text: Life Ss-£ n i ' t *.* ' ; * % 'ti }i '■ a -f>.V =7j •I m v -o -V- 1 > ;.< €S m <■ » MB •tf WS: 8 « ; 41 k ■¥ ffill I « SHFSS -W. Volume xx. Helena, Montana, Thursday, May 20, 1886. No. 27 — ' <p|.c iilfcliln ^Ijcralil. R. E. FISK D. W. FISK, ». J. FISK, Publishers and Proprietors. Largest Circulation of any Paper in Montana -O Rates of Subscription. AYEEKLY HERALD: e Year in «Ml we e.................... "" six Months, (in advance)............................... - 00 Three Months, (in advance)........................... 1 00 When not paid for in advance the rate will be Four Dollars per year Postage, in all cases. Prepaid. DAILY HERALD: City Subscribers, delivered by carrier $1.00 per month One Year, by mail, (in advance).................. $1.00 six Months, by mail, (in advance)............... $5.00 Three Months, by mail, (in advance)........... $2.50 *- III communications should be addressed to FISK BROS., Publishers, Helena, Montana. A PAIRY STEPPING By the Author of "The Ducats and My D After M. Tilery's departure, I naturally suffered a motion from the excitement of the few days, and the hope of my interview with the detective. It was difficult to remain inactive and not to depend. But, for the sake of Mile. Dutuaine, whom I saw every day, I strove to lie cheerful. I also wrote to Raoul, and, without raising his hopes and with me, hinted that things were beginning to wear a more favorable aspect. The days passed without any word from M. Blery, and each day deepened my anxiety. At last, the fourteenth day came, and everyone of its hours seemed to me as long as 8 months. I dared not go to Gabrielle; I could not have concealed my disquietude. But in the evening there came a telegram from Blery, the most joyful message I have ever received in my life, because it assured me that my friend was safe. M. Blery telegraphed from Rome: "I have succeeded; the dagger is found. I return to Paris directly." I ran at once with the telegram to the Rue de l'Odeon, and spent the rest of the evening with Mme. Dumaine and Gabrielle, explaining the discoveries we had made, and listening to the outpourings of their joy. With Vine, Dumaine and Gabrielle, explaining the discoveries we had made. Next morning I saw the advocate Sapinaud, and told him of the new evidence in Raoul's favor. He advised me to say nothing, in the meantime, to Raoul. "Let us wait," he said, "until Blery returns and tells us the whole story. Then, if the evidence he has found proves what you say it proves, I will frame a statement and lay it before the Imperial procurator. After that, Girard will no doubt be released from detention, either with or without bail." Next morning the detective arrived in Paris, and sent me a telegram. Message asking me to come to him at the prefecture of police, and to bring Sapinaud also. I was fortunate enough to meet Sapinaud in the Salle des Pas-Perdus; he at once unrobed, and we hastened to the prefecture. There we found M. Blery, in his napless list and shabby gray overcoat, just as he had a dream in Rome, and who could tell how many other European capitals also? The room in which he received us was small, but well lighted; its furniture consisted of two chairs and a bureau in common pine wood; on the bureau lay an almanac, a Paris Directory and a Universal Guide to all the railways of the world. M. Blery gave each of us a chair, and himself remained standing with his back to the light. "Messieurs," he said, "I am charmed to have the honor of this visit. I rush at once into the middle of things. In the conversation which I had with M. Marsal 15 days ago, there was one point we did not discuss—namely, the apparent want of motive for the crime. I presume, however, that Monsieur, in his very intelligent examination of the case, did not fail to give this point his attention?" "No," I said; "I considered the point, and came to a certain conclusion." "We may suppose," said M. Blery, "that the assassin of Meissner had one of two objects in view—either revenge or plunder. If it was simply revenge, why did he ransack the strong boxes and cabinets? If it was plunder, why did he leave so much portable booty behind? The Judge—again fitting the facts into the theory—accounted for this by the eccentricity, amounting to insanity, of the criminal, terror-stricken by his crime. How, Monsieur, do you account for it?" "I account, for it," I said, "in quite another way. I account for it by the conjecture of a search on the part of the assassin; and, since all the lock-fast places were not opened, by a search for a special object." "Exactly," said M. Blery; "the conclusion to which any unbiased mind, possessing sufficient acuteness, would naturally come. What were the judge's words? 