midst of the vast farms. ‘It is right,” said M. Etienne, when he spoke to him of his observations and his wonder, “tbat your grace should know what goes on in the world, how the greater part of our fellow-creatures live and suffer. For it may some day be the part of the Duke aes Sarazines Beauxlieux to bring them re- wa When the patient In his care could be left, M. Etienne took Beauxlieux with him farther east, and he was approaching his twenty-first year when he returned, a trav- eled man, to the old chateau. The days were leng to the duchess while her son and the monsieur were away. She busied herself and Victorine at their em- broidery, at their books. She walked be- side the sea in the latter part of the day, a slight, swift figure wrapped in a long cloak, looking over the gray and melan- choly waste, restless herself as those dreamy waters were—longing for her boy, distrusting and fearing the future, yet soothed when she thought of the strong arm of M. Etienne, on which, whether near or far, she leaned. In the evening Pierre tinkered at the barrel of the music box, having a knack of tinkering, or per- haps Jean read to them by the firelight which illuminated the dark salon, he lying on the skin beside the hearth, whose logs he and Pierre had helpes to bring in from the forest, or reading, not by any means the news of the day—madame would hav none of that now—more frequently old x mances of derring-doe. When Beauxlieux came home with the story of his adventures it was Fierre’s eyes that opened at the menticn of pzlaces and great houses, and he demanded even more particulars than had struck Beauxlieux's sight. It was Jean who asked about the people upholding th® structure of the great households 9n their shoulders. Jean him- self had been away cn foot, more than once now—no one knew where. But even the duchess had seen the light on his face sometimes when coming back. “I shall have a dwelling such as one of those,” said Pierre. “I shall house my wife in a palace. I go to Paris to make my_ fortune.” “You like, then, this rotten splendor,” cricd the deep voice of Beauxlieux, from the shadow where he sat by the duchess on the other side of the wide hearth. “Alas! It is only the scum on a sea of filth and iniquity. That laughter of the people who float over it—I hear through it gay, he groan of the people who pro- duce “I shall not search too deeply,” said Pierre. ‘One man cannot reform the worl Let me take the best of it while it is go- ing—money, jewels, houses, horses—’ “And you call that the best? Money wrung out of sweat? Idle glitter of jewels while others have scarcely rags? Houses that are gilded seraglios, while there are men and women sleeping on wattles of straw’ “It will not be my fault,” said Plerre, “that they sleep on straw. Pshaw! When I am rich I shall not keep it all to myself. |] shall take pleasure in giving—” “He has read of Alnaschar,” said Jean. “In giving!” cried Eeauxlieux. ‘There It is their labor, is no giving! It is theirs! hi You can give them nothing. You can only restere in part.” “What puzzles me,” said Jean, “is how these others can think that they love the good God, and, knowing that He loves all men, be willing to wrong any man. No, no, when I recollect the siory of Jesu: that He died for men, I have felt myself unwilling to accept the sacrifice. I have felt that I, too, must surrender myself, if not to die, then to live for men. Never for myself, only for them.”" ‘Oh, Jean!” cried Beauxlieux, clasping his hand. ‘And I shall live with you “I suppose Jean is going to be a priest?” said the pretty Victorine, with a litttle insolent shrug. Not of any church, Victorine,” said Jean, “I shall not need to be blessed of the apostolic succession in order to carry hope into dungeons. ‘Oh, you make me cold at the heart of cried Victorine. uxlieux had now set himself seriou: rn the <0 accomplished. He was any circumstances to be idle. not cne uné His mother had not wished this study, however; she would him wait, even if it were in poverty, preserving his no- bility, Gil th: nt should give him his ‘own the hated ei pire i and it had by by the even more hated repubii ed greatly to he to her, But now e' sre is PO more ared. bi ot t will.” And it v Stienne who found the means for Beauxlicux to go to Pari and finish his undertaking. His mothe nad some dim idea t all things were open to him his fa: s son, as the last of his exalted name; she had no id t the name now was remem- a matter of history, nor that ug duke was known islieux, a student of promis rtment. twenty t birthday thd made over to him his ut tt he forest rot that tho chateau was a cuin, so thin, the fields so few ard bare, but that his k her heart over th mself, he was full of st nd nething mat- red since he wv and alive, nce he had M. jenne and Jean; since, abcve all, he had his mother, His mother, not yet in her fortieth was still beautiful, her hair black as the rk clear skin as smooth varming. AS varm light, for Olymr ndles In every sconce, wearing t pale primrose sutin cf more than twenty ago, covered now with black lace of far greater age, almost wrapped in the glow of the Peauxlleux diamonds, as in a cloud of brightness, pres: sweet and stately grace of her fi : till a sight to make a m he seemed to beam and sparkle s ked, her every movement shed- ding a stream’ of light; and Jean himself did not d it possible to envy her in his rt that night the possessionvof the dia- that they might be sold and their given to the poor. As for