Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1880-01-09

A RUSTIC LOVE STORY PROM THE FRENCH OF
HENRY GREy1LLE.


but the drops of water were still rolling from
leaf to leaf with the light sound of a nearly
exhausted fountain trickling into its half fill
ed basin, and in the distance the dark path
opened out into a wet glade Of a deep green
of exquisite softness. The trunks Of the
trees were very black, their branches blacker
still, and the massive boughs of the chestnut
trees above the young painters head seemed
like the high arches Of a cathedral at the hour
when all is dark in the church and when the
colorcd windows cast into the gloom CLEANS
of light so intense and so mysterious that you
would think them lit up by fire of live Goals
from without.
Maurice loved this hour at the decline of
day, when after a rain the sun has not shown
out, and when a gray tint is cast over every
thing blending outlines, softening angles and
investing every shape with smooth and ex-
uuisite roundness. lie walked slowly, dis
covering every moment in the wellknown
forest some beauty till then unknown, and he
was thrilled to the very depths of his being
by that tender admiration for nature which is
one Of the characteristics Of genius.
Having reached the glade, he looked
around him. The grass was green and bril-
liant the delicate leaves of the shrubs shin
ing beneath the water, which had washed
them, formed fine, lace-like network against
the dark background Of the great forest be-
yOnd. He stopped in order to see better, to
observe better and to take in better the i'm
preston of the wet forest, more impressive
aud more human, so to speak, in all its great
shadows than beneath the sunshine in all the
ylilendor of the day
The pretty and graceful figure of young
girl stood out against the foliage of the birch
trees. She advanced with supple move
incut without porceivng Maurice, who, as
uumoyablc as the trunk Of a chestnut tree,
was watching her When two steps from
him the young girl perceived him. She
started, and 1T fall "A few twigs from the fag-
ct Of wood that she was carrying on her
head.
"You frightened me" said she, smiling,
and her large black eyes shone out merrily
beneath the tanglc of her blonde hair.
lie looked at her without answering.
complete harmony, which no words can rem
der reigned between the slender figure, the
laughing face, the lace-like foliage Of the
glade and the tints of the landscape.
stand still, said the young man; Il am
going to take your portrait
She wished to push back her hair, which
had fallen over her face, but lie prevented
her ly gesture.
''Reiuaiu A. you are
He seated himself on stone and sketched
rapidly the outline and features of his young
model She was a peasant, delicate and re-
iued As the young girls Of the peasantry often
are before their complete and often tardy de-
vclopment The eyes were already those of
a woman, the smile was still that Of child.
How old are you, asked the painter, still
working.
Il shall soon be sixteen
Already l saw you three years ago lit
tie bit Of "a thing"
Il was very little" said she with pretty
lnugh, and frank and bold as a sparrow. but
l grew fast, aud on st. Johns day shall
have lovers
"why on st. Johns day ?" asked the young
mau. stopping to look at her.
because one must have a lover to dance
with round the bonfire"
SO soon That pure brow, those innocent
eyes, that childish mouth all these were to
be profaued by the boorish gallantry Of a
rustic! Maurice felt n vague jealousy dawn
in his heart.
"Will you have me for lover 7" said he,
resumiug his work.
"Oh you you a gentleman, aud l, l
am a peasant good girls do not listen TO
gentlemen
That is the village code of morals the
young man answered nothing.
Il cannot any longer; will you come
back here to- morrow, a little earlier =
For my portrait =
yes"
Il will come back Good evening, sir"
She raised her bundle of wood and went
away into the deepening shadows, beneath
the archway of the dark chestnut trees.
Maurice went home dreaming Of the fair
haired child. He had seen her often, and had
always looked at her, but with the eyes of an
artist Now it seemed to him that he looked
at her with the eyes of jealous lover. That
night and the next day seemed interminable
.,,I laf ba Cd
he was in the glade.
He worked alone, and when the young girl
arrived, little late-already playing the CO.
quette-she was quite surprised.
1t is really myself ~ said she. "Wlllyou
give it to me p
NO, will make you little one for your
self"
And that one, what will you do with it 2"
1T will 90 to Paris, it will be put in
large frame, it will be hung in a beautiful
gallery, and every one will come and look at
IT,"
"Ah yes | know, in the exhibition"
Have you heard Of the exhibition z"
There are gentlemen painters here who
work for the exhibition, as they say, but they
never took my portrait"
Daylight Was fading gently; Maurice
found, as on the preceding evening, the ex-
quisite soft tints which had so charmed him,
toward posterity
He saw her again several times beneath
the checkered daylight of his improyised
studio, and he took pleasure in making this
work his best one. Already celebrated, he
had no need to make himself name, and yet
he was sure that this picture would put the
seal to his renown.
by the time he was quite satisfied with it,
winter had come, and Maurice loved his lit
tie model. He loved her too much to tell
her so, too much to sully this field flower
whom he could not make his wife, but
enough TO suffer at the thought of leaving
her She had none of those qualities which
secure the happiness of a life neither depth
of feeling nor the devotion which causes us
to forget everything, nor the passion which is
an excuse for everything; she was pretty
field flower, little vain, a little coquettish
with no great faults nor yet great virtues.
Maurice knew that she was not for him, and
yet he loved the graceful lines of her figure,
As yet scarcely developed, and which her
home-spun gown chastely infolded without
Disgusting. He loved the deep blue eyes, the
laughing mouth, the fair hair that was always
in disorder, the little handkerchief tied across
her breast-he loved it all, and it was with
reluctance that he went awny. We always
60 away with reluctance when we have moth
ing to hope for in our return, It is so hard
to leave behind bit of ones life, of which
nothing is to remain.
He carried away his picture, however, and
it was before it that he passed his happiest
hours that winter, always perfecting work
which was already perfect. The picture was
admired the critics, who were unanimous in
their enthusiasm, declared that such faces
could not exist, excepting in the brain of a
poet or in the imagination of a painter.
Maurice listened, smiling, and kept for him
self the secret of the sweet face that had in
spired him He received brilliant offers for
his pictures; never had so large price been |
offered for any of his works but he refused,
and he refused also to allow it to be copied. |
L. L.. Of