Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1872-07-11

'o1cor and Proprietor.
I ran in to bid her good-by, she was a
little paler than usual, but quite cheer
full.
Take good care of your heart, little
Marguerite! T. said p1ayfully.
Monsieur" with lemure smile.
It takes care of ITSELF"
"Ohl But am afraid of the new
stranger. He looked ut you twice yes
terday, and when you sang the Mar
seillaise he stood in the vestibule to
listen"
She laughed softly, and the faint
pink tinged her cheeks. I bade the
old mother good-by, and got courtly
French blessing-for these people were
well-bred and refined-and then, as the
voice Of the garcon sang out for me-. I
now looked into Marguerite's face,
from whence all the color had fed now,
and saw her dear little beautiful eyes
swimming IN tears took her in my
arms, kissed her tender]y, ami ran
away not daring to look behind me.
For the little creature had grown
around my heart in the most wonderful
way.
As We gathered up our traps, Ludwig
consoled me.
Marguerite will solace herself with
the English gentleman. You'll find
the bloom oil gone from your white
flower when you return" He meant
no harm, but could have cursed him
for the evil prophecy.
As We went out of the door. We pass
ed the new English gentleman, stand
ing near the entrance, leisurely smok-
ing his after-breakfast cigar. His name,
I had learned, was Guy Beauchamp.-
Probably he was, on one side or other,
of French descent. He had that in
imitable air of polish about him which
marks the members of the most re-
fined nation in the world"
As he lifted his hat and courteously
wished us bon voyage, it struck me
that he might prove an easy conquerer
of any woman's heart. For a moment,
I felt real fear for little Marguerite,
but Ludwig hurried me on so effectually
that she was for the nOnce put out Of
my head. That night slept hundred
miles from the Latin Quarter, and the
next day our novel Swiss experience
began.
Up to this point I have written of
Marguerite from my own personal
knowledge; but from this, what remains
of her history is made up from frag-
ments of her papers and the narration
of the old woman who kept the crem-
erie opposite.
1t seems that Guy Beauchamp, see-
ing the fair, innocent beauty Of the
young girl, longed for her with that
strange perversity of the human mind
which nobody can explain. A hundred
poor girls OF easy virtue passed him
every day, but he was Indifferent to
them. 1t was Marguerite whom he de-
sired.
At first the girl was shy of him. He
could put on the airs Of q grand seiq-
neur, it seemed, and perhaps the child
was afraid of him. Then suddenly her
mother fell fearfully ill. This contin-
ued daring four long weeks of the hot,
weary summer. No more making Of
mock lilies and roses now. Marguerite
stood all day in the small, sitting room,
trying to ease the poor invalid. There
came too flowers, fruits, easy chair, de-
icate wines. Marguerite knew who
sent them, and her heart grew tender
toward him. Her mother died, and
the poor child paid her last franc to &C.
cure her beloved from the common
grave. Living may be cheap in Paris,
but it is dreadfully expensive to de-
When Marguerite came back from the
funeral, she had not sou till she earn.
ed it.
In this dire necessity her lover came.
He was kind to her-nobody else in the
wide world was. He took her out into
the Tuller1es, to the Bois de Bculoene,
where the birds sang and the air was
cool end sweet after that of the Latin
Quarter. It was summer, and Mar
guerite was young. The whole world,
full of sensations. was before her. She
loved, too, and was beloved. Let me
do Beauchamp that justice. Why, even
the chifonniers turned to bless her
sweet beauty as she passed.
One day he took her to the Louvre.
Up and down the miles of pictures
they walked, the happy g1rl flushing
and smiling. She was very lovely now,
they said-blooming out under these
sweet influences like q rose under the
suns kisses.
They paused once before q weird
canvas, that somehow lured and held a
good many eyes. An innocent young
girl, with hair hanging down in broad.
lustrous plats-pure, clear eyes and
tender outlines of cheek ard brow.
BEFORE her young man-her lover
handsome-and debonair. But what
did that creature mean that leered be-
hind the young mans back-the crea-
ture in the semblance of man, but with
ugly, develish visage just touched with
the triumph of assured success2
Who is it, What is it,
Beauchamp would fain have drawn
her on, but Marguerite fingered, fas-
cinatei. He was forced TO tell her the
story. It was Clothes Margaret, and
the young man was Faust, and the old
satyre was Mephistopheles, and-yes,
Faust was tempting Margaret
Our little Marguerite listened with
pain and wonder. She clung to Bean.
champ, snivering.
Take me away! Please take me
away !" she implored.
He took her out readily enough, and
the sweet air and the sunshine cheered
her and then to the Bois de Boulogne:
and, by and by, the girl seemed to have
forgotten the picture and was as gay as
q lark. And then wandered all the
sunny afternoon under those grand old
oaks, and one guesses what innocent
happiness was in Marguerite's heart.
And, by and by, when the shades
were falling, and there was no one near
to hear, Beauchamp took her in his
arms, and told her that he loved her.
And Marguerite clung to his neck, with
tears and kisses, and blessed him in
such terms that think some stirring
of shame and remorse began in his
breast. For he put her away a little,
and said gravely:
MY dear, what is it that you think
I have asked of you2"
Her, sweet, tender eyes met his and
slowly, as his meaning dawned on her,
the rose tints faded from her soft
cheeks.
"what can I think9 What could I
think?" she faltered, "but that you
! wanted me to be your wife2"
Let us hope he had the grace to bow
his head, before those pure eyes. But
little by little he pulled the fond illu-
sion away. He had wife ut home, he
told her; but he loved her-little Mar
guerite-and he would always be true