Evening Star Newspaper, July 24, 1897, Page 15

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JULY ‘24, 1897-24 ° PAGES. THE STRANGE. EXPERIENCE ALAAL OIC ————_es—___—_ BY ERET HARTF. — OF (Copyright, 1897, by Bret Harte.) He was a “cowboy. A reckless and dashing rider, yet mindful of his horse's reeds; good humored by nature, bai quick in querrel; independent of circumstance, yet shy and sensitive of opinion, abstem- ious by education and general habit, yet intemperate in relaxation, self-centered— et possessed of a childish vanity—he was a characteristic product of the western plains, which he should have never left. But reckless adventure after adventure had brought him into diflicult‘es, from which there was only one equally adven- turous eseape—he joined a company of In- aged by Buffalo Bill to simulate before civilized communities the sports and customs of the uncivilized. In divers Chris- tian arenas of the nineteench century he rode as a northern barbarian of an earlier date might have disported before the Ro- man populace, but harmlessly, of his own free will, and of some little profit to him- sell. He threw his lasso under the curious eyes of languid men and women of the worla, eager for some new sensation, with admiring plaudits from them and a half contemptuous egotism of his own. But outside of the arena he was lonciy, lost and impatient for excitement. An in- genious attempt to “paint tne town red” did not commend itself as a spectacle to the householders who lived in che vicinity ot Earl's court, London, and Alkali Dick was haled before a respectable magistrate by @ serious policeman, and fined as if he had been cnly a drunken coster. A later attempt at*Paris to “incardine” the neigh- bohood of the Champ de Mars, and “round up" a number of boulevardiers, met with a more disastrous result, the gleam of steel from mountea gendarmes and a mandate to his employers. So it came that one night, after the conclusion of the perform- ance, Alkali Dick rode out of the corral gate of the hippodrome with his last week's salary in his pocket and an imprecation on his lips. He had shaken the sawdust of the shim arena from his htgh, tight-fitting boots; he would shake off the white dust of France, and the effeminate soil of all Eu- rope also, and embark at once for his own contry and the far west. A more practi- cal and experienced man would have sold his herse at the nearest market and taken train to Havre, but Alkali Dick felt him- self irccmplete on terra firma without his mustang—it would be hard enough to part from it on embarking—and he had deter- mined to ride to the seaport. He was ig- norant of the language, but with “Havre” upon Fis lips and a western faculty of find- ians er ing roads, he would succeed. Besides, he Would be less likely to be troubled with fcreign company on the road than in a train. The spectacle of a lithe horseman, clad in a Rembrandt sombrero, velvet jacket, turn-over collar, almost Van Dyke in its ‘tions, white trousers and high Loots, long curling hair falling over his shoulders and a pointed beard and mus. tache was a pictureque one, but still not a novelty to the late-supping Parisians, who looked up under the midnight gas as he assed, and only recognized one of those men whom Paris had agreed to designate as “Borflo Bils’ going home. A few gen- darmes looked suspiciously after him. But Aikali Dick's va was already surfeited with the impressionable admiration dis- nares y male and female Paris for him and his companions, and he was too eager now to get away to wish even a hilarious conflict with the police. He kept his tongue i his temper until he had passed the arriers’” and fortifications, and it was only when he was fairiy on the road to S' Germain that he gave vent to a character- yell and loosened the reins of his At % o'clock he pulled up at a . et or Inn, preferring it to the publicity a larger hotel, and lay til morming. The cabaret keeper and his wife over this long- slight consternation of the hatred p! with glittering, deep by @ royally flung gold words of French slang which—with the name Dick's knowledge of he was touched with inteiligent comprehen- and their genial if not loquacity. Luckily for quick temper, he did not know that had taken him for a traveling quack tor going to the fair of Yvetot, and hat madame had been on the point of ask- ing him for a magic balsam to prevent » was up betimes and aw But and wide berth to the larger towns, and cut-offs, yet always pathfinder’s instinct, even alien poplar-haunted plains, He Made a Step Toward Her. low-hanked, willow-fringed rivers and cloverless meadows. The white sun shin- ing everywhere—on dazzling arbors, sum- mer houses and trellises, on light green vines and delicate pea rows; on the white trousers, jackets and shoes of smart shop- keepers or holiday makers; on the white headdresses of nurses and the wihite- winged of the sisters of St. Vincent— all this grew monotonous to this native of still more monotonous wastes. The long, black shadows of short, blue-skirted, sa- botted women und short, blue-bloused, sa- botted men siowly working in the fields with slow oxen, or still slower, heavy Nor- man horses, the same horses gayly be- decked, dragging, slowly, not only heavy wagons, but their own apparently most monstrous weight, over the white road, fretted his nervous western energy and made him impatient to get on. At the close of the second day he found some relief on entering a trackless wood—not the usual formal avenue of equi-distant trees, lead- ing to nowhere, and stopping upon the open field—but apparently a genuine forest as wild as one of his own “oak bottoms.” Gnaried roots and twisted branches flung themselves across his path, his mustang’s hoofs sunk in deep pits of moss and last year’s withered leaves,trailing vines caught his heavy stirruped foot, or brushed hts broad sombrero, the vista before him seem- ed only to endlessly repeat the same sylvan glade, he was in fancy once more in the primeval western forest, and encompassed by tts vast dim silences. He did not know that he had, in fuct, only penetrated an ancient park, which in former days echoed to the winding fanfare of the chase, and Was still, on stated occasions, swept over by accurately green-coated Parisians and green-plumed Dianes, who had come down by train. To him it meant unfettered and unprescripted freedom. He rose in his stirrups and sent a char- acteristic yell ringing down the dim alsles before Lim. But alas! at the same moment his mustang, accustomed to e firmer grip of the prairies, in lashing out stepped upon a slimy root and fell heavily, rolling over his clinging and stiM unsteady rider. For a few