The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-11-12
Laid Low by Lecouvier,
Or, the Cranky Subscriber and the Mil
lionaire Editor.
A TALE OF PRIDE, REVENGE AND Utter OVER
THROW.
rrrom ths FRENCH Of Patsy o,Reilly.l

From the French of Patsy o'Reilly.l
1t was morning.
The sun shone cheerfully in through the
windows of The Figaro office. Ten clerks
neatly dressed and natty--were writing at the
carved oaken tables. The Figaro was the old
est, wealthiest and most influential journal in
the metropolis. 1t was the organ of the politi-
cal party in power, and had successfully issued
from vast number of libel suits.
Pierre Buisseant enters. He is the editor and
proprietor. He is very rich in intellect and
pocket He has fought duel with an envious
rival and has killed him.
GOOD morning, monsieur" say the clerks,
rising and bowling deferentially.
Pierre Buisseant makes no reply He lays his
gold-headed cane on a mahogany dressing case,
throws himself upon a raw silk settee, and lazi-
ly chances over the columns of The Figaro.
How proud and scornful he isl Little does he
suspect the dreadful storm that is about to
burst over his devoted head.
But wait A man enters the Figaro office.
1t is Jean Jacques Lecouvier, the haberdash-
He appears excited. He approaches the
| counter.
"Stop my paperl' he mutters in husky tones
that trembe with emotion.
The thirteen clerks drop their gold pens and
| look up with sublime horror depicted on their
| faces. The whole place seems haunted with
the gloom and dampness OF a deserted grave
| yard.
Pierre Buisseant rises trembling from his
couch He comes forward with beads of cold
| sweat standing out upon his m arble forehead.
"Mon Dieu!' he cries in agony, ''you cannot
mean what you say, monsienrl l pray you re-
| consider"
"Stop my paper" repeated Jean Jacques Le-
| couvier. the haberdasher.
"And why?" asked Pierre Buisseant, quak-
| ing in every limb.
'.You have slandered Pitou Gaston,'' said
Jean Jacques; ''you say he is a barber, when
| you know very well he is a chiropodist He is
my friend. Stop my paper"
| And Jean Jacques Lecouvier wrathfully
strobe out through the massive doorway.
Valerie sat at the rosewood piano. She was
| essaying the most popular airs of the latest
opera. Eugene lolled listlessly on the cnsh-
| toned sofa, deep ia the miseries OF Les Miser-
| ables. Little Francois and Henri were playing
| marbles on the tapestry carpet.
1t was the home of Buisseant, the editor. A
| lofty, gilded, sumptuous palace whore luxury
| had abiding place, and want had never intrud-
ed its gaunt, hideous presence.
| Madame Buisseant enters.
She wears black velvet and diamonds.
| That she was an editors wife you would
| have guessed by the tiara of pearls and sap
| phires on her lovely brow.
where is your papa?" she asks.
HE mas not yet returned, replied valerie.
| But just then familiar step on the front
| stoop.
| In another moment Pierre Buisseant totters
| in. He is pale, haggard and breathless. He
| sinks upon an ottoman.
"Mon cherl mon cherl' cries Madame Buis-
seant, Fastening to his side and seizing his
cold, trembling hands, while their children
| gather tearfully around.
| cart sick-or full?"
| "The worst has come" he gasps. 81 have
| tried to be a good husband and an indulgent
| father. And now, after 1 have amassed all
| this wealth, see it snatched from me, and in
| its place dreary poverty. Listen: am ruined
| man. From these scenes of luxury we are
| suddenly transported to absolute perjury"
| "What is this you say? What do you mean?'
| they shrek between their soDs.
| "Mean?" answered the pallid, trembling
| man. Mean? / mean that Jean Jacques
Lacouvier, tho haberdasher, has stopped his
| paper!'