The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1884-04-12 00:00:00

Translated from the French.

CHAPTER XV.
13iNcE witnessing the representation of the "Cheva-
liers de Bovillanl," Paul Freneuse had been living
like a hermit, er what is very much the same thing,
like an artist behindhand with his picture, and who
15 working might and main for fear of missing the
Balon.

Ills progress on the first day was very unsatis-
factory. He could think of nothing but his chase
after the empty cab, and reproached himself for
having been so checkmated. He also resolved to
take up the search again at a more convenient
Beason.

Mlle. Paulet also occupied his mind to an extent
that did not facilitate his work. The moment he sat
down before his easel, the image of the beautiful
Margaret would somehow interpose itself between
his eyes and the canvass.
But the second day the mental disturbances were
less annoying; art began to get the upper hand, and
the artist once more grew absorbed in his gr( at
work. Now was a good opportunity for finishing
it.
Monsieur raulet was not likely, being suddenly
plunged into mourning, to carry out his projeaed
visit to the studio for some time; and indeed the
matter had been left vague, so Freneuse feared no
interruption from that quarter.
To complete his good luck, Binos also ceased
coining to hinder him. He who had passed most of
his time gossipping in the studio over interminable
pipes had suddenly disappeared.
Freneuse felt no uneasiness about him however.
He concluded the young fellow had pitched his tent
at the Grand Bok, or some establishment of the
same nature, unless, indeed, he had taken it into his
head to turn detective, and sift the affair of the
omnibus to the bottom. In that case Freneuse
knew he would not return until he had some news to
bring, and congratulated himself upon his absence,
for Binos was a trying companion to a hard-working
artist.
He shifted about constantly; his hands were on
everything, and his tongue was never at rest. On
every topic he would start interminable theories,
seasoned with absurd paradoxes that were enough
to unhinge the mind of the most patient listener,
and there was no successful way of quieting him.
Since this restless being no longer planted himself
behind Frenuese, picking holes in his work, and
'flaking all sorts of uncalled-for remarks, the
picture made rapid progress. Pia came to sit for five hours every day, arr ving
at noon and staying as long as the light lasted. She
was an exemplary model, never making a move-
ment, never -saying a word, never appearing tired.
Freneuse was obliged now and then to insist uron
her descending from her stool to rest from the
fatigue of sustaining her limbs so long in the same
position.
Sometimes she would take advantage of these en-
forced interruptions to exercise her tongue as well
as her feek but not often.
Iler great pleasure was looking round the studio
Itnd making discoveries; bringing forward rough
Sketches that Freneuse had turned to the wall;
tittering lively exclamations when she recognised
the model who had sat for any of them; seeing un-
Unexpected likenesses; asking shrewd questions ;
warbling and chirping all the time like a little
bird,
Still, day by day her gaiety grew less, and
before long the poor child seemed completely
Changed. She no longer chatted; she no longer
reamed round the room. When she came down
from her uncomfortable perch she sat quietly in a
corner upon a low footstool, her elbows on her
knees, and resting her chin on her hand, silent
and motionless.
Freneuse, absorbed in retouching his work, at
fihun rst did not notice this; but the third day it struck
that the child's eyes were red, and he began
enquiring into the cause.
Pia replied she had been grieving for Mirza,
whose sad end she had just learned; but Freneuse
refused to believe this account. However, having
no time to waste, he gave up trying to make her
"Plain, and returned to his painting, resolving to
get at the root of the matter as soon as the picture
Should be finished.
On the fifth day after the death of the cat he
noticed that Pia was unable to maintain her pose,
and was obliged to tell her so.
" Little one," he sighed, looking at her attentively,
" this will not do at all. You represent at this
Moment a Virgin at the Tomb, or a Magda'en in
the Desert, but not in the least a goatherd of
Subiaco. Come, ray child, you took care of your
Seats up there without wearing this unhappy face."
At Subiaco," said the girl so low Freneuse could
hardly catch the words, "I had no troubles."
And what troubles have you here ?" cried the '
artist. "Love troubles F"
"You know I have not," replied Pia.
" Good. You have told me you have not any
,a.le,vier, and I believe you. You know better than to
P'eic up with the young fellows at Lorenzo's, or in
the Place Pigalle. What is the matter, then t"
" Nothing, Monsieur Paul."
"Do not tell me that. I know you better than
You think, and can read your face like a book. I
declare you have completely changed. You never
iif ttnile, you droop your head, and let your arm fall as
You were posing for a statue of grief. I can do
no good at all ; if you continue fretting like this my
picture will be a failure. My little goatherd will
look like the daughter of a brigand who has just been
shot. There is only one way, my child, to conquer
these troubles. Tell them all to me; it will ease
Your heart, and I will End some way out of them.
uoine—speak ! HAS Father Lorenzo been teasing
You
"No ; he almost looks up to me now you have
given me into his charge. He never enters my
room without permission."
" That is right. I will make him an acknowledg-
rnent when I see him; in fact, I will go on purpose.
And you, do you want any money t"
a "Oh, no. I earn here twice as much as I want
L'e spend."
"Are you homesick ? Are you longing for your
Mountains t"
"What should I do there now?" murmured the
- "1 have no longer any one belonging to me."
" True," said Freneuse, much touched. "Thou
art an orphan."
Yes; in mother died last year," she said:
"
artist. ell never knew your father ? " asked the
a f saw him when I was a little child, but I
scarcely remember him."
" Ile was French, was he not ? "
"So they have told me. My mother never spoke
of lain.e
r " And you had no other relations ?
Yes ; one sister. I thought you knew that."
• "
Ah, I remember now you did tell me that she
left Subiaco when she was twelve years old. You
are younger than she ? "
" I was nine when she was twelve."
"Why did your mother let her go?"
" My mother was too poor to keep her."
"Huml My compatriot behaved badly. He
14 kave had no heart."
ma I gained a living herding goats," continued
;la) without noticing this first tricture upon her
rather. "My sister was more delicate than I; she
could not bear our poverty so well. She had a fine
°eine, and a singing master who was looking for
Pupils came to see us. He offered to teach her
Music, and by-and-by to procure her an engage-
Ment in the Opera, so she went with him."
"And you heard nothing more of her ?"
"She used to write every year to a man in
Subiaco who told us about her, because my mother
.!lid not know how to read, and I have only learnt
here, in France—thanks to you."
Well, and what has become of her— this sister? I
nave never thought to ask you. Has she made her
'way in the theatre ?"
" She has sung," in a great many of the large
_talian towns. east autumn she was at Milan, and
Bile sang at the Scala."
%-• a -AA prima donna t"
in the choruses."
„_" The deuce! Then she has not become a mu.
enaire. Row do you know this, as you have left
I•3llbiaco
tlid" They wrote to tell her that our in other was dead
that old Father Lorenzo had brought me to
;atis• Every one at home knows Lorenzo, and
vh ere his house is; so six weeks ago I had a letter
pl,.em ray sister—a letter addressed to the Rue des
. °Ws St. Bernard. It is the first time in my life
that any one has written to me."
"But it will not be the last; you answered your Sister's letter, I suppose ?"
"Yes, and then 1 had a' second one, telling me
that she was coming to Paris."
"Ah !bah! and did she come ?"
"Yes, a month ago."
"How is that, my child -
?;A:Virhy did you not tell
nie ?"
"My sister forbade me to speak of her. She
Wished no one to know she was here..
"But you have seen her?"
"It is because I don't see her any longer that I
have been g," said poor Pia, bursting into
tear&