seconds both lay still. Then Dick extricated himeeif with an oath, rose giddily, dragged up his horse, who, after the fashion of his race, was meekly suc- cumbing to his reclining position, and then became aware that the unfortunate beast was badly sprained in the shoulder and temporarily lame! The sudden recollection thet he was some miles from the road, and that the sun was sinking, concentrated his scattered faculties. The prospect of sleep- ing out in that summer woodland was nothing to the pioneer-bred Dick; he could make himself and his horse comfortable anywhere, but he was delaying his ar- rival at Havre. He must regain the high road, or some wayside inn. He glanced around him. The westering sun was a guide for his general direction; the road must follow it north or south; he would find a “clearing’’ somewhere. But here Dick was mistaken; there seemed no in- terruption of, nor encroachment upon, thie syivan tract, as in his own western ws ‘There was no track nor trail to be found; he nrigsed even the ordinary woodland signs that denoted the peth of animals to water, for the park, from the time a Nor- man duke had first alienated it from the virgin forest, had been rigidly preserved. Suddenly, rising apparently from the ground before him, he saw the high roof ridges and tcurelles of a long, irregular, gloomy building. A few steps further showed him that it lay in a cup-like de- pression of the forest, and that it was still a long descent from where he had wan- dered to where it stood in the gathering darkness. His mustang was noving with great difficulty; he uncoiled his lariat from the saddle horn, and, selecting the most cpen space, tied one end to the trunk of a large tree—the forty feet of horsehair rope giving the animal a sufficient degree of trazing freedom. Then he strode more quickly down the forest side toward the building which now revealed its austere proportions, though Dick could see that they were mitigated by a strange formal flower garden, vith quaint statues and fountains.. There were «rim black allees of clipped .trees—a curiously wrought iron gate, and twisted iron espaliers. On one side the edifice was supported by a great Stone terrace, which ceemed co him as broad as a Parisian boulevard. Yet every- where it appeared sleeping in the desertion and silence of the sum-ner twilight. The evening breeze swayed the lace curtains at the tall windows, but nothing else mov- ed. To the unsophisticated western man it looked like a scene on the stage. His progress was, however, presently checked by the first sign of preservation he had met in the forest—a thick hedge, which interfered between him and a slop- ing lawn beyond. It was up to his waist, but he began to break his way through it, when suddenly he was arrested by the sound of voices. Before him on the lawn, a man and woman, evidently servants, were slowly advancing, peerin: into the shad- ows of the wood which he had just left. He could not understand what they wer2 saying, but he was about to speak and in- dicate his desire to find the road by signs, flower which she thrust into her belt. Dick paused, too, half crouching, half leaning over a lichen stained cracked stone pedes- tal from which the statue had long been overthrown and forgotten. To his sur- prise, however, the young girl following ‘the path to the Hlacs began cautiously to ascend the hill, swaying from side to side with e youthful ee sand swinging the long stalk of e at side. Ina few moments she would be at his side. Dick was frightened; ‘this confidence of the mo- ment before had all gone; he would fly— and yet—an exquisite and fearful joy kept him motionless. She was approaching him, full and clear in the moonlight. He could see the grace of her delicate figure in the simple white frock drawn at the waist with broad satin ribbon, and its love knots of pale blue ribbons on ther shoulders; he could se+ the coils of her brown hair, the pale olive tint of her oval cheek, the delicate swelling nostril of her straight clear cut nose; he could even smell the lily she carried in her little hand. Then suddenly she lifted her long lashes, and her large gray eyes met his. Alas! the same look of vacant horror came into her eyes and fixed and dilated their clear pupils. But she uttered no out- cry—there was something in her blood that checked it—something that even gave a dignity to her recoiling figure—and made Dick flush with admiration. She put her hand to her side, as if the shock of the exertion of her ascent had set her heart to beating, but she did not faint. Then her fixed look gave way to one of infinite sadness, pity and pathetic appeal. Her lips were parted—they seemed io be mov- ing, apparently in prayer. At last her voice came wonderingly, timidly, tenderly: “Mon Dieu! c'est donc vous! C’est vous que Marie a cru voir! Que venez vous faire ici, Armand de Fontonelles? Respondez Alas, not a word was comprehensible to Dick; nor could he think of a word to say in reply. He made an uncouth, half-irri- tated, half-despairing gesture toward the wood he had quitted, as if to indicate his helpless horse, but he knew {it was mean- ingless to the frightened yet exalted girl before him. Her little hand crept to her breast and clutched a rosary within the folds of her dress, as her soft voice again rose low but appealingly: “Vous souffrez! Ah, mon Dieu! Peut on vous seco.rir? Moi meme, mes prieres pourraient elles interceder pour vous? Je supplierai le ciel de prendre en pitie l'ame de mon arcetre. Monsieur le Cure est la. Je lui parlerai. Ma mere et lui vous vien- dront en aid She clasped he> hands ap- pealingly before him. Dick stood bewildered, hopeless, mysti- HE SAW THE COLOR DROP OUT OF HER FRESH CHEEKS. when the woman, turning to speak to her companion, caught sight of his face and shoulders above the hedge. To his sur- prise and consternation, he saw the color drop out of her fresh ‘cheeks; her round eyes fix in their sockets, and with a de- | pairing shriek, she turned and fled toward the house. The man turned at his com- panion’s ery, gave the sare horrifi-1 lance at Dick's face, uttered e@ hoars acre!” crossed himself viclently and fled Amazed, indignant, and for the first ti his life humiliated, Dick gazed spec, lessly after them. The man, of cours wus a sneaking coward—but the girl was a rather pretty one. It had not been Dick's experience to have women run from him! Should he follew them, knock the silly fel- low’s head against a tree and demand an fanation? Alas! he knew net the lan- et! They had already reached the and disappeared in cne of the offices. Let them go—for a mean, uncivil pair of country bumpkins—he wanted no favors from them! He turned back