The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1867-11-01

stables, the lawns, the strip of wood
land through which a merry brook SANG
to itself continually; and, after dining
with NJ. Martin, completed the pur
chase, and turned his steps towards the
station, just in time to catch the express
train.
As Paris stretched out before him
with its million lights twinkling in the
early dusk, and its sharp spires here and
there pricking the sky, it seemed tc
Philip as if years had elapsed since he
left the city. On reaching Paris he drove
to his hotel, where he found several let.
tiers lying on the table. He did not
trouble himself even to glance at their
superscrip tions as he threw aside his
travelling surtout for more appropri-
ate dress.
If,in his impatience to see Mademoi-
selle Dorine, the cars had appeared to
walk, the fiacre which he had secured al
the station appeared to creep. AT last
it turned into the Place Vendome, and
drew up before NJ. Dorine's residence.
The door opened as Philips foot touched
the first step. The servant silently took
his cloak and hat, with a special defer
ence, Philip thought; but was he not
now one of the family?
"M. Dorine," said the servant slowly,
sis unable to see Monsieur at present.
He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to
the salon."
SIS Mademoiselle--"
"Yes Monsieur"
"Alone?"
"Alone, Monsieur" repeated the
man, looking curiously at Philip, who
could scarcely reprcss an exclamation
of pleasure.
1t was the first time that such priv
elege had been accorded him. His in
terviews with Julie had always taken
place in the presence of NJ. Dorine, or
some member of the household. A
well-bred Partisan girl has but formal
acquaintance with her lover.
Philip did not linger on the staircase /;
his heart sang in his bosom as he flew
up the steps, two at time. All this
wine of air which one drinks at twenty
and seldom after He FASTENED through
the softly lighted hall, in which he de-
tected the faint scent of her favorite
flowers, and stealthily opened the door
Of the salon.
The room was darkened. Underneath
the chandelier stood slim black casket
on trestles. a lighted candle, a cruel
fix, and some white flowers were on G
table near by. Julie Dorine was dead.
When NJ. Dorine heard the indescrib.
able cry that rang through the silent
house, he hurried from the library, aEt
found Philip standing like ghost in tn,
middle of the chamber.
1t was not until long afterwards that
Wentworth learned the details OF the
calamity that had befillen him. On
the previous night Mademoiselle Do
rine had retired to her room in seeming
ly perfect health. She dismissed hel
maid with a request to be awakened
early the next morning. At the ap
pointed hour the girl entered the cham
ber. Madcmoiselle Dorine was sitting
in an armchair, apparently asleep. The
candle had burnt down to the socket
book lay half open on the carpet al
her feet. The girl started when she saw
that the bed had not been occupied, anC
that her mistress still wore an evening
dress. She rushed to Mademoiselle DO
rine's side. 1t was not sumber. 1t was
death.
Two messages were at once despatched
to Philip, one to the station at G.,
the other to his hotel. The first missed
him ON the road, the second he had neg
lected to open. On his arrival at NJ. Do
rine's house, the servant, under the sup
position that Wentworth had been ad.
vised of Mademoiselle Dorines death,
broke the intelligence with awkward
cruelty, by showing him directly to the
salon.
Mademoiselle Dorine's wealth, her
beauty, the suddeness of her death, and
the romance that had in some way at
tached itself to her love for the young
American, drew crowds to witness the
funeral ceremonies which took place in
the church in the Rue d'Aguessseau.
The body was TO be laid in M. Dorine's
tomb, in the cemetery Of Montmartre.
This tomb requiresa few words of de-
scription. First there was grating OF
filigraned iron through this you looked
into a small vestibule or hall, at the end
of which was massive door of oak
opening upon a short flight of stone
steps descending into the tomb. The
vault was fifteen or twenty feet square
ingeniously ventilated from the ceiling
but unlighted. 1t contained two sarco
phagi: the first held the remains o
Madame Dorine, long since dead the
other was new, and on one side the let
ters j. D., in monogram, interviewer
with fieurs-de-lis.
The funeral train stopped at the gait
of the small garden that enclosed tn,
place of burial, only the immediate rel
atives following the bearers into tn,
tomb. a slender wax candle, such a
is used in Catholic churches, burnt at tn
the foot of the uncovered sarcopahagus
casting II dim glow over the centre o
the apartment, and deepening the shad
ows which seemed to huddle togethe
in the corners. BY this tiickering ligh
the coffin was placed in its graniteshell
the heavy slab laid over it reverently
and the oaken door revolved on its rust
hinges, shutting out the uncertain ra
of sunshine that had ventured to peeI
in ON the darkness.
NJ. Dorine, ,mutlled in hiscloak, thre,
himself on the back seat of the carriag
too distracted in his grief to observ
that he was the only occupant of the VI
hicle. There was II sound of whee
grating Oh the graveled avenue, an
then all was silence again in the Gem,