'This,' he said, 'is the obscure point of the case, but the difficulty here tells as forcibly." Against any other theory of the crime as against the theory that Girard is the guilty person. A somewhat rash assertion, Monsieur the Judge! The circumstances certainly make against his theory, but they confirm ours. A search for a special object, that is, if it is not the special object? "A compromising paper," suggested Sappanud, "left in Messner's hands by one of his clients." "An excellent hypothesis," said Blery; "but here, fortunately, we can dispense with hypotheses; we have facts, as I shall show you. Since leaving M. Marsal, a fortnight ago, I have been in London, Brussels and Rome. I have been in search of the missing dagger. I started here in Paris, at the rate of a few days, found it correct, as did my friend Py, that there was now no dealer in curiosities there to whom Girard had sold his weapon. But I found that two years ago there was a dealer in curiosities there; a man who had fled by night, carrying the valuable part of his stock in trade with him, and leaving his rent unpaid. I trailed this man to London; with the help of my friend Briggs, of Scotland Yard. I find him. He has by this time sold the dagger, but he names the purchaser. I go to the purchaser, but he also has parted with it—in brief, I followed this dagger to Brussels, I followed it to Rome. In that city it has come into the possession of a French artist, who is by no means well off. I tell him for what purpose I require the dagger: he agrees to sell it. It is then in pledge: we go to the pawnshop, we redeem it—and I leave Rome with it in my keeping. Here, Messieurs, is the dagger." M. Blery laid it on the bureau before us. "Observe the one word written beside the flower; compare it with these characters, traced by M. Beauvais, and which stand for the word'sorrow—you see they are the same. Thus the conjecture of M. Marsal is proved to be perfectly correct; this is the missing dagger of the three—the one given by Meissner to his nephew two years ago. I could not look without emotion on this weapon, which had so nearly proved fatal to my friend, and which now had been found just in time to save him. "So much for the dagger," continued M. Biery, "now for the keys." He touched a hand-bell on the mantelpiece; the door opened and a little man, red-haired, pockmarked, and with furtive eyes, appeared. "This, Messieurs, is Pilotin," observed M. Biery, with the air of one exhibiting an inferior animal, "Pilotin, one of my aides. A' ou will tell these gentlemen, Pilotin, what were the instructions I gave you before I left for London." "Monsieur gave me this key," said Pilotin, laying it beside the dagger on the bureau. "Monsieur told me he had reason to believe that a key had been fabricated from this as a model, about two months ago, by a locksmith living within a certain radius of the Passage de Mazariu. Monsieur also gave me a description of the person who had ordered the key to be fabricated, and directed me to discover the locksmith." "Aud you made inquiries?" prompted Biery, whose ante-squeak in a monotonous voice, with the inflection of one who repeats a lesson; by rote. "I begin by consulting the directory and visiting all the locksmiths within the radius. No result. I widen my circle." Still no result. I begin again by inquiries into the private life of certain locksmiths, who are in the habit of doing work at home; still there is no clue. I begin to desist from satisfying Monsieur, when I make a lucky sign. Passing along the Rue St. Louis, I observe a small shop whose shutters are closed; its exterior is freshly painted; above the door is a sign: 'L. Benoit, Locksmith.' I make inquiries. I learn from the neighbors that Benoit is a young man, very sober, very industrious, who came from Limoges to Paris about three months ago and opened this shop. Almost a fortnight ago he had injured his hand with one of his tools, and had been taken to the Hotel Dieu for proper treatment. I conjecture that this may be our man; the fact of his shop being so recently opened accounts for his name not being in the directory. I go to the Hotel Dieu, but am told that I cannot see him; he is suffering from blood poisoning and is very ill. I ask who is the doctor attending him, and am informed that it is the Doctor de Bourdon. M. de Bourdon, as Messieurs will remember, was one of the medical witnesses at the inquiry into the murder of Meissner. I see him: I tell him that my mission is connected with the affair of the Passage de Mazarin. M. de Bourdon takes an interest in that affair; he