angrily into the forest to seek his unlucky beast. The gurgle of Water fell on his ear; hard by was a sprini where, at least, he could water the m tang. He stooped to examine it; there was yet light enough in the sunset sky to flection of his thin oval face, his long, curl- ing hair and his pointed beard and’ mu: tache. Yes, this was his face—the fa that many women in Paris had agreed was rcmantic and distingue. Had these wretch- a nhorns never seen a real man be- Were they idicts or insane? A suc den recollection of the silence and the s clusion of the building suggested certainly 14m asylum, but where were the keepers! But it was getting dark in the wood; he made haste to recover his horse, to drag it to the spring, and even bathe its shoulder in the water mixed with whisky taken from his flask. His saddle bag contained enough bread and meat for his own supper; he would camp out for the night where he wes, and with the first light of dawn make his way back through the wood whence he cume. As the light slowly faded from the wood he rolled himself in his saddle blanket and lay down. But not to sleep! His strange position, the accident to his horse, a singular irri- tation over the incident of the frightened servants—trivial as it might have been to any other man—and above all an increas- ing childish curiosity, kept him awake and restless. Presently he could see also that it was growing lighter beyond the edge of the wood, and that the rays of a young crescent moon, while it plunged the forest into darkness and impassable shadow, evi- dently was illuminating the hollow below. He threw aside his blanket, and made his Way to the hedge again. He was right; he could see the quaint formal lines of the old garden more distinctly—the broad ter- Yace—the queer-towered bulk of the house, with lights now gleaming from a few of its open windows. Before one of these win- dows opening on the terrace was a small vhbite-draped table with fruits, cups and glasses and two or three chairs. As he gazed curiously at these new signs of life and occupation, he became aware of a regular and monotonous tap upon the stone flags of the terrace. Suddenly he saw three figures slowly turn from the corner of the terrace at the further end of the building, and walk toward the table. The central figure was that of an elderly wo- man, yet tall and stately of carriage, walk- ing with a stick, whose regular tap he had heard, supported on the one side by an elderly cure in black soutaine, and on the other by a tall and slender girl in white. They walked leisurely to the other end of the terrace, as if performing a regular ex- ercise and returned, stopping before the cren French window, where after remain- ing in conversation a few moments the elderly lady and her ecclesiastical com- panion entered. ‘The young girl sauntered slowly to the steps of the terrace and lean- ing against a huge vase as she looked over j the garden, seemed lost in contemplation. Her face was turned toward the wood, but in another direction from where he stood. There was something so gentle, refined and graceful in her figure, yet dominated by a girlish youthfulness of movement and gesture, that Alkali Dick was singularly tn- terested. He had probably never seen an ingenue before; he had certainly never come in contact with a girl of that caste and se- clusion in his brief Parisian experience. He was sorely tempted to leave his hedge and try to obtain a nearer view of her. There was a fringe of lilac bushes running from the garden up the slope; if he could gain their shadows, he could descend into the garden. What he should do after his ar- rival he had no thought; but he had one idea—he knew not why—that ff he ventured to speak to her he would not be met with the abrupt rustic terror he had experienced at the hands of the servants. She was not of that kind! He crept through the hedge, reached the Hlacs and began the descent softly and securely in the shadow. But at the same moment she arose, called in a youthful voice toward the open window, and began to deacend the steps; a half ex- postulating reply came ‘from the window; but the young girl enewered it in the laugh- ing capricious confidence of e@ spoiled child and continued her garden. over Here sh vaed a at and in e meres a rose tree from ich she a throw back from that little mirror the re- | tefTace, whic fied; he had not understood a word; he could not say a word. For an instant he had a wild idea of seizing her hand and leading her to his helpless horse, and then came what he believed was his salvation, a sudden flash of recollection that he had seen the word he wanted—the one word that would explain all! in a placarded no- tice at the Cirque of a bracelet that had been “lost''—yes!—the single word “perdu.” He made a step toward her, and in voice al atas faint as her own, stammered: Perdu.’ With a Httle cry—that was more like a sigh than an outcry—the girl's arms fell to her side, she took a step backward, reeled and fainted away. Dick caught her as she fell. What had he said?—but more than all—what should he do now? He could not leave her there alone and helpless—yet how could he justi- fy another disconcerting intrusion. He touched her hands; they were cold and life- less—her ‘s were half closed, her face as pale and drooping as her lily. Well, he inust brave the worst now—and carry her to ths house even at the risk of meeting the others and repeating the ghastly farce. He ught her up—he scarcely felt her Weight against his breast and shoulder, and ran hurriedly down the slope to the was still deserted. If he had time to place her on some bench beside the window, within their reach, he might still fly undiscovered. But, as he panted up the steps of the terrace with his burden. he Saw that the French window was still open, but the light seemed to have been extin- guished. It would be safer for her {f he could place her inside the house—if he but dared to enter. He was desperate—and he dared! He found himself alone in a long salon of rich but faded white and gold hangings, lit at the other end by two tall candles, on either side of the high marble mantel, whose rays, however, scarcely reached the window where he had entered. He laid his burden on a high-backed sofa. In so doing, the rose fell from her belt. He picked it up, put it in his breast and turn- ed to go. But he was arrested by a voice from the terrace: “Renee!” It was the voice of the elderly lady, who with the cure at her side, had just rounded the hause from its rear, and at the further end of the terrace was looking toward the garden in search of the young girl. His es- cape in that way was cut off. To add to his dismay, the young