The Northern Pacific farmer., 1880-03-18

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-Four days pass' d. Dumoulin re-
turned and greeted her kindly, as if no
cloud had ever darkened his faith in
herloyalty. But there was cold gilt
ter in his eye, blush pallor of the lips,
which she did not notice. A month
after his return from his journey, or,
as recorded in the police history of the
case, OF the 18th Of July, her birthday
anniversary, he entered the little studio
where she sat painting over again the
lineaments Of her lover, this time as
''Romeo."
MADAME, there is birthday present
a case of colors and brushes, Look
at them. Are they not complete?'
She clapped hands gleefully.
II will use them to paint my new
picture. Oil, too-why, it is complete!
What did they cost?'
''They were made to order especially
for you, madame. With these ]. want
you to to paint the portrait of a very
handsome man -one who is DOW dead"
"Poor fellow! Who was he? How can
1 paint one / have never seen?'
81 will give you his pho
tograph when you have finished your
Romeo"
will use these brushes to finish it
1t will be finished in three days,
On The afternoon of the third day he
entered the the studio. She was sitting
at the easel upon which was the can.
vas Of the Romeo. Her face wore an
expression of despair; there was tears
falling from her eyes.
"She's thinking of her lover" was
Dumoulins thought. He knew it be-.
cause he watched her. She went out
daily, wandered to the Louve, to the
house in LIE Petit Champs there
and overywhere-in search of her
lover.
"You like your birthday present? Do
the brushes paint well? Is the oil good
quality? and the pa;ette-is it light?"
EYES," she said, trying to smile
through her tears
"You have been weeping. You are
suffering"
A gleam of devilish malignity shot
from his eyes.
81 am suffering, Achille; but it will
pass away soon. See, my Romeo is
Finished"
"You can now commence on the
portrait. Here is the photograph"
He took from his pocket the photo
graph he had received in the letter. He
handed it to her, repeating the words
written upon it:
'Do you-know this face?'
Seeing it she uttered cry of terror.
It dropped from her grasp.
"Ah, ha! Madame, you recognize it.
You must paint it." he Kissed. "See,
all your faces are like it!'
The woman moaned in her agony,
now she knew he lad discovered her
frailty.
MADAME, those brushes, the oil, the
palette were made to order that you
might paint the x131rtralt better Of the;
man who betrayed my honor. All, I
know everything. Your Montfermeil
was So Rue des Petit Campes, when you
wantoned in the arms of Louis Sou
want, your lover. The galleries you
visited were the boulevards where arm
in arm you strolled and whispered your
guilty passions. Your Abelards Ar
mands, were but the faces of your
lover. Now that he is dead, you shall
paint his portrait"
Her face was like that of a corpse in
its ashen whiteness. Then through her
pallid trembling lips came the cry:
'YOu have murdered Louis Sou
vantp'
Like dog I tracked him to his
abode. BY note disguised as if it
were your writing I decoyed him to
lonely street at the back of Notre
Dame; then I sprang upon him. I
could have torn him limb from limb,
stabbed him to the heart! Did I leave
him there? No, Madame. Ihad made
all preparations for his obsequies. I
had a confederate; we conveyed the
body in carriage I had already pro.
vided to cellar in the Rue Dion, a
street that reeks with oaths, blasphemy.
crime and blood-the street Of the
worst. most degraded beings in Paris.
There my confederate rare surgeon
he was-did his work. We had blaz.
ing fire. All, it was merry sight!"
Madame Dumoulin still sat impassive,
her strong stare of horror unchanged,
still fixed upon him.
"You are silent he continued. "You
are thinking how best to paint his por-
trait. Listen. All good stories have an
end. Do you know that, the box of
colors, and brushes, the oil, the palette,
are souvenirs of the excellent, but de-
ceased Louis Souvant? The hair of
the brushes is the hair from his head.
The handles of the brushes, walnut
wood of the finely polished palette are
made ,from the wood of the bed
stead in the apartment in which you
and he consummated your infamous
guilt in the Rue des Petit Champs; the
oil you have so deftly softened the
colors with in that face of Romeo was
boiled from fragments Of his flesh in
the caldron of the cellar of the Rue