allows me to see his patient. This is Benoit's story: About a month after he had opened his shop—that is, about two months ago—on a dark and wet night, a gentleman drove up to his door in a cab and came into his shop. The gentleman asked him whether he could, in less than an hour, fabric ate a key exactly like one which he showed him. The key was of simple construction. Benoit said, "Yes, easily"; and at once went to work. The gentleman waited. He was a foreigner, of that Benoit is certain, but cannot guess the country to which he belonged. He was in evening dress, and wore a fur cloak. The locksmith noticed specially his dark eyes and sallow complexion; could identify the stranger if he met him again, especially if he heard him speak. When Benoit had finished the key, which he did in half an hour, the stranger gave him three francs, the servant asked, and at once drove away. I showed Benoit the key of Meissner's room, now lying on that bureau; he declared it to be the same size and shape as the one which had served him for a model. Here, Pilotin stopped, as if he had run down. "Is this Benoit available as a witness?" asked the man. Ed Sapinaud, who like myself had listened with close attention to Piloting narrative. "M. de Bourdon says that he will live," answered Pilotin tersely. "Messieurs," said Blery, "you have heard; now you shall see—Pilotin, fetch a cab. We are on the eve of a discovery." We took our seats in the conveyance without asking any questions. Sapinaud and I exchanged a glance which said, "Let us leave the revelation to M. Blery; he has an eye for dramatic effects." Pilotin mounted on the box; I noticed that he carried a short crowbar. The coachman had evidently received his directions beforehand. He drove as up the steep, narrow Rue St. Jacques, into the very heart of the Latin Quarter. He stopped at last where the Rue St. Jacques intersects the Rue Cujas, at a pork-butcher's shop, with the name Pajol over the door. Pilotin alighted, and held open the door of the cab while we got out. M. Blery entered the pork butcher's shop and presently reappeared with M. Pajol, fat faced and blue aproned. "Messieurs," said Blery, "M. Pajol will now take us to the room of that tenant of his who, since Christmas Day, has disappeared." M. Pajol bowed, smiled blandly, rubbed his fat hands, and led us up the dark, moldering staircase. When we had reached the sixth story, Sapinaud and I paused to take breath. "A little higher, Messieurs, if you please!" said M. Blery. We toiled up with many stumblings after the detectives, until we reached the garrets, in the very top of the roof. The stairway leading to these was Little better than a ladder, where the hands had to assist the feet of the timber. "This is the door," said Pajol. Pilotin took a big bunch of keys from his pocket and tried them one after another; none fitted. "No matter!" said Blery. "See, place the crowbar here—now, a little force—and, presto, we have the door opened!" Sapinaud and I followed the detectives into the room. Pajol bringing up the rear. The spectacle which met our eyes was a strange one. The small window in the roof, thickly coated with grime and soot, admitted only a very feeble light into the garret. A deep layer of dust rested on everything. In the center of the garret, stood a brazier, filled with charcoal ashes. On the wretched truckle-bed lay a heap of clothes, as if they had been thrown hastily down. Three large traveling trunks occupied almost half the entire space of the chamber. We looked on in wonderment while the detectives made a business-like inspection of the room before touching anything. Suddenly Pajol plucked Blery's sleeve, and, pointing to the charcoal-brazier—"It was with that same brazier he said it!" he whispered. Blery nodded. "Now, Pilotin," he said, "let us begin our search.—Approach, Messieurs, if you please. I have the idea that among these clothes here" pointing to those on the truckle-bed—"we shall, perhaps, make a discovery?" Sapinaud and I drew near, and looked on curiously. The clothes consisted of a dress suit, a fur jacket, and a crush hat. Blery felt the breast pocket of the coat, and, with a smile of triumph, drew out a dagger sheath. Made of green silk and lacquered wood, in shape like a closed fan. Drew out a dagger sheath made of green silk and lacquered wood. "You have seen something like this before, Messieurs, is it not so?" said the detective. "And this—this also you will recognize?"—and he showed us a key which he had found in another (Kicket). An exclamation—a significant "Ah!"