girl, perhaps roused by her mother’s voice, was beginning to show signs of recovering consciousness. Dick looked quickly around him. Tiere Was an open door, opposite the window, leading to a hall which no doubt offered some exit on the other side of the house. It was his only remaining chance! He darted through ft, closed it behind him, and found himeelf at the end of a long inall or picture gallery strangely illuminated through high windows, reaching nearly to the roof, by the moon, which on that side of the building threw nearly level bars of Nght and shadows across the floor and the quaint portraits on the wall. But to his delight he could see at the other end a nar- row, lance-shaped open postern door show- ing the moonlit pavement without—evident- ly the door through which the mother and cure had just passed out. He ran rapidly toward it. As he did so he heard the hur- ried ringing of bells and voices in the room he had quitted—the young girl had evident- ly been discovered—and this would give him time. He had nearly reached it, when he stopped suddenly—his blood chilled with awe! It was his turn to be terrified—he wes standing, apparently, before himself. His first recovering thought was that it was a mirror, so accurately was every line and detail of his face and figure re- flected. But a second scrutiny showed some discrepancies of costume and he saw it was a paneled portrait on the wall. It was a man of his own age, height, beard, complexion and features—with long curls like his own, falling over a lace Van Dyke collar, which, however, 1g.in simu- lated the appearance of his own hunting shirt. The broad-brimmed hat in the pic- ture, whose drooping plume was iost in shadow, was scarcely distinct from Dick's sombrero. But the likeness of the face to Dick was marvelous—convincing! As he gazed at it, the wicked black eyes seemed to flash and kindle at his own—its lip curl- ed with Dick's own sardonic humor! He was recalled to himself by a step in the gallery. It was the cure, who had en- tered hastily, evidently in search of one of the servants. Partly because it was a man and not a woman, partly from a feel- ing of bravado, and partly from a strange sense, excited by the picture, that he had some claim to be there, he turned and faced the good priest with a slight dash of im- patient deviltry that would have done credit to the portrait. But he was sorry for it the next moment! The priest, looking suddenly, discovered what seemed to hi to be the portrait standing before its own frame and ring at him. Throwing up his hands with an averted head and an attempted ‘tExorcis,” he stopped short, wheeled and scuffied away. Dick seized the opportunity, darted through the nerrow door on to the rear terrace and ran, under cover of the shadow of t! beuse,, 10. the steps into the garden. Luckily for him, this new and unexpected diversion occupied the inmatgs too much with what was going | x on in the house to think of what might happen outside. Dick reached the lilac hedge, tore up the hill and in a few mo- ments threw himself panting on his blank- et. In the single; rhe had cast behind he had seen that the @ark salon was now brilliantly here, no doubt, the whole terrified ehold was now assem- bled. He had no—fear-of being followed; since his confrontation with his own like- ness in the mystérious::portrait he under- stood everything. The apparently super- natural character of nis visitation was made plain to him; his ruffied vanity wes soothed—his vindi@atioh®’ was complete. He laughed to himself and rolled about, until in his suppressed merriment the rose fell from his bosom, and—he stopped. Its freshness and frdgrarfce recalled the in- nocent young girl’ he ‘had frightened. He remembered her gentlez pleading voice, and his cheek flushed, well! he had done the best he could in bringing her back to the house—at the risk of being taken for a burglar—and she ‘Was’'safe now! If that stupid French parson didn’t know the dif- ference between @ living man and.a dead and painted one—tt wasn’t his fault. But he fell asleep with the rose in his fingers. He was awake at the first streak of dawn. He again bathed his horse's shoulder, sad- lded, but did not mount him, as the beast, although better, was still stiff, and Dick wished to spare him for the journey to still distant Havre, although he had determined to lie over that night at the first wayside inn. Luckily for him the disturbance at the chateau had not extended to the for- est, for Dick had to lead his horse slowly and could not have escaped, but no sus- picion of external intrusion seemed to have been awakened, and the woodland was evl- dently seldom invaded. By dint of laying his course by the sun and the exercise of a little woodcraft, in the course of two hours he heard the creaking of a hay cart and knew that he was near a traveled road. But to his discomfiture he presently came to a high wall, which had evidently guard- ed this portion of the woods from the public. Time, however had made frequent breaches in the stones; these had been roughly filled in with a rude abattis of logs and tree tops pointing toward the road. But as these were mainly designed to pre- vent intrusion into the park rather than egress from it, Dick had no difficulty in rolling them aside and emerging at last with his limping steed upon the white high road. The creaking cart had passed; it was yet early for traffic, and Dick present- ly came upon a wine shop, a bakery, a blacksmith’s shop, laundry and a somewhat pretentious cafe and hotel in a broader space, which marked the junction of an- other road. Directly before it, however, to his consternation, were the massive but time-worn iron gates of a park—which Dick did not doubt was the one in which he had spent the previous night. But it was impossible to go further in his present plight, and he boldly avproached the res- taurant. As he was preparing to make his usual explanatory signs, to his great delight, he was addressed in a quaint, broken English, mixed with forgotten slang, by the white-trousered, black al- paca-coated proprietor. More than that— he was a social democrat and an enthusi- astic lover of America—had he not been to “Bostown” and New York and penetrated as far west as ‘Booflo?” and had much leasure in that beautiful and free coun- ry! Yes! ft was a ‘“go-a-ed” country— you “bet-your-lif.” One had reason to say so—there was your electricity—your street cars, your “steambots"—ah! such steam- bots—and your “rrail rroads,” ah! ob- serve!! compare your rrail rroads and the buffet of the Puilman—with the line from Paris, for example—and where is one? No- where! Actually, positively, without doubt— nowhere! Later, at