Wilmington journal. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1844-1895, 1867-11-08
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

through Boston Common, [ met q gentle
man Ioung1ng along The Mall. This man
lace forced itself upon me, and a very sir
guar iace 1t was His eyes were faded
and his hair, which he wore long. wa
llecked with gray. His hair and eyes, if
may sly SO, were seventy years old, tn
rest of him not over thirty. The youth
fulness of his figure, the elasticity of hi
gait, and the venerable appearance of hi
head, were incongruities that drew NOR
IMAM one pair of curious eyes toward
him.
linen, next morning [ again encountered
him on The Mall
-" Would you ?" replied voice at m,
SIDE: L turned and faced Mr.. H.
nelghbor of mine, who laughed heartily a
finding me talking to myself. "Well," h,
added, re11ectingly, 81 can tell YOU thi
man story; and if you can match the mar
ratlye with anything as curious, shall b,
glad to hear it,
! You know him, then 2"
Yes and no. l happened to be in Paris
when he was buried.'
| "Buried r'
Well, strictly speaking, not buried
but something quite like it. If Won have 3
spare hour" continued my interlocutor.
"Well sit on this bench, and will tell YOU
all know Of an affair that made some noise
IN Paris couple of years ago.
Ihree persons were sitting in a chamber
whose one window overlooked the Place
Fendome. M. Dorine, with his back half
turned on the other two occupants of the
apartments, was reading the s'Moniteur. -
pausing from time to time to wipe his
glasses, and taking scrupulous pains not to
glance towards the lounge on his right. on
which were seated Mademoiselle Dorine
and a young American gentleman, whose
handsome face frankly told his position in
the family. There was not happier man
IN Paris that afternoon than Philip Went
worth. In certain natures the deepest Joy
has something of melancholy in it, a pre-
sentiment, feeting sadness, feeling
without name. Wentworth was consci-
Gus of this subtle shadow that night, when
he rose from the lounge, and thoughtfullv
held jules hand to his lips for moment
before parting.
III. Dorlne laid down his paper and came
forward. eff the house, he said, "is
such as NJ. Martin describes it to be, [ ad-
wise you to close with him at once. I
would accompany you, Philip, but the
truth IS, am too sad at losing this little
bird to assist You in selecting a cage for
her. BY tomorrow night he added.
"little Julie here will be an
Did lady-'tis such an age from now until
jhen."
The next morning the train bore Philip
@ one of the loveliest spots within thirty
niles OF Paris. An hours walk through |
green lanes brought him to NJ Martins |
estate. In a kind of q dream the young
nan wandered from room to room, and af- |
er dining with NJ. Martin, completed the |
and turned his steps towards the |
station just III time to catch the express
rain
where he found several letters lying on the |
able. He did not trouble himself even to
glance at their superscriptions as he threw
side his travelling surtout for a more ap-
oropriate dress.
If, in his impatience to see Mademoiselle |
)orine, the cars had appeared to walk, the
iacre to creep, at last it turned into the
Place Nendome and drew up before M. Do
ines residence. The door opened as
Philips foot touched the first step. The |
ervant silently took his cloak and hat with
special Difference, he thought; but was he
lot nov one of the family?
M. Dorine," said the servant, slowly,
{ is unable to see Monsieur at present He |
wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the
6l0n."
els Monsieur"
eyes, Monsieur -
"Alone ?"
Alone, Monsieur" repeated the man,
ooking seriously at Philip, who could
carcely repress an exclamation of pleas |
ire.
It was tho first time that such privilege |
lad been accorded him.
Philip did not inger on the staircase; his
n01,tc o11tr IL l>o 4,
teps two at time.
The room was darkened. Underneath |
he chandelier stood dim black casket or |
restle. A lighted candle, a crucifx, and
ONE white flowers were on table near
". Julie Dorine was dead.
When M. Dorine heard the indescriba-
lie cry that rang through the house, he
ound Philip standing like ghost in the
middle of the chamber.
On the previous night Mademoiselle Do
inc had retired to her room in seemingly |
'erfect health. She dismissed her maid
With request to be awakened early the
ext morning. At the appointed hour the
.irl entered the chamber Mademoiselle |
)orine was sitting in an arm chair, appa |
emily asleep. The candle had burnt
own to the socket book lay half open
n the carpet at her feet. The girl started
Tnen she saw that her mistress Stlll wore |
u evening dress. She rushed to Made |
noiselle Dorine's side. It was not slumber. |
t was death.
Mademoiselle Dorines wealth, her beau
y, the sadness of her death, and the ro-
nance that had in some way attached it.
elf to her love for the young American,
rev crowds to witness the funeral cere-
nonies which took place in the Rue d
Aguesseau. The body was to be laid III
Dorine's tomb, in the Cemetery Mont
nartre.
This tomb requires few words of de-
cription. First, there was a grating OF
iligrated iron through this you look into
small vestibule or hall, at the end of which
Tas massive door of oak, opening upon
hort flight of steps descending into the
omb. The vault was fifteen or twenty feet
quare, ingeniously ventilated from the
eiling, but dnlighted. It contained two
the first held the remains OF !
Madame Dorine, long since dead; the
,ther was new, and bore on one side the
etters J. D., in monogram, interviewer
With 57eurs de lis.
The funeral train stopped at the gate of
he small garden that enclosed the place OF
burial, only the immediate relatives follow
ng the bearers to the tomb A slender
wax candle, such as are used i'll Catholic