—escaped from Sapinaud and myself at the same moment. M. Blery smiled again. Pilotin next opened the traveling trunks. They were found to contain clothes for the meet part; among which were one or two dresses, evidently Oriental. There were also a number of letters, some in our own language, some in a foreign character, which I easily recognized as Japanese. Still M. Blery had not spoken a word of explanation. He seemed to enjoy our complete mystification. "Pilotin," he said at last, when his search was finished, "you will remain here on guard until you are relieved. You will allow no one to enter without a written order from Monsieur the Prefect. Messieurs, if you will return with me to the prefecture, I shall have the pleasure of explaining to you what you have seen here. That will be a more convenient place for doing so." Leaving M. Pajol's, we drove back to the Prefecture, where M. Blery resumed his narrative. "Monsieur," he said to me, "will remember the surmise he had formed—or, as I prefer to call it, the idea—that the assassin of Meissner, who was certainly a foreigner, may possibly have been a Japanese. I decided on following up this dew." "In the lists at the prefecture I find the names of between sixty and seventy Japanese returned by the hotel keepers and proprietors of furnished houses in Paris. About forty of these are still resident here. Over twenty have returned to their native country. The remainder are dead, and buried in Paris. "I make special inquiries with regard to these last; it seems to me very probable that the victim of Meissner's extortions should be among them. One of the names is Sangura, a native of A'eddo, no profession, returned by Luuel, a keeper of private apartments, of the most expensive description, in the Avenue du Roi de Rome. I visit Luuel, who remembers his lodger Sangura perfectly. He had occupied for a year the finest suite of rooms on the first floor of Luuel's house. He was a Japanese of noble birth and great wealth, who intended remaining for three years in Europe. The seductious of Paris had proved too strong for M. Sangura, however; his style of living, Luuel assured me, was fabulous. He always rode out with two grooms behind him. His dinner never cost him less than two hundred francs, as he never dined alone. He would go behind the scenes of the theatres with his pockets full of jewelry. He made presents of the most splendid character; to one actress, it is said, he gave a set of diamonds worth thirty thousand francs; to another a barouche and a pair of English horses with silver mounted harness. "The rent was always paid to Lunel quarterly, in advance. About the end of the third quarter, Lunel's experienced eye began to see symptoms of a change in his tenant's disposition and mode of life. Sangura was no longer high-spirited and gay; there was almost continually a cloud on his face. First one of the grooms was dismissed; then the other; then the valet. Finally, the riding horses and the cabriolet were sold. One by one Lunel began to miss from his tenant's apartment certain costly articles of jewelry, with which Sangura had decorated it when he first came. Lunel inferred that these were being sold, as the difficulties of his tenant grew more pressing. Little by little Sangura's wardrobe disappeared also—a bad sign, Lunel thought; but the fourth quarter's rent was paid, and so he was safe. "At the end of the fourth quarter, Sangura—who's apartment was by this time stripped of everything belonging to him which had the least value—disappeared himself. Lunel never saw him again; but, about three months after, he remembers having read an account of a Suffice to be a suicide committed somewhere in the Latin Quarter by an unknown foreigner, supposed to be a Japanese, and having fancied that this might be his former tenant. "Lunel further hands to me a bundle of letters, which had arrived for his tenant subsequent to his disappearance. I examined these: with one exception they are the unpaid bills of M. Sangura's tradesmen. The exception is a letter addressed in a female hand; it is here—Monsieur can examine it for himself." M. Blery, drawing out a bulky pocket book, took from it a letter in a delicately tinted envelope, addressed in faint violet ink: "M. de Sangura, l'Avenue du Roi de Rome, 861." I read the letter, then handed it to Sappanaud. It was as  the signs of emotion. I infer at once that this has not been an ordinary acquaintance, but a case of true affection. 