an appetizing breakfast—at which, to Dick’s great satisfaction, the good man had permitted, and congratulated imself to sit at the table with a free-born ean, he was even more loquacious. For what, tnen, he-wauld ask, was this in- competence—this imbecility—of France? He would tell. It was the vile corruption of Paris, the grasping of capital and com- panies, the fatal influence of the still cling- ing noblesse. As, for example, Mon- sieur “the Boofiebil” had doubtless no- ticed the great gates of the park before the cafe? It was the preserve—the hunting park of cne of the'grand old seigneurs, still kept up by his descendants, the counts of Fontonelles—hundreds of acres that had never been tilled and kept as wild waste wilderness—kept for a day’s pleasure in a year—and, look you! The peasants starv- ing around its wails in their small garden patches and pinched farms! And the pres- ent Comte de Fontonelles cascading gold on his mistresses in Paris. Ah, bah! Where was your” republican.» France then! But a time would come. The “Boo- flebil” had, without doubt, noticed’as he came along the roa@, the breaches in the wall of the park? Dick, with a slight dry reserve, oned that he had.” They were made by the scythes and pitchforks of the peasants in the revolu- tion of, when the count was emigre, or, a8 one says with reason, “skedadeile,” to England. Let them look the next time that they burn out the chateau—‘bet your lif” ‘The chatea “reck- aid Dick, with affected “Wot's the blamed thing picture gallery end bric-a-brac. He had never seen it. Not even as a boy—it was kept very secluded then. As a man, you understand, he could not ask the favor. The Comtes de Fontonelles and himself were not friends. The family did not like a cafe near their sacred gates, where had stood only the huts of their retainers. The American would observe that he had not called it “cafe de Chateau” nor “cafe de Fontonelles"—the gold of California would not induce him. Why did he remain there? Naturally, to goad them. It was a princi- ple, one understood. To goad them and hold them in check. One kept a cafe—why not? One had one’s principles, one’s con victions—that was another thing. That was the kind of *’airpin,” was it not, that he, Gustev Ribaud, was like! Yet for all his truculent socialism, he was quick, obliging and charmingly attentive to Dick and his needs, As to Dick's horse, he would have the best veterinarv surgeon— it. Wheat a brute she must have thought him—or did she really think him a brute even then, for her look was cne more of despair and pity! Yet she would remem- der him only oo Jast word, and never know that he risked insult and ejec- tion from her friends to carry her to a Place of safety. He could not bear to go across the seas carrying the pale, unsatis- because he knew, that it would grati- family. A sudden le know her h and her name. He would write her ance, omeboay, would be sure to translate it for mepeat Miss Font e for ving skeert you. call to do it; T never reckoned to do it—it Was all jest my derned luck! I only reck- oned to tell you I was lost—in them blamed Woods—don't you remember—lost’—Perdoot pand then you up and fainted! I wouldnt Ta’ Come into your garden, only, you see. ra riust skeered by accident. two of your help. reg'lar softys, and 1 wanted to explain. I reckon they allowed I was that hall was painted me for him, see? nohow, and I never until after I'd toted d, up to yon house, Please excuse I hadn't any reckon they took But he ain't my siyien saw the picter at all, you. when you fainte r lave had my kalkelations and according. I'd have laid low in the waode and got away without skeerin’ you. You see what I mean? It was mighty mean of me, I suppose, to have tetched you at all. without saying ‘excuse me, miss,; J you out of the gard into your own parlor, leave. it was a mighty close call, I tell get off without a shindy. Please Toreive me, Miss Fontonelles. When you get this T shall be going back home to America, but you might write to me at Denver city, saying your an right. 1 liked your style. ir In standing the garden until you Our say, ‘when though I never understood a word you got off, not knowing French. But it’s all the same now. Say! I've got your rose! “Yours very respectfully, “RICHARD FOUNTAINS. Dick folded the eptstle and put it in his pocket. He would it it himself hy morning before he fete ene When he came down stairs he found his indefatigable host awaiting him, with the report of the veterinary blacksmith. There was nothing seriously wrong with the mustang, but it would be unfit to travel for several days. The landlord repeated his former offer. Dick, whose money was pretty well exhausted, was fain to accept, reflecting that she had never seen the mus_ tang and would not recognize it. But he drew the line at the sombrero, to which his host had taken a great fancy. He had worn it before her! Later in the evening Dick was sitting on the low veranda of the cafe, overlooking the white road. A round white table was beside him, his feet were on the railing, but his eyes were resting beyond on the high moldy iron gates of the mysterious park. What he was thinking of did not matter, but he was a little impatient at the sudden appearance of his host—whom he had evaded during the afternoon—at his side. The man’s manner was full of burst- ing loquacity and mysterious levity. Truly it was a good hour when Dick had arrived at Fontonelles—‘“just in time.” He could see now what a world of imbeciles was France. What stupid ignorance ruled, what low cunning and low tact could achieve—in effect, what cretans and monte- banks, hypocritical priests and lcentious ing noblesse made up existing so- y. Ah, there had been a fine excite- ment, a regular coup d'theater at Fon- tonelles; at the chateau yonder, here at the village, where the news was brought by frightened grooms and silly women! He had been in the thick of it all the after- noon! He had examined {t—interrogated them like a juge d'instruction, sifted it. And what was it all? An attempt by these wretched priests and noblesse to revive in the nineteenth century—the age of elec- tricity and Pullman cars—a miserable me- diaeval legend of an apparition—a miracle! Yes; one Is asked to believe that at the chateau yonder was seen last night three times the apparition of Armand de Fon- tonelles!” Dick started. “Armand de Fontonelles'” He remembered that she had repeated that name. “Who's he?” he demanded abruptly. “The first Comte de Fontonelles! When monsicur knew that the first comte had been dead 300 years—he would see the im- becility of the affair!” Wot did he come back for?” growled Dick. “Ah! It was a legend. Consider its art- fulness! ‘The Comte Armand had been a hard liver, a dissipated scoundrel, a reck- less beast, but a mighty hunter of the stag. It was sald that on one of these occasions he had been warned by the apparition of St. Hubert, but he had laughed, for ob- serve, he always jeered at the priests, too, hence this story; and had declared that the n between the horns of the stag was only the torch of a poacher, and he would shoot ft. Good! The body of the comte, dead, but without a wound, was found in the wood the next day, with his discharged arquebus in his hand. The archbishop of Rouen refused his body the rites of the church, until a num- ber of masses were said every year and— paid for! One understands! One sees their ‘little game.’ The count now appears—he 4s in purgatory—more masses—more money! There you are. Bah! One understands, too, that the affair takes place—not in a cafe like this—not in a public place—but at a chateau of the noblesse, and is seen by” —the proprietor checked the characters on his fingers—“two retainers, one young demoiselle of the noblesse, daughter of the chatelaine herself, and—my faith! It goes without saying, by a fat priest—the cure. A CHANGE CAME OVER THEIR HIDEOUS FEATURES. there was an incomparable o.e in the per- son of the blacksmith—see to him, and if it were an affair of days and Dick must go, he himself would be glad to purchase the beast, his saddle and cecouterments. It was an “affair of, business—an advertise- ment for the om #., He would ride the horse himself, before gates of the ee It would please 3 ‘stomers. Ha! He had learned a trick omtwo in free America. Dick's first act been to shave off bis characteristic and mustache, and even submit his lo: curls to the village barber’s shears, W! a straw hat, which he bought to take-thidiplace of his slouched sombrero, compléted ‘this transformation, His host ‘saw injthe ang coy the nat- ural preparation; of % vo! r, but Dick had ly mad¢, th excrifice—not trom fear of detection, for had recevered his old, swaggering a’ -—but from a quick distaste he had taken to his resemblance to the portrait. He was too genuine a west- erner and too vain.a man to feel flattered at his resemblance.to an aristccratic bully, as he believed the.dncestral De Fontonelles ite faced the cute im the lettre gallery was e faced the cure in the pi more a vague sense thet liberties had been teken with his (Dick’s) personality than that he had borrowed anything from the portrait. But he was not so clear about the young girl. Her tender, appealing yotee, although he knew it had been ad- dressed only to a vision, still thrilled his fancy. The pluck thet had made her with- stand her fear so long until he had uttered that dreadful word still excited his admira- tien! His curiosity to know whet mistake the had made—for' he knew it must have been some frightful blunder—was ell the more keen, as he had no chance to rectify In effect—two interested ones! And the priest—his lie is magnificent! Superb! For he saw the comte in the picture gallery, in effect, stepping into his frame! “Oh. come off the roof!” said Dick impa- tiently; “they must have seen something, you know. The—young lady—wouldn’t lie!” M. Riband leaned over, with a mysterious cynical smile, and lowering his voice, said, “You have reason to say so. You have hit it, my friend! There was a something! And if we regard the young lady—you shall hear. The story of Mile. de Fontonelles is that she has walked by herself alone in the gente 300 observe alone—in the moon- light, near the edge of the wood. You com- prehend? the mother and the cure are in the house—for the time—effaced! Here at the edge of the wood—though why she con- tinues—a young demoiselle—to the edge of the wood does not make itself—she be- holds her ancestor—as on a pedestal— young, pale, but very handsome and exalte pardon!” “Nothing,” said Dick, hurriedl: 0 on!” ‘She beseeches him why! He says he is lost! She faints away, on the instant, there —regard me!—on the edge of the woods— she says. But her mother and M. le Cure find her pale, agitated, distressed on the sofa in the salon. One ts asked to believe that she is transported through the air— Hke an angel—by the spirit of Armand de Fontonelles. Incredible!” “Well, what do you think?” said Dick, sharply. The cafe proprietor looked around him carefully, and then lowered his voice sig- nificantly: “A lover!” “A what!” said Dick with a gasp. “A lover!” repeated Riband. “You com- Ell ts CR ed Pepa Tee Prehend! Mademoiselle has no dot—the property is nothing—the brother has every- thing. A Mile. De Fontonelles marry out of her class, and the noblesse are all poor. Mademoiselle is young— pretty, they say, of her kind. It ts an in- tolerable life at the old chateau. Made- moiselle consoles herself—" M. Riband never knew how near he was to the white road below the railing at that particular moment! Luckily, Dick con- trolied himeelf, and wisely, as M. Riband’s next sentence showed him. “A romance!—an innocent, foolish lai- son, if you like, but ail the same if known of a Mile. De Fontonelles—a compromising —a fatal entanglement! There you are— look! For this, then, all this story of cock and bulls and spirits! Mademoiselle has been discovered with her lover by some one! This pretty story shall stop their racuth: “But wot,” said Dick, brusquely, “wot if the girl was really skeert at something she'd seen and fainted dead away, as she said she did—and—and—* he hesitated “some stranger came along and picked her uy M. Riband looked at him pityingly. “A Mile. De Fontonelles is picked up by her servants, by her family—but not by the young man in the woods, alone. It is even more compromisin| “Do you mean to say,” said Dick furi- ously, “that the ragpickers and sneaks that wade around in the slumgallion of this country would dare to spatter that young gal I mean to say, yes—assuredly, positively yes!” said Riband, rubbing his hands with a certain satisfaction at Dick's fury. “for you comprehend not—the position of ia jeune fille in all France! Ah! in America, the young lady she go everywhere, alone; I have seen her—pretty, charming, fasci- nating—alone with the young man! But here; no! never! Regard me, my friena! The French mother she say to her daugh- ter’s fiance: “Look! there is my daughter. She has rever been alone with a young man for five minutes—not even with you! Take her for your wife!’ It is monstrous, it 1s impossible!