Litchfield enquirer., 1867-08-01
aside his travelling surtout fora more ap-

l If. in his impatience to see Mademoiselle Dorine, the cars had appeared to, walk, the facre which he had secured at the station, appeared to creep At last it turned into the Place Vendome, and drew up before l M Dorine's residence. The door opened as Philips foot touched the first step. The servant silently took his cloak and hat with special deference, Philip thought but was he not now one of the family? 1 'sM Dorine," said the servant slowly, ''is 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, scarcely repress an exclamation of pleas ure.
 It was the first time that such privilege had been accorded him. His interviews with Julie had always taken place in pres ence of NJ. Dorine, or some member of the household. A well-bred Parisian girl has bat formal acquaintance with her lover. Philip did not finger on the staircase; his heart sang in his bosom as he flew up the steps two at time. Ah! this wine of air which one drinks at twenty, and seldom after He ha ,t n d throu 5h the softly light eo hall, in which he detected 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, crucifx, and some white flowers were on a table near by Julie Dorine was d ad!
 When M Dorine heard the indescriba- ble cry that rang through the silent house, he hurried from the library, and foun . Philip standing like a ghost in the middle of the chamber.
 It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details of the calam- ity that had befallen him. On the previous night, Mademoiselle Dorine had retired to her rooom in seemingly perfect health. She dismissed her maid with request to be awakened early the next morning. At the appointed hour the girl entered the l chamber Mademoiselle Dorine was sittin g in an arm chair, apparently asleep. The candle ha burnt down to the socket; a book lay h If open the oncarp pet at her feet. The girl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and that her mis- tress still wore an evening dress. S.e rush ed to Mademoiselle Dorines side. It Was not slumber It 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 neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house the servant, under the supposltlon that Wentworth had been advised of Mad emoiselle Dorine's death, broke the intelli- gence with awkward cruelty, by showing him directly to the salon.
 Mademoiselle Dorine's wealth, her beau ty, the suddenness of her death, and the romance that had in some way attached it. self to her love for the young American, drew crowds 10 witness the funeral ceremo- nies which took place at the church in the Rue pAguesseau. The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb in the cemetery of Montmartre.
 This tomb requires few words of des- cription. First there was grating of fiji graned iron; through this you looked into small vestibule or hall, at the end of which was massive door of oak opening upon a short flight of stone steps descend ing into the tomb. The vault was fifteen or twenty feeet square, ingeniously venti- lated from the ceiling, but uplighted. It contained two sarcophagi; the first held the remains of Madame Dorine, long since dead; the other was new, and bore on one the letters J. D., in monogranl, interwo- ven with feurs-de-lis.
 The funeral train stopped at the gate of the small garden that enclosed the place of burial only the immediate relatives fol- lowing the bearers into the tomb. A slen- der wax candle, such as is used in Catholic churches, burnt at the foot of the uncov- cred sarcophagus, casting dim glow over the centre of the apartment, and deepen ing the shadows which seemed to huddle together in the corners. By this fickerin g light the coffin was placed in it's granite shell, the heavy slab laid over 1t reverently, and the oaken door revolved on its rusty hinges, shutting out the uncertain ray of sunshine that had ventured to peep in on the darkness.
 M Dorine, mufled in his cloak, threw himself on the back seat of the carriage, too abstracted in his grief to observed that he was the only occupant of the vehicle. There was sound of wheels grating on the graveled avenue, and then all was si- lent in the Cemetery of Montmartre. At the main entrance the carriages parted company dashing off into various streets at a pace that seemed to express a sense of re- lief. The band plays dead march going to the grave, but Fra Diauo1o in comin g from it.
 It is not with the retreating carriages that our interest lies. Nor yet wholly with the dead in her mysterious dream; but with Philip Wentworth.
 The rattle of wheels had died out of the air when Philip opened his eyes, bewilder- ed, like man abruptly reused from slum- Der. He raised himself on one arm and starel in the surrounding blackness. Where was he? In second the truth flashed upon him. He had been left in the tomb! While kneeling on the farther side of ! the stone box, perhaps he had tainted and in the last solemn rites his absence had been unnoticed.
 l His first emotion was one of natural ter TOT. But this passed as quickly as it came. Life had ceased to be so very precious to him; and if it were his fate to die at Julie's | side, was not that the fullflment of the desire which he had expressed to himself a hundred times that morning? What did it matter, few years sooner or later? He must lay down the burden at last; why not then? A pang of self-reproach followed th4 thought. Could he SO lightly throw aside l the love that had bent over his cradle: The sacred name of mother rose involun- tarily to his lips Was it not cowardly to yield up without a struggle the life he should guard for her Sake2 Was if not his