'Mademoiselle,' I say, with an air of deep respect, 'pardon my intrusion; but I am engaged in an inquiry into the sad end of M. de Sangura. I have found some one of your letters that you knew him, and I beg of you to give me any information you may possess as to his affairs.' Mile. Duchesne seems to take a pleasure in talking to any one of her dead lover.' She tells me—with real emotion, with free affection, this story, which I repeat to Messieurs: "Mademoiselle had formed the acquaintance of Sangura about six months after his arrival in Paris; they soon formed a mutual attachment. The Jajianese was handsome, his manners were distinguished; the courtesy of a gentleman, the generosity of a prince. His generosity, indeed, was so lavish that it eventually proved his ruin. Mademoiselle pleaded with her lover to curb his expenditure, to give up gambling and betting at Chantilly and Longchamps; it was of no avail. He persisted in loading her with costly presents; which she assured me—and I believe her—caused her more pain than pleasure to receive. The worst feature in Sangura's case." Mademoiselle informed me, was that he had gradually fallen into the power of Acme Jewish money-lender, who, she thought, resided on the left bank, but whose name she had never heard. As Sangura's funds diminished, this man's hold on him increased; the unfortunate Japanese grew every day more moodier and more depressed. She divined that he was now living by the sale of his wardrobe and effects; but he never told her so, and she did not dare to touch on the subject. At an early period of their acquaintance Sangura had given her to wear, not to keep, a pearl of extraordinary size and beauty; explaining to her that this gem was the great heirloom of his house; that he, as the eldest son of his dead father, had the custody of it, and that if anything happened to it he would be dishonored in the eyes of all his relatives. There was nothing he would not give to his Clotilde, Sangura had said, except only this pearl; nevertheless, she might wear it as an ornament, since he knew that in her charge it would be safe. One morning Sangura rushed into her room, in a state of great agitation, and, exclaiming that he was ruined and undone, asked for the gem. His mistress gave it to him with trembling hands; he rushed out of the chamber, and Mile. Duchesse never again saw her lover alive. "About three months after, Mademoiselle read in the journals the report of a suicide in the Rue St. Jacques—the suicide of a young foreigner, supposed to be a Japanese. She hastened to the morgue; it was the unfortunate Sangura. He had found a last refuge in the miserable garret which Messieurs visited today. Too proud to return to his mistress, all his means exhausted by the rapacity of the old money-lender, he had starved there till his last son was spent. Then one night he closed up carefully every crevice in the indoor or window; lighted a charcoal fire in the brazier; lay down on his wretched fiallet—and, three days afterward, was found there, lying dead. Mile. Duchesse caused her unhappy lover to be buried with propriety, and had a stone erected over his grave, where she still hangs with the ashes of immortelles. But she had not yet heard the last of Sangura. About three months ago she was visited by a young Japanese, who introduced himself as Kicsaka, Sangura's brother. Kiosaka told her that his brother had written him of the straits into which he had fallen, asking him to leave Yedo for Paris at the earliest opportunity, and when there, to lose no time in visiting Mile. Duchesse. It was from Mademoiselle's time that Kiosaka first heard the news of his brother's painful death." He was profoundly affected, apparently with rage as well as grief, and muttered something in his own language, Mademoiselle told me, 'with an accent which was terrible.' Shortly after he bade her farewell, and him also she has never seen again. "I ask Mademoiselle if she has a portrait of the late M. de Sangura. Mademoiselle has a miniature on ivory, of beautiful execution. After some hesitation, she consents to lend it to me, on my swearing to return it uninjured. Taking my departure, I first show this portrait to Monton and his daughter: they recognize it at once as that of the foreigner who had so frequently visited Meissuer up to about a year ago, and whom the old money-lender had to use Monton's own term. I then proceed to the Rue St. Jacques, in order to show the portrait to the proprietor of the house where Sangura found his last lodging, and where he died. There I made a discovery, unexpected, but most important, the discovery that another Japanese, about four months ago, had rented the very garret in which Sangura destroyed himself; that he did not live there, but spent in the garret a portion of almost every day; and that he was quite a problem to Pajol, the proprietor, and to all the other tenants. But to no one of the points of greatest