The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-01-17

the QuayS tlLI HIS OHlCC uOuE. TIC WOuio sit down on some bench and read his latest purchase-not a rare and valuable book, but romance of the First Elm pire or of the Restoration" He de- lighted in those old, red-covered books, full of sentimental beauty, in which the heroes spoke an odd and whimsical language. Before going to his office he would buy the PetH /cHraak, of which he never read more than the feuilleton. He would fold it away in his pocket with tender care; it was to be the feast of the evening, the recompense for his day. At the office he worked like slave, lunched on a roll and glass of milk, and at five o'clock he would again be free.
 Then he abandoned himself to what he called "the joys of the family" He walked to the house of his brother, a merchant in small way in the avenue de Neuilly. where he dined in the back shop with Jean and Micheline, and ended his day with an honest game of domi- noes. Returning to the Quai Voltaire, always on foot, for he never allowed him self the luxury of an omnibus, he went to bed and read his feuilletop, after ~hich he slept peacefully, to recommence on the morrow.
 An idea of anything beyond this had never entered his head. He loved his brother and his sister-in-law; but the idea had never occurred to him that a drama of such character could trouble the life of these two beings, apparently so united. When, by chance, in the evening he did not find Micheline at home, he said to Jean, "Well, well; your wife is not here !" And he played at his dominoes without any inquietude, not noticing his brothers contracted brows.
 One fine day the drama burst forth, to the profound astonishment of Bernardin. Some bitter words were exchanged be- tween the husban and wife, then mutual reproaches, then violence. On Sunday, Bernardin saw his brother in state of great excitement. The little shop-keeper seized his arm and hissed, "l shall kill my wife's lover, else she will come to harm." Bernardin said to himself on his way home that evening, This is bad, this is bad," but without being greatly moved. He had read of such affairs Tn the romances of Mime. Cotlin and the feuilletons of his paper. It did not seem to him at all novel. A wife deceives her husband, and the husband wishes to kill his wife's lover was it not in the natural order of things? Every feuilleton which respects itself recounts similar tales. Bernardin regretted only that it had oc- cured in his family.
 As it seemed to Bernardin necessary to aid Jean Morel in committing the act, he obeyed-as any yielding and affectionate person of little intelligence naturally would that is to say, docilely, but sigh ing at the recollection of his peaceful life, which was disturbed for so small a thing.
 It was indeed ended-his peaceful life l In prison, novel torture began for him. He learned what it is to think. The TO- mances no longer amused him; the dramas of the feullletons were no longer interesting. His romance, his drama, was the sole thing he thought of. Every minute, every second he revived the hideous tragedy into which he had been so brutally thrown; he revived the crime in all its horrible details. And little by little singular thought crept into his hithefto obscure brain, as single ray of sunshine penetrates into a darkened room. Had he indeed the right to aid his brother? Was he morally culpable ? yes or no2 This thought did not leave him, and he no longer slept. His ner- vous system was refined; something like intelligence grew in his sick brain. Night followed night, day followed day; all seemed blank. It was the increasing torment of regret, born in soul which began to reflect.
 Wknn ol longer the same man. The little clerk had become an impressionable aud nerv- ous being. He replied clearly to the questions asked him, without endeavor- | ing to prevaricAte or excuse himself When he found himself free again, after this acquittal, he thought he had just come out of long nightmare. Suddenly he had passed from the shadow to the full light. The unknown name of Der hardin Merel had become celebrated in day. They had telegraphed his name everywhere, and it had been printed in all the papers of the globe. It seemed to Berna.din Morel that all the people he met would have his name on their lips that every one would be talking of the Rueil crime, and that he never would be able to free himself from this horrible tragedy.
 He slowly returned by way of the Seine to his little apartmen of the o dai Voltaire. There nothing was changed. On the walls hung the same white shelves that served him as bookcase 1; at the back the narrow iron bed; here and there the accustomed furniture, the table, the box of dominoes, just as he had left them in corner was collec- tion of feuilletons of the Petit /oHyna! Nevertheless, everything was not she same. It was another man who re- turned the body was emaciated, the soul was changed.
 At first he had delicious sensation that of going to bed between clean sheets, between other sheets than those of a prison; then a vague feeling of torpor stole gently over him. Little by little his eyes became heavy with sleep, his nerves relaxed, and for the first time in six months Bernardin slept profou ,dly. | CHAprEP TIT