The weekly Oskaloosa herald. [volume] (Oskaloosa, Iowa) 1855-1885, 1873-12-04

land through which a merry broo
sang to itself continually and afte
dinner with M. Cherbonneau, com
pleted the purchase and turned hi
steps toward the station just in tim
to catch the express train.
As Paris stretched out before him
with its light twinkling in the earl
dusk, and its spires and domes melt
ing into the evening air, it seemed
to Philip as if years had elapsed
since he lett the city. On reaching
Paris he drove to his hotel, where b,
found several letters lying on the ia
BILE. He did not tro1ble himself
even to glance at the superscriptioI
as he threw aside his travelling sur
tout for a more appropriate dress.
Ii in his impatience to return t.
Mile. Dorine, the cars had appeared
to walk, the farce which he had Sc
cured at the station appeared tc
creep. At last it turned into Place
Vendome, and drew up before M
Dorin's hotel. The door opened as
Philips foot touched the first step
The servant silently took his cloak
and hat, with special Difference
Philip thought but was he not now
one of the family?
's'M. Dorine," said the servant
slowly, sis unable to see monsieur a,
present. He wishes him to be shown
up to The salon."
els Mademoiselle-"
eyes, Monsieur.
"Alone? ?''
'.Alone, MONSIEUR" repeated the
man, looking curiously at Philip, who
could scarcely repress an exclama-
tion of pleasure.
1t was the first time such a privil-
ege had been accorded him. His
interviews with Julia had always Ia
ken place in the presence of M. Do
rine, or some member of the house
hold. A wellbred Partisan girl has
but formal acquaintance with her
lover.
Philip did not linger on the stair
case with light heart he went up
the steps, two at a time, fastening
through the softly lighted hall, in
which he detected the faint scent of
her favorite flowers, and stealthily
openedithe door of the salon.
The room was darkened. Under
meath the chandelier stood a slim
black casket on trestles. A lighted
candle, cruciiX and some white
flowers were on a table near by. Ju.
liza was dead.
When M. Dorine heard the sudden
cry that ran through the silent
house, he hurried from the library,
and found Philip standing like a
ghost in the middle of the chamber.
1t was not until long afterwards
that Wentworth learned the details
of the calamity that had befallen him.
On the previous night, Mile. Dorine
had retired to her room in seemingly
perfect health, and had dismissed
her maid with the request to be
awakened early the next morning.
At the appointed hour the girl enter
ed the chamber. Mile. Dorine was
sitting in an arm char apparently
asleep. The candle in the bougeoir
had burned down into the sockets a
book lay half open on the floor at her
feet. The girl started when she
saw that the bed had not been occu.
pied, and that her mistress still wore
an evening dress. She rushed to
the side of Mile. Dorine. 1t was not
slumber !; it was death.
Two messages were at once dis
patched to Philip, one at the station
at c., the other to his hotel. The
first missed him on the road, the sec,
ond he had neglected to open. On
his arrival at II. Dorine's house, the
valet, under the supposition that
Wentworth had been advised OF
Mile. Dorine's death, broke the intel
ligence with awkward cruelty, by
showing him directly into the salon.
Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty,
the suddenness of her death, and the
romance that had in some way at
tached itself to her love for the young
American, drew large crowds to wit.
ness the funeral ceremonies which
took place at the church in the rue
d. Agueseau. The body was to be
laid in M. Dorine's TOMB, in the Gem.
etery of Montmatre.
This tomb requires few words Of
description. First, there was CRATE
of filigrand iron through this, you
look into small vestibule or hall, al
the end of which was massive door
of oak opening upon short flight of
stone steps descending into the
tomb. The vault was fifteen or TWEEN.
ty feet square, ingeniously ventilated
from the ceiling, but unlighted. 1t
contained two sarcophagi +; the first
held the remains of Madame Dorine,
long since dead the other was new,
and bore on one side the letters J. D.,
in monogram, interviewer with fieurs
de-lis.
The funeral train stopped at the
gate of the small garden that inclos.
ed the place of burial, only the imme.
diate relatives following the bearers
into the tomb. A slender wax can.
die, such as is used in Catholic
churches, burned at the foot of the
uncovered sarcophagus, casting a
dim glow over the center of the ap.
partment, and deepening the shad.
ows which seemed to huddle to gath.
er in the corners. BY this bicker-
ing light the coffin was placed in the
granite shell, the heavy slab laid
ever it reverently, and the open door
revolved on its rusty hinges, shutting
out the uncertain ray OF sunlight that
had ventured to peep in on the dark
ne,s.
M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak,
threw himself on the back seat of the
landau, too distracted in his grief to
notice that he was the only occupant
of the vehicle. There was sound
of wheels grating on the graveled
avenue, and then all was silent ag ain
in the cemetery of Montmartre. AT
the main entrance the carriages part
ing company, dashed off into various
streets at pace that seemed to ex.
press relief.
The rattle of wheels had died out
on the air when Philip opened his
eyes, bewildered like a man abruptly
arose from slumber. lie raised him
self on one arm aud started into the
surrounding darkness. Where was
he? In second the truth flashed
/ II