interest was this: Oh Christmas day the Japanese visited Pajol in his shoe, and told him that he was about to make a journey, the duration of which was uncertain. He then paid three months' rent for the garret, remarking that it served very well to store his effects in, and that he would take the key with him. Since that day the Japanese has been neither seen nor heard of." "Messieurs, to whom of your intelligence the story is now plain. A young Japanese nobleman comes to Paris, and wastes in profuse extravagance all the wealth he has brought with him. This young Japanese has in his possession a jewel of immense value, a pearl, which is an heirloom in his family. Reduced to the direct straits, he pledges it to the usurer who has been his ruin. His debts swallow up the sum he has received from the money lender; starving and desperate, he finally puts an end to his life. Before this, however, he has written to his brother in A'eddo telling him that the family heirloom is in Meissner's hands, probably adjuring him to recover it. This brother, Kiosaka, comes to Paris; he desires to recover the pearl; but more eagerly still, as his actions show, he desires revenge. He takes up his abode in the garret where his brother put an end to his life, that he may be constantly reminded of the duty of vengeance. Messieurs, I have not told you that Mile. Duchesse was asked by the Japanese "where his brother had been buried. The grave of Sangura is in Mont Parnasse; I visited it myself; on the tombstone erected by Mile. Duchesse certain words, and obtained a translation." Their meaning is, 'My brother, rest in peace' Then shall he be avenged.' That inscription, cut in the stone by Kiosoka's order, expresses his fixed purpose: in the murder of Joseph Meissuer he carried that purpose into execution." I drew a long breath of relief as M. Blery finished. At last the mystery of the Bas-ag* de Mazariu had been made clear! "I may be called away at a very moment." said the detective; "copies of this part have been sent to every seaport in France, and to the towns on the frontier. Before many hours have passed I shall lie on the trail of the assassin." While we were still talking a telegram was hamlet in, M. Blery ran his eyes over it. "From the chief of police at Marseilles." he said; "I go there at once. Your friend, M. Marsal, is now as good as liberated. In a few hours, or days, another will be confined in his place. What a disappointment to my friend Py!" CHAPTER XII. The evidence which Sapinaud was able to lay before the imperial procurator proved sufficient secure Raoul's immediate release. All the necessary steps were taken by Sapinaud: the office of bearing the joyful news to the prisoner devolved upon me. 1 found Raoul iu his prison chamber, lying half asleep on his {«lift. The light of the solitary caudle falling on his face showed w hat the effect of three weeks' imprisonment had been; his former associates might have had difficulty in recognizing him. His features w ere wan and haggard ; black rings surrounded his eyes; an untrimmed beard covered the lower part of his face. I do not think I had j realized until then what Raoul had borne iu confinement. As I entered he sprang from the truckle bed on which he had been lying. "Ah, Paul, my friend," he cried; "it is you— i you again !" Then, releasing my band, be took a step backward, and fixed on me a surprised, al- j most a startled look. This surprise was, in deed, natural. I was in evening dress; there t was a bouquet iu my buttouhole: my fea tures, I suppose, betray : ed my excitement, my dation. I saw Raoul's lip quiver; I fan eied that he trembled. I seized both his hands : in mine. "Raoul," Ï half whispered, "be brave; 1 am | going to tell you something-" "There is hope?" he cried, with trembling j eagerness, as I hesitated. "They have dis covered something? My innocence-" "Is proved, Raoul—proved! There is no ! longer the shadow of a doubt! More than i tliat-•" "More than that?" lie repeated, and his voice was weak and shaking. "Yes," 1 cried, "more than that—from this hour you aie free!" L -S LfU > ft *•From this hour you are free , m ) I I I I Raoul fell back on his bed: he had fainted. The warder w ho had accompanied me ran for water, and I sprinkled it on Raoul's fare. In a few minutes he revived, and looked at me with a smile. "The shock has been too much for you," I said. "Gabrielle"—he answered—"does she know I am innocent?" "I have but now left her. You shall yourself see her this night." "Ah, Paul," he said, "you are indeed a friend—but now tell me what has been discovered—tell me all—I can bear it." "I shall tell you all afterward in the meantime