—it is so!” There was a silence of a few minutes and Dick looked blankly at the fron gates of the park of Fontonelles. Then he sald: “Give me a cigar!” M. Riband instantly produced his cigar case. Dick took a cigar, but waved aside the proffered match, and, entering the cafe, tcok from his pocket the letter to Mile. de Fontonell-, twisted it In a spiral, lighted it at a candle, lit his cigar with it, and re- turning to the veranda held it in ‘his hand until the last ashes dropped on the floor. Then he said gravely to Ritand: “You've treated me like a white man, Frenchy, and I ain’t goin’ back on yer— tho’ your ways ain't my ways allez and I reckon in this yer matter at the shot- to you're a little too previous. For, though I don’t as a ginrul thing take stock in ghosts, I believe every word that them folk said up thar. And,” he added, leaning his hand somewhat heavily on Kiband’s shoulder, “if you're the man I take you for you'll believe it, too. And if that chap, Armand de Fontonelles, hadn't hev picked up that gal at that moment he hev deserve to roast in hell another 300 years. ‘That's why I believe her story. So you'll let these yer Fontonelles keep their ghosts for all they're worth, and when you next feei inclined to talk about that girl’s lover you'll think of me and shut your h You hear me, Fren , I'm shoutin’! don’t you forget it Nevertheless, ‘early the next morning, M. Riband accompanied his guest to the rail- way station and parted from him with great effusion. On his way back an old- fashiowed carriage with a postillion passed him. At a sign from {ts occupant the pos- tillion pulled vp and M. Riband, turning to the door, approached the window, a pale, stern face of a dignified, whit woman of sixty which looked from it. “Has he gone?” asked the lady. “Assured! mademe; I was with him at the station. “And you think no one saw him?” No one madame, but myself.” ‘And—what kind of a man was he?” M. Riband lifted his shoulders, threw out his hands despairingly, yet with a world of significance, and said: “An American.” “Ah!” The carriage drove on and entered gates of the chateau. And M. Rib cafe proprietor and social deme 5 straightened himself in the dust and shook his fist after it And the nd, Decrease in Cost of Building. In an article on the reduction in the cost of building in the last score of years the American Architect makes some interest- ing comparisons. Aithough wages are about the same, or, considering the length of the working day, are rather higher now than at the earlier date, materials, espe- cially where machinery is concerned in making them, are far lower. To say noth- ing of structural iron, which has fallen in price to a little more than one-fifth of its cost in the early ‘70's, lumber, bricks, ce- ment and cther materials are cheaper now, perhaps, than they have ever been. After the great fire of 1872 the cost of bricks, laid in the wall, was ordinarily reckoned tn Boston at $36 a thousand. Now, better bricks, quite as well laid, with better lime and cement, cost there in the wall, $15 a thousand. Moreover, fireproofing processes have been of late greatiy improved and cheapened, so that an ordinary mercantile building can be erected, with floors, roof and partitions all of iron and concrete or terra cotta, for 10 to 15 per cent more than it would cost with the cheapest wooden floors, roof and partitions that the law will permit. Considering the immense su- periority in durability, in freedom from shrinkage and rot, in exemption from the consiant repairs made necessary by such shrinkage and rot, and in saving the in- surance rates, and of the fire-proof struc- ture, it is surprising that any other sort should at present prices, be built for mer- cantile purposes. It is hardly possible that prices can go lower. Even now, American structural steel is sold in Germany and Belgium handicapped by the cost of 4,000 or 5,000 miles of transportation, in direct competition with the local material, made by workmen whose wages average 30 or 40 cents a day, so that any further fall is practically out of the question, and it ap- pears to be certain, from the reports of contraots in the foreign professional papers, that an ordinary house can be built more cheaply here, notwithstanding the higher wages paid by our contractors, than it can be, using the same materials, in England, while our workmanship ts, as a rule, far superior to that of foreign mechanics. ——_+ e+ —__ The Poisonous Brown-Tail Mot From the Boston Transcript. Many residents of Somerville have been affilcted recently with a strange disease, which baMed the physicians, and for which no one could offer an explanation. They seemed to have been victims of ivy poison- ing, the hands and arms reddening and swelling, but they had not touched any ivy. It is now definitely known that the trouble all came from the presence of that new pest, the brown-tail moth. This discovery was made by the employes of the gipsy moth committee, who, to their sorrow, have found that to touch a brown- tail moth is equivalent to taking a dose of poison. When the employes of the com- mittee began their annual work of turning burlaps to see how many pupa had se- creted themselves thereunder, they found in the places contiguous to Somerville a number cf pupa of the brown-tail moth. Grown careless by the innocent nature of the ocneria dispar, they plucked them off and destroyed them. Then the trouble be- gan, and loud are the complaints of the men with poisoned hands and arms. The moths are now handled gingerly. The cen- ter of the gipsy moth pestilence has moved from the Malden-Medford district, where it originally developed, to the Saugus woods. It is estimated that the committee men are slaughtering 100,000 daily. Rebuffed. From the Fiiegende Blatter. thrift (who has been rejected by a rich heiress)—“You refuse to marry me? Very well; but consider, if I am forever un- happy, you will have to bear the conse- quences!”” She—“H'm, I. could bear them much eceier than your—debts!” IART AND ARTIST cannot | s The compensation often received for the loss of one sense in the more acute de- velopment of another ts wel! iNustrated tn the aptitude which the deaf and dumb have for drawing. There are many whose skill ‘tm this direction ts such as to muke them formidable rivais of their brethern who are in mo wise handicapped in the race for fame. On account of their recent successes an especial interest centers just now in two men who are well known tn Washing- ton, having received their education here at Gallaudet College. Cadwallader L. Wash- burn, son of ex-Senator Washburn, grad- uated here in "90, and, after studying per- spective drawing in the Massachusetts In- stitute of hnology, entered the Art League in New York. Two years ago he Joined a party of art students who were going to visit Spain and the North African countries, and the results of this trip are evident in the striking study of a Moor, which was exhibited