"What do you mean?" cried Freneuse."Don't
Bee her any more! Have you quarrelled already ?"
" Quarrelled ? Oh, no," sighed the little Italian.
" we love eacli other dearly, as two sisters must
'when they. are all alone in the world."
" Well then, why do you not see each other ?"
"because she no longer komes to me."
"Why do you not go to her F"
"I do not know where she lives. '
"Good gracious! that is curious. What! do you
tn eall to Say that your sister came to Paris to look
fo
have thought
and never gave you her address? I should
e thought she would have certainly lived with
You:,
; Lorenzo's house did not suit her. They
With respect because I am still only a

chili), out my sister is eighteen, and she is Leauti,
ful."

" Ana you fancy you are uglyl But never mind,
that ia not the point. I can quite imagine she did
not care to lodge in the barracks of the Rue des
Fosses Saint Bernard; but that is no reason for her
'trot letting you know where she lived."
"he had a reason. She never told me
'what it was, and I never asked her. I only know
Bhe allowed no one to visit her."

"But still she came to see you ?"
" Yes ; every evening."
"Why in the evening P"
"Because she knew I came to you In the day-
time."

" Ah! so you spoke of me?"
"Oh, very often."
"And what did she talk about ?"
'About our mother, our country, our child-
hood--"

"She was sorry to leave your country?"
"Yes ' • she said her greatest desire was to g)
back and live there with me."

"But then she would have to give up the
theatre?"

"She would not regret that. She did not like
being a singer."
"But you; would you like to give up sitting?"
"I do not know," murmured the girl, dropping
her eyes.
You will have to sooner or later," said the
art'st. "You cannot spend all your life in studios.
Sony, day you will get married.'
"I shall not get married," said Pia quickly.
"Oh, you will change your mind. But to
return to your sister. She must have told you hy
she came to Paris. It was to go on the stage I
suppose, although she did not like the theatre ? '
"No it was not.'
"Why, then?"
"She made me promise to tell no one."
"The deuce! Was it such a secret? She forbade
you even telling me ?"
"She did not speak of you—she did not know you
allowed me to talk during the sittings."
"Neither did she know I was your friend. If she
had she would have made an exception in my favour.
I can understand that she did not wish Lorenzo to
learn her private affairs, but I am not Lorenzo—nor
even an Italian; and I am sure she would have con-
sidered me worthy of her confidence. You ought to
have brought her here."
"I should not have dared."

"But now that you are uneasy to know what has
become of her, you can at least tell one what brought
her to France. Perhaps it might help me to find
her."