you must come with me. But— expect surprises - Raoul, do you think you are strong enough to bear excitement?" "I will go with you at once to Gabrielle." I am strong again, my friend, Ab, Paul, if you had passed such weeks of horror, you would not wonder at my weakness—you would know all that is meant by that little phrase—I am free!" I do not very well know how I got out of that prison. I only know that Raoul leaned on my arm, and that I walked beside him in an ecstasy of joy. A cab was waiting for us at the gate. Raoul took his seat without asking any question. He seemed to confide himself silently to my direction. It was as if he lived and moved in a dream. At last, when we had driven some distance, he spoke: "How is it that we are not yet at Galesville's? I thought you were to take me to her at once?" "Patience, patience, my dear Raoul," I answered; "you forget you are not as yet looking like yourself. Your confinement, your suffering, have altered you. We shall see Mile. Dumaine soon. But, first, you must be made once more like the Raoul of former days. At present you are unshaven, you are not dressed properly. The sight of you, so changed, might alarm Gabrielle; who knows?" "You are right, Paul," he said; "you are more considerate than I. But can you wonder at my impatience?" First I took him to a hairdresser's on the Boulevard St. Michel. Here his long black hair was trimmed and the last week's growth of beard removed. Then we drove to the Rue Dauphine and entered our old chamber. Here we had been so happy together, and where I had been so wretched alone. The honest servant and his wife Nannette poured out their congratulations, but Raoul seemed scarcely to bear them. When he crossed the threshold, he shuddered and passed his hand before his eyes, as if to shut out a sight of horror. I fancied that some shape—some scene that he had beheld in that room in his dreams, had again arisen before him. Then he once more relapsed into a kind of stupor. I confess I began to feel alarmed about Raoul. When the servant and his wife had left us, I showed Paoul a suit of evening dress, laid out on his bed. "Sow," I said, "you will oblige me by putting on these at once. There is not a moment to spare unless you wish me to break an appointment. Raoul gave me a puzzled look. "What does this mean?" he said; "I do not understand." "You will  j ! j j !  door was reopened, and Raoul drew me into the box. I found myself with my friend and Gabrielle Dumaine. The light was dim, for the curtains of the box were drawn, but it was not so dim that I could not discern the charge that had come over the faces of these two since I had last looked upon either. Gabrielle was radiant with happiness, the serene, pure happiness which is burn only of sorrow. I had seen her before in her moments of gaiety and in her time of anguish, but I had never seen her looking so lovely as she did then. It seemed as if her trial had not only tested her heart, but had in some subtle way heightened her beauty and given it a new dignity and sweetness—a soft withering, a calm, spiritual rapture born of deepened thought and proved devotion. I need not repeat here what Gabrielle and Raoul said to me as we three sat, holding each other by the hand, in the darkened box in the Odéon. Suffice it to say that they so exaggerated my share in restoring Raoul to liberty that, I protest, it was almost a relief to me when the door opened, and there appeared M. Sapinaud, leading in Mme. Dumaine. Then there were fresh congratulations, and we were still in the midst of a conversation, joyful, but on the part of the ladies tearful also, when a bell rang and a hush succeeded to the hum that laid filled the theatre. Then I drew back the curtain of our box, and looked, for the First time, on the audience that had assembled to witness Raoul's play. The house was crowded from floor to ceiling. I looked from the circle, from the beauty and rank that filled it—from the snowy, lustrous dresses, the brilliant uniforms, the sparkling jewels, the flowers, the white-gloved fingers toying with fans or raising lorgnettes—I looked from the circle to the stalls, to the black-coated gentlemen among whom, I knew, were seated the keenest dramatic critics of Paris. The thought that they were there filled me with exultation. I had no fear for the success of Raoul's comedy. I had no doubt that before the night was over several of the brightest pens in the most critical city of the world would be running swiftly in his praise. Many eyes were turned to our box that night. The evening papers had already announced the fact of Raoul's liberation, and a rumor that he was present in the