in this year's Paris Salon. In the same exhibition John G. Saxton, an earlier graduate of Gallaudet College, was 1 by a portrait of hie wife. has studied under the three greatest masters of France, and is no stranger in the Paris Salon. He re- sides abroad now, working in the little town of Etaples, near Boulogne. Among the other artists that Gallaudet has sent out are Abram Frantz, who had a marked gift for caricature, and is now interested in lithography in St. Louts, and Clarence Murdey. The latter was also very cl in drawing caricatures, and his jolly wi are still remembered at the Art Stude here, where he worked while car- rying on his studies at Kendall Green. e Murdey is now studying at Eden k Academy, in Cincinnati, and since he has been in the west has decorated with fres- coes the walls of the church in his home, Madeira, IN. He is but one of many who born deaf and dumb have yet found @ voice in the eloquent language of art . * * Mr. Herold L. Macdonald has recently made several sketches along that part of the canal in Georgetown dubbed “Little Venice” by the artists on account of the motives that are there obtainable. In his outdoor work he gets the same good re- sults with pastel that he does in his studio, as these sketches testify. One of the siud- fes is a gray day effect, with the dull red mass of an old warehouse standing out against the sky, and the usual pict canal boat moored to the bank. Th @ nice atmospheric quality in the study, and the coloring ts subdued and harmoni- ous. A quaint sketch presumably made further up the canal shows a whitewashed house sharply defined against a background of trees and reflected almost perfectly in the waters of the nal. neque re is * ** With the departure of Mr. L. S. Brumidi another of the Barbizon studios js le vacant for the summer. Mr. Brumidi Je! in the early part of the past week, and will remain absent for sev ns at lenst, as he expecis to sp summer jn sketching. ral mon nd the * ** * The likeness of Judge James which Mr. 8. Jerome Uhl is now working upon is as effective a portrait as he wed for some time. The head, which ix handled in a broad, vigorous way, tion enough for the strong, well aS pros ought to be inspira- ny artist, so striking are t features, framed as they are with long, snow-white hair. One would have to look long before finding a better type of hale, hearty than this octogenarian. finished full length portrait Hinckl- Solomon, who, promise of his youth was yet made many re taining mens h the mus trait is trip: search of sp. resents him ie Uhi has Charles the ad A a ot lying bef fulfill arches in g the valuable had amassed was um in Dayton, Ohi to hang near it ase of speci- presented to and this por- He took long around the country on his bicycle in nd the pe y to st trait re rt on pse expeditions, standing beside his with his knapsack and geologist’s hammer. Mr. Uhl is extremely successful in his quick impressions, and his rapid head or figure studies WIways fase ing, as the sted with a few desired idea in the simplest possible Another portrait by Mr. Uhl which has attracted a good deal of attention ts that of Judge Presby K. Ewing, of Houston, Texas, now on view at on F street. It is a not- able work, and is regarded as a faithful and lfclike portrait by the friends of its subje Some years ago Mr. Uhl painted a porirait of Judge Ewing's father, which so highly regarded as to lead to the nt commission. * ** Mr. Ferdinand C. Leimer is now at work upon a bust of Mr. E. B. Hay. The busta ef Commissioner Butterworth, Scnator Mason and Senator Mantle are now 4 good as finished, and are all that could be In fact, Mr. Leimer knack of catching a both by car ful attention to the shape of the large masses and by a ke ppreciation of th value of the little lines and wrinkles which in a great measure determ! the expr sion. In a short time he will comme work upon portraits of Senator Wa Senator Proctor and Representative Bail Mr. Pach, another sculptor, is now ass¢ clated with Mr. Leimer in his work, and will assist him. * ** In a very attractive miniature that Miss Perrie has just finished the flesh tints merit especial praise. Not only is the color true to nature, but th many little touches of paint is so carefully studied that the modeling at once impresses the observer. The softness of the rounded contours of the face is well suggested, and the eyes are also done in a very satisfac- tory manner. Miss Perrie has commenced | adelphia for exhibition. a very large water color study of a bowl full of deep red roses, which promises to be @ stunning flower piece when finished. * x * Mr. Edgar Nye has been waiting to leave town until a picture he been painting out on Piney branch was finished, and now that this piece of work is off his hands he will go to Round Hill at once. He ex- pects to remain there a short time only, as he wishes to spend the latter part of ‘the stmmer in Maryland. * ** Mr. F. J. Fisher expects-to remain in the city during the summer, as he has a con- siderable amount of work on hand which he wishes to finish before next fall. He has just completed a couple of very lifelike portraits, and has a number of other orders ahead. Aside from his portrait work, he has been able to do some little in other lines. He has put a good deal of work late- ly on his scene at the eld negro market at Lynchburg, an ofl painting involving an im- mense amotnt of detail, and giving him scope for some brilliant color effects. His negroes in this canvas are expecially life- Uke and interesting. He expects to finish this work by autumn, and vend it to Phil- Mr. Fisher has also done a three-quarters length figure of Christ. The face in this is quite striking. as Sometime. Lillian Gray in the Boston Watchman, Some time we sball know why Our sunniest mornings chanze to noons of ral And why our steps are shadowed so by pain. And why we often Ie On couches sown with thorns of care and doubt; And why our lives are thickly bedged about With bars that put our loftiest plans te rout, es Some one shall know * dearest ‘are swept co swift away, ‘Sua Why our brightest aes ftrst decays wi Whe’ song is gatnd sigh; clasping flagers slip 90 e000 apart — Extrangement, space aet''death ‘feud beast foom heart, Until from deepest depths the tear-drops start. Sone time we all shall know Each other, aye, 22 we ourselves are known: And see how out of darkness light Las grown, Aud He--who-loves us so, te our willfulnews and blind complai Wil show as how Lis kind and calm restraing Can mold a buman soul into a saint. Bes Mg Bee Too, White shoury oa follow jvud. iio —_ rnd. pan shall be tating See Pe Ap?! bnowing: cert ag has ‘Toe Low, ant ween, amd why. be