"If I thought so--"
"You certainly may. You do not mistrust me, I
hope ?"
"Oh, no."
"Very well; then speak. I believe I have already
half guessed your secret. Your sister was seeking
some one. Am I not right ?"
" Yes, quite.'
"Then when I know who it was, I will set to
work. I know a great number of persons; and if
your sister had appealed to me, I should probably
have been able to give her much useful informa-
tion."

"You will promise to keep quite secret what I
will tell you?" asked Pia.
"To whom in the world should I repeat it? Of
all my friends, Binos is the only one you know, and
I should be very unlikely to make a confidant
him. He is too great a gossip, and, moreover, he
would be of no use. All his time is spent in caf s,
and I do not faneythat the person your sister sought
would be found there."

"No, Monsieur Paul, not there at all; my
sister was seeking for—our—our father."
"Your father!" echoed Freneuse, who had not ex-
pected this avowal.
" Ah, true; he was a Frenchman. I had for.
gotten; but you said just now you scarcely re-
membered him."

"My sister remembered him perfectly," said
Pia. "She is three years older than I am, you
know; and when my mother was left deserted, she
was old enough to understand."
"Then she must have told yogi what took place,
and why your father abandoned you. Between
ourselves') he behaved very shamefully, because he
does not appear to have denied the relationship,
and you were treated for a long time as his
daughters."
"My re:ollection of all that time is very indis-
tinct. I know we used to live in Rome, and that
we went to see him every day in an old house that
stood in an open place, much smaller than the Pla-e
Pigalle, opposite an immense flight of steps that led
to a church with towers."

" Good ! The Place a Espagne, at the foot ol
the steps of the Trinite des Monts. And all at once
did you cease to go there?"
"Yes. He went away quite suddenly. He
returned to France. Then we went back to
Subiaco, though my mother could still have earned
a living by sitting in the studios. She was so
beautiful; but she would not, so she took us into
the mountains."

"How did you live ? "
'My mother had saved a little money—very little
:L—when she was a model."

" What ! Did your father make no provision F"
"No—none."
" Abominable !'
"My sister thinks, that as he did not attempt to
provide for us, he must have been poor."
"A most unlikely story. He must have had
money to be able to quit France for Italy in order
toistudy painting. If he could not assure you large
income, he ought at least not to have left you in
misery. Gol knows you must have suffered. Ilal
you any shelter ?"
"My mother paid rent for a little hut, which the
shepherds no longer used, outside the village. he
did washing at the fountain for two or three rich
families, and my sister and I went out with the
flocks."

"And you never heard of your father ?"
"No. But once the priest told my mother that
some one in France had written to him, to ask
whether we were still at Subiaco, and she begged
him to say that we had left the country; we nevei
knew whether he did so."

"So the poor woman would not even hear him
spoken of. Ile must have injured her deeply; she
must have loathed him."
"She never uttered a bitter word—she neve.
mentioned his name before me," said Pia.__

"But you know his namo, d,o you not 2"
"My sister does." _ __

"Aid she has not told you ? "
"I never asked her. I saw she could not bear me
to learn it, for every time she spoke of the cause oi
her journey to Paris she began to cry."
My dear child, all this is very extraordinary
However, now is not the time to comment upon it
The first thing to be done is to find your sister.
When did she last see you ? "
"I was expecting her all the evening on Wednes-
day, and she never came."
"You had seen her the night before ? "
"Yes, Monsieur Paul. She stayed ',du. than
usual, and told me at parting she should come again
on the morrow."

"How used she to go to you ? " asked Freneuse,
after thinking a little.
"On foot, I should think, and walked home also
—she was very poor."
"Most likely, then, she lived near you? Did you
never accompany her home ?"
"No. She forbade me."

“And you never met her in the streets ?”
"Never. Igo out so little; and coming here I
always take the omnibus.'
"Tell me, my child, did your sister retain the
costume of Subiaco ?"
"Oh, no, Monsieur Paul. From the time she
began to sing in the greqt towns in the theatres, she
dressed like a Frenchwoman."
Freneuse was about to follow up his inquiries con-
eern:ng the lost sister, when a singular noise
attracted his attention. Something was scratching
gc ntly, at the door, and presently a plaintive "miaw "
became audible.

"Oh, Monsieur Paul, its Mirza r cried the girl.
_ Mirza !" said Freneuse. "Why, you know he is
dead. Cats do not come to life again."
"It certainly is a cat. He is scratching at the
door. Listen 1" cried Pi .

A second "miaw," still more heartrending than
the first, made her shudder.
"He is hungry, poor fellow," she went on; "do
let me open it for him."
"You may if you like. If it is not my cat's ghost
it is some new company. I have been on the point
of buying another eat—it is lonely without a pet;
but since Providence has sent one----"

Pia was already at the door, but had scarcely
opened it when she drew bael, with a cry of surprise
—almost of fright.
Binos stood before her, his hat on the back of his
head, his hands in his trousers pockets, his oye
turned up, and a pipe in his mouth.
(lb be continued.)