theatre had circulated through the house. But it was not merely to the romantic experiences of its author that the comedy owed its success. Its power, its pathos and its wit would of themselves have insured that. It was so strong that it held that brilliant, that fastidious audience from the first scene to the last. At the close of the second act, M. Desnouettes and a great critic—one of those who can speak in golden pieces, if they will—came round to our box to congratulate the author. The color came back to Raoul's cheek and his eyes sparkled. From the inmate of a prison cell—from a man all but condemned—to become the cynosure of Paris! The men and women who had but yesterday mentioned his name with a cynical indifference or a flippant affectation of horror, were now the willing captives of his genius—the unconscious mirrors of his moods, as the dialogue shifted from grave to gay. Raoul had drunk of the cup of despair; he was now to taste of the sparkling draught of fame. I feared the revulsion might be too great. And so, indeed, it might, had not Gabrielle been there. But the love which had sustained Raoul in his hour of agony calmed and steadied him in his hour of triumph. His eyes were turned less often to the stage, where his ideas were finding body and voice and clothing themselves in new power, than to Gabrielle. As for Gabrielle, she passed the time in a charmed distraction between her lover and the creature of his imagination. For my own part, I am afraid I could not that evening have given a very clear account of all that passed on the stage of the Odeon. Indeed, nowhere, perhaps, in all the theatre was Raoul's comedy followed with less intelligent attention than in the box occupied by the author and his friends. But it was the happiest hour of my life, and the thought which always came to me was—What a wonderful thing is this love! It has lifted Raoul out of the shadow of a terror worse than death; it has made him strong to receive with composure an ovation from the elite of Paris. For it was, in truth, an ovation. I need scarcely remark that Parisian audiences are not, as a rule, none to enthusiasm. But, when the curtain fell that evening on Raoul's comedy, the house fairly rose at him. A great shout of "Author! Author!" went up from all parts of the theatre. Then, for the first time, Raoul turned pale and trembled slightly. "It is too much," he said, "let us go." We hurried to the cloak-room, the roar of the theatre resounding in our ears. M. Desnouettes, as we leaned afterward, came forward and assured the audience that the author was deeply grateful for the reception they had given his piece, and that only the state of his health prevented his appearing in answer to their call. When we came out of the Odeon, I said: "You have borne yourself bravely, my dear Raoul, but your trials are not yet ended." Even a Moliere is not privileged to break his promises. You must obey me—you must still follow." "Are we not to go back to the Rue de l'Odeon?" said Gabrielle. "What do you mean?" "I mean that since Raoul has tonight provided so well for the mind, it is for me to provide for the body"—and I led the little party to Bignon's. What a supper that was! We laughed—we grew witty—at least some of us did—we congratulated one another, we basked in the fame of our dramatist, we were eloquent, childish whimsical, satirical, sentimental—we uttered a thousand absurdities—and we were wildly, supremely happy. But if our talk was beaded with the bubbles of frivolity, its current flowed from the deep places of the heart. Our light words were often only the mask of our up-welling emotion. The honors of the evening were carried off by Sapinaud, who relieved his feelings in a speech of surpassing eloquence—indeed, it was so ingenious, so thrilling, so ornate, that I had an idea it must have been intended for delivery at the trial—the trial that was never to take place. Then I had to tell Raoul the story of his liberation. When I had ended Gabrielle, who was seated next to me. Seized my hand and kissed it before I could prevent her. Need I say that I felt myself richly rewarded? "My dear Raoul," I said, " I am charmed to see how well you bear yourself already. Retirement for a little while in the society of Gabrielle is all that is necessary to complete the cure. The past will soon be forgotten, believe me. Mme. Dumaine and I have this day seen a villa at Auteuil, which we think will suit you perfectly. It is handsomely furnished. It has a pleasant garden sloping down to the river—the very spot for a dramatist to compose or rehearse love sennes. You can become its tenant at once." The supper at Bignoli's. 