her, it ‘cvld a3 soon have occurred to her to sell herself as those stones, which were a part of the insignia of the family magnificence. She put off the air of gentle melancholy which she usually were, but which was a nnant of old manner rather than an in- ation of present fe2ling, and made th iy with her gayety. She talked with Jean cf Beauxlier ber son, and his future, h M. tienre of his great cases, Pierre of his in Paris now. She to tunes of the ood in ed down the long reom wiih M. Etienne, ence, but no more making uer fail oa the cu: ch in the hig window there, ed the even- ing by singing at the piano, which Jean kept in tune, a little chanson, that was as proper to her voice as f rose. When she embraced her son, and bade them all good-night, and swept ‘ough the dcor that M. Etierne held open for her, they felt as if after all in her grace | nd maj there were the traits of a ht to power, that som: like a superior being had becn with the And later, as she sat under hands, the ‘prett jewels as they wi hovght, with a s time when s Olympe’s taking the the duche-s joy, of the e jewels to Beaux ess, it might had the wealth s licux name and blood was the older and the noble: nd he smiled unconsciously and sweetly on the girl whose forward of late needed repression, and had the duchess doubt her wisdom in taking the three low-born children into her life, through pity for Beauxlieux’s solitude at a time when the safety of what was left to them lay in being forgotten. And taking from her jewel box a thread of gold hold- ing a heart of pearls, she hung it on the girl’s neck, so that no one might fail of happiness on the day that Beauxlicux.even though it were but fanciful vision, with no tangible reality, came to his rights as the first peer of France. (To be continued.) severe LE AS A RAILROAD SCHOOL. Russian Officials Coming to Get Points for the Siberian Railroad. From the San Francisco Chronicle. Among the arrivals on the stcamer Peking from the oricnt yesterday were two officials of the Trans-Siberian railway, who have .come to America to study the rail- way and ferry systems of the country. G, Adadvoran, one of the party, is chief engineer of the big Siberian railway, and P. Sokolou, who accompanies him, is the vice president of the board of directors. They have a letter of intreduction from Secretary Gresham to the presidents of all the large railroads in the country, and they will travel in search of information which they expect will prove valuable in the cperation of the Siberian road. They are more interested in ferries than in raijrozds, however, for the establishment of a line of ferry steamers on the Atroor river is contemplated, and the visitcrs say they Want the advantage of the experience of Americans in such matters. “One of tie most interesting features of the government railroad across Siberia to Viadivostok,” said Mr. Sokolou yester- day, “will be the ferry system on the Amoor river. We expect to operate the steamers throughout the winter with the aid of some contrivance to be placed on the boats to break the ice. Our ideas cn that matter are not perfected. We are now studying it. ss The two officials expect to vigit the loco- motive works in the eastern states with a view, possibly, of adopting the Americ locomotive for use on the Siberian rail- way. They expect to adopt many Amcri- can ideas. Mr. Langarda, a photographer and secretary to the two officials, is with the party. They expect to remain in Cali- fornia some time before proceeding east. CONCERNING SMILAX. A Florist’s Expert Hints on the Treat- ment of the Crecper. From the New York Sun. “Smilax,” said the florist, “is just as fashionable for decorating purposes now as it was ten years ago. It is one of the few small-leaved creepers that we have, and while it never attains the luxuriance with us that it does in the tropics, its lack of rank growth gives it just that delicacy of appearance that makes it so valuable and useful. “A peculiar thing about smilax is that, notwithstanding its hardiness and free grewth, it will not grow at all unless the conditions are exactly right. Most people kill it at the start by placing the vine right in the sunniest window. As a matter of fact, smilax, like ferns, requires a shady place, though I do not mean by that a dark, close corner. Another peculiarity of tke plant is that while it requires plenty of air, it will die in a draught. In a word, when you try to grow smilax you must try to reproduce the natural conditions under which it grows as nearly as possible, and those are warmth, moisture and plenty of quiet air. One of the best places for your box of smilax is at the side of a sunny window. < ilax will grow either from seeds or bulbs, but I guess you will find the best results, and you will no doubt get the speediest results, from bulbs. As soon as the sprouts appear start a network of threads to the box and carry the threads wherever you want the plant to go—around the window, across the window or festoon- ed among the pictures. Don’t give the roots any water to speak of until the.leaves appear, and then, I was going to say, you can hardly give them too much water. “Another mistake that most people make about smilax is that of thinking the plant is dead because the leaves turn yellow. That’s the end of one life, but not of the plant’s life. When the leaves begin to turn, water but very little, and when the foliage is-dead, take up the bulbs, pack them away where it is dry and cool for a couple of months