The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-07-18
THE PRESS.
Therese Sureau----A Tragedy.
BY HEGEsIPPE MoREAU, PRINTER.
THE Parisian.1

I was strolling idly and delightfully."- one
day under the chestnut trees in the Jardin
des Pantes; it was Sunday, and was then
free from the drudgery of my trade as typog-
rapher-a terrible trade in the present STATE
of literature.
Amongst the loungers, always curious and
always the same, that were grouped in front
of the elephant house, had just perceived
q young woman whose presence in such a
place l could hardly explain, for, although
she was dressed with extreme simplicity,
her strikingly pale face contrasting with her
black hair were not wanting i'll distinction,
and her lips had more than once received
with movement of irony the silly observa-
tons that rained around us. watched for
an opportunity to speak to her; it soon pre-
scented itself. Her open bag disclosed to my
view roll of paper, an octave volume and
three little apples. A movement of the
young woman led me to believe that she,
too, Wished to pay her tribute TO the vora-
cious animal: Take care,"I said to her;
'last Sunday lady advanced her arm and
her bag as you are doing to offer the ele-
plant cake when the beast quietly swal-
lowed cakes and bag and all; take carev'
Encouraged by a smile, | continued:
''Look, this is the way to do it," and taking
one of the apples between my thumb and
first finger offered it to the animal. He
swallowed it so nicely that Immediately
took second apple, which disappeared
like the first. l should have despatched the
last apple by the same way had l not discov
cred, as l turned to take it, that my fair
neighbor had disappeared
l continued my promenade, walking aim
lessly and thoughtfully, when at the bend
of solitary path espied the object of my
preoccupation. Seated on a stone bench,
ha odd mif a w a Ia CT
one, and at the same time reading a volume
spread out on her knees. | stopped, petri-
fed with surprise and confusion. Alas
saw at last, but too late, that the apples
were not destined for the elephant, and that
in my awkward courtesy l had robbed the
lady of my thoughts of two-thirds of her
breakfast. What could do? l could not
add insult to my foolishness by brutally
offering her other apples, and yet l was
longing to pay the debt that l had con-
tracted.
When the young woman had finished her
Pythagorean meal, she continued reading
her book, which seemed to interest her
deeply. Then strange idea entered my
head. l remembered that one of my
friends, student, had formerly won the
good graces of a shop girl by usurping the
name of Casimir Delavigne. My plan was
formed. At the moment when the young
woman, with movement of idolatrous ad-
miration, touched one of the leaves of the
book with her rosy lips: ''Thank you," 1
said bravely, as l advanced. The unknown
one raised her eyes: "What," said she, red
as cherry, "you are. :" l interrupted
her with modest bow. Then you should
have seen the girl culver with holy respect,
and you yourself, reader, would culver with
indignation if | told you the poetical aureole
hat II had T Of
my arm. 1t is needless to say that it was
accepted. As we walked along my compan-
ion confessed herself to me: she was wom-
an of letters, who had just arrived from the
provinces, where she was not understood, at
Paris, which cared little about understand
ing her. She had composed in solitude and
silence, as she said, volume of poems,
which ran considerable risk, thought, of
dying as it had been born. Furthermore,
she had offered to one of the theatres of the
bouleyards drama entitled, if I remember
rightly Zenobia.
The prompter, the gasman, the scene-shif-
ter, and other theatrical authorities had ad-
vised her, in the interests of the piece, to
make role in it for an elephant, which ex-
planned her careful examination of the man
ners of that gigantic beast when had first
observed her. Alas the fair poetess mag
ined she was confessing to the high priest of
the romantic religion; as for me 1 listened
10 her blushing and stammering like a
schoolboy who has hidden himself in the
confessional on Easter eve to surprise the
pretty penitents in peccadilloes. We were
now outside the garden, and went on and
on, and my companion followed me conf
IDENTIFY; it was not man but poet she was
following. For her the big bell of Notre
Dame, ringing for vespers, was sounding
my glory; in her eyes l bore on my brow a
blue fame like the genii in tales, and, on
the faith of this star, she would have fol
lowed me without hesitatlng into the Cour
des Miracles. We were now far from ouI
starting point, and at the door of a little
wine-shop that l knew. ''Suppese we 90 in
there" said, 1--WE shall be able to tala
more at our ease" and without waiting for
reply, crossed the threshold, followed by
the innocent provincial, who was somewhat
astonished at these unceremonious manners
and, doubtless, attributed them in petto to
originality, the ordinary companion to gen.
ius. The two stolen apples had hitherto
weighed heavy on my conscience; but, at
last, my remorse vanished between the roast
and the dessert. Meantime the converse
ton continued. GLOW do you advise me to
sign my new volume?' asked the muse.
"You know, sonorous name sometimes
imposes upon the reader, and people would
scarcely believe in the talent of a poet
called plain Therese Sureau."
/ started at that we'll known name, and
open-mouthed and motionless fixed my as
tonished eyes upon the speaker. "My cous-
in.' stammered out, as 1 fell back into my
chair.
A gesture betrayed her disappointment
mo, am not poet and have deceived
you" continued, anticipating her ques-
nr,lu fol-
Jacques, your cousin, typographer."
And indeed it was Therese, Therese the
most loved of the companions of my child
hood. Paleness had masked her former 70.
sy face and l had not recognized her. AT
the age of seventeen she had become my
cousin (alas, nothing but my cousin), by he1
marriage with big, fat and ricn farmer, my
relative, who soon left her widow.
Having been brought up by the ladies OF
the chateau, and having been their
demoiselle de compagnie before this mar
rage, the young widow soon abandoned
herself to the elegant life to which she had
formerly been accustomed, and to poetry,
her first passion. Flooded with rain, hail
and lawsuits, her little estates slipped
away from under her feet, like a shifting
sand, while she was gazing at the stars.
When she arrived in Paris she still had a
vineyard and meadow; but she had to pay
for the printing of her poems; she had to
scatter little gold dust in the eyes of the
newspapers; in short, the young widow soon
possessed nothing but her youth and beauty,
and Therese, thank Heaven, knew nothing
about making money out of this capital
After moment of silence, l continued
81 will not attempt to turn you away from a
career for which you are fatally predes-
tined; but are you quite sure of your voca-
ton? What right have you to proclaim
yourself poet? Is it because you have
written verses and made rhymes? At thai
rate, /, too, am poet. Beware and do moi
mistake for your star a will-o-the-wisI
which would lead you-heaven knows
where! To misery, to shame, to death!
My trade, cousin, gives me the right to
speak to you in this way. Printing, you
see, is the ante-chamber of literature. and
like the Wallets in all great houses, some
times look through the keyhole. The
other day, for instance, was sent to an au-
thor's for copy. The author was, like you,
Therese, young girl of twenty. 1 found
her sick in bed. Her mother was at her
side. She was writing. From time to time
her weary head fell upon her breast, the
pen stopped under her skeleton fingers, and
then she would ask for cup of coffee. II
was to inspire her, she said; but the perfidi-
Gus liquid poured at the same time fever
and inspiration into her veins, and each
phrase, each verse, cost the invalid quar-
ter of an hour of her life. BE quick, mad.