The Colfax chronicle. [volume] (Colfax, Grant Parish, La.) 1877-1981, 1886-05-22

the most dangerous quarters, Win
ruffians and overwhelmingly the most
insignificant episodes of his nightly ca
reer. Nor do l dare relate other ad-
ventures of a more intimate character,
from which, as the writers of an earlier
day would say in noble style, a pen the
least timorous would recoil with hor-
ror. However painful it may be to
confess an unworthy sentiment, am
obliged to say that my admiration for
Meurtrier was not unmixed with re-
greet and bitterness, perhaps with envy.
But the recitation Of his most marvel
Gus exploits had never awakened in
me the least feeling of incredulity, and
Achille Meurtrier easily took his place
in my mind among heroes and demi-
gods, between Roland and Pirithous.
II.
in the suburbs, and l occupied the leis-
ure of my summer evenings by solitary
walks in those distant regions. as I'M
known to the Parisians of the boulevards
as the country of the Caribbees,-a land of
whose somber charm I endeavored
later to tell in verse. An evening in
July, hot and dusty, at the hour when
the first gaslights were beginning to
twinkle in the misty twilight, / was
walking slowly from Vanguard,
through one of those long and depress-
ing suburban streets lined on each side
by houses of unequaled height. whose
porters and portresses, in shirt sleeves
and calico, sat on the steps and mag
ined that they were taking the fresh
air. Hardly any one passing in the
whole street-perhaps mason, white
with plaster, a sergent de vile, child
carrying home four-pound loaf larger
than himself, or young girl hurrying
on in hat and cloak with a leather bag
on her arm, and every quarter hour the
half empty omnibus coming back to its
place of departure with the heavy trot
of its tired horses.
Stumbling now and then on the pave
ment, for asphaltis an unknown luxury
in these places, l went down the street,
tasting all the charms of a stroller.
Sometimes stopped before an inclos-
ute to watch through the broken boards
the fading glories of the setting sun
and the black silhouettes of the CHM
neys thrown against a greenish sky.
Sometimes through an open window
on the ground floor caught sight Of
an interior, picturesque and familiar;
here jolly looking laundress holding
her fiat iron to her cheek; there work.
men sitting at tables and smoking
in the ground floor of a cabaret, while
an old Bohemian, standing before them,
sang something about liberty, accom-
panying himself on an old guitar.
Suddenly stopped. One of these
personal pictures had caught my eye by
its domestic and charming simplicity.
She looked SO happy and peaceful in
her simple little room, the dear old lady
in her black dress and widows cap,
leaning back in an easy chair covered
with green Utrecht velvet and sitting
quietly with her hands folded on her
lap. Everything around her was so
old, and seemed to have been preserved,
less through a wise economy than on
account of hallowed memories, since
the honeymoon with Monsieur
of the high complexion, in a
frock coat and lowered waistcoat,
whose oval crayon ornamented the
wall. By two lamps on the mantle
shelf every detail of the old-fashioned
furniture could be distinguished, from
the clock on fish of artificial and
painted marble to the old and anti
quated piano, on which, without doubt,
as a young girl in leg-of-mutton sleeves
and with her hair dressed la grecque,
she played the airs of Romagnesi. Ger
tainly a loved and only daughter, re-
manning unmarried through her affce-
ton for her mother, piously watched
over the last years of the widow. 1t
was she, was sure, who had so tender
ly placed her dear mother, she who
had put the ottoman under her feet,
she who placed near her the inlaid
table and arranged on it the waiter and
the two cups. I expected already to
see her coming in, carrying the even
ing coffee, the sweet, calm girl, who
should be dressed in mourning like the
widow and resemble her very much.
Absorbed by the contemplation of a
scene so sympathetic, and by the pleas
ure of imagining that humble poem, /
remained standing some steps from the
open window. sure of not being no
ticed in the dusky street, when l saw a
door open and there appeared-oh,
how far he was from my thoughts at
that moment my friend Meurtrier
himself, the formidable hero of tits on
the river and trays in unknown places.
A sudden doubt crossed me. / felt that
l was on hepoint of discovering mys-
terry. 1t was he, indeed. His terrible
hairy hand held a tiny silver coffee-pot,
and he was followed by poodle, which
greatly embarrassed his steps-a valiant
and classic poodle, the poodle of blind
clarinette players, poor beggar's poo
die. a poodle clipped like lion, with
hairy ruffies on his four paws and a
white mustache like General of the
Gymnase.
Mamma" said the giant, in tone
of ineffable tenderness, ''here is your
coffee. / am sure that you will find
it nice tonight. The water was boil
y