or so, and then they'll be rested out sufficiently to begin raising another family of foliage.” is an effe is within; its manifesta< without. Henee, to cure the se the cause mast be removed, pther way can a cure ever Warner's SAFE Cuore is don just this principle. It realizes that Ase origin tions 95 Per Cent from der:nged of all diseases arise i eys and Liver, ch it is composed act se Ereat orzaas, both ax n food and restorer, and, by place ing them in a henlthy condition, ive disease and pain from the sy unhealthy Kidneys, Liver and _ Urinary Organs; for the distressing disorders of Women; for all Nervous Affections, and physical derangements generally, this great remedy has 20 equal, Its past record is a guarantee for the future. H. H. WARNER & CO., London, Rochester, Frankfort, Torons to, Paris, Melbourne. USE oF ANTI-TOXINE. How It is Obtained and How It it Administered. Dr. H. B. Deale, Maryland Medical Journs ‘The credit of discovering this anti-toxing belongs to Dr. Behring of Berlin. As we know, the diphtheria bacillus secretes @ poison that is the cause of the great mor-" tality in this disease. Dr. Behring, in studying this poison, injected large quanti- ties into a horse, and he found that the animal could absorb great quantities of the poison witnout injury. He later found that the serum of the blood of the horse so in- oculated contained a counter poison, and it is this that Dr. Roux of Paris has used in the treatment of diphtheria. In Germany it is known as Behring‘ remedy for diphtheria and croup; in France as Roux’s anti-diphtheritie serum. This toxine is formed when the virulent bacillus is grown in broth; after three or four weeks it 15 sufficiently rich in toxine to be used. This is inoculated under the skin of horses in good health, and by re- peated doses over a period of two or three months, the horse is brought to a condi- tion in which its serum possesses very high anti-toxic properties. The efficacy of the serum fs tested before the an 1 is bled. The injections for pa- tients are made into the chest, back or | side, the amount of the injection varying with the age, duration and severity of the disease. ‘The injections should be made with a Pravaz or Koch’s syringe, previously thor- oughly sterilized. The dose for rendering those exposed immune is 15 1-2 minims. (1 c.c.) for those over three years of age; for younger children half that amount, For the cure of the disease during the first two or three days under two years is 31 to 46 minims (@ to 3 c.c.); from two to ten years, 1 1-4 fluid drachms G c.e.); over ten years, 2 1-2 fluid drachms (10 c.c.). After the third day, in severe cases, larger doses may be given, and if the disease is not ameliorated by the first dose, a second may be given in twelve hours. No unpleasant symptoms follow the injection, an@ a rapid improvement in both the local and consti- tr ional symptoms are observed. The results from this form of treatment are truly marvelous. In the Children’s Hospital of Paris, of 300 cases of true diphtheria so treated, only 78 died, or 26 per cent; in the same hospital in previous years the mortality was from 50 to 60 per cent. In the Urban Hospital, Berlin, 60 children were so treated in two months. Of theso 42 recovered, a mortality of 30 per cent; the mortality in previous years was about 55 per cent. In the Elizabeth Hospital, Berlin, in three months, 34 cases were treated, in 30 of which tracheotcmy was performed; 28 recovered, or a 17 per cent mortality. In the Moabit, Hospital, Berlin, in three months, 44 cases, with 11 deaths, or 32 per cent. ‘Another series of 33 cases, with 2 deaths, or 6 per cent. With early recognition of the disease and with prompt treatment, the mortality will undoubtedly be very much lowered. As to producting immunity to well but exposed persons, Aronson reports that in 100 cases exposed to the disease to whom injections were given only one contracted the disease. Many more reports of its successes could be cited, but these are sufficient to give the general results. ——-e0—___— Written for The Evening Star. Winter Song. When dark and cold are winter days, And snow-flakes hang on shrub and tree, Alone, from all the world apart, Fond Memory comes to comfort me; And, from the hearthstone of my heart, Shines forth the light of poesy, When cark and cold are winter days. T hear again the birds of Spring Sing loud their amorous roundelays; The rills that tinkle o'er sunny leas, ‘And under grecning wild-wood sprays; I see young butterflies and bees Bask in the light of poesy, And bear again the birds of Spring. ‘The clouds Toll off; the skies wax blu ‘The tepid West. nd roftly blows; ‘The spice-wood buds breathe fine perfume; ‘And, heralding their queen, the rose, Like raral maids the wild-flowers bloom, While, in the light of poesy, ‘The clouds roll off; the skies wax blue. ‘The snow-flakes turn to blossoms pink, And like a robin carolling To chiim his mate, some morn of May, A tender little song I sing For Dora, fair and pure as they, And bless the light of poesy, While snow-fakes turn to blossoms pink. —W. L. SHOEMAKER January 3, 1895. —___+0+-—___- A Sure Thing. From the Detroit Trilune. A wild fear seized upon her. “He has gone forever,” she shrieked. She had secretly entertained the expectae tion that the man she had spurned would come back until she looked over the hat rack and found he had taken away a much rella than he had brought. she moaned. —--eee Wall Street Phrases. From Life. “Calling a loan.’