Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-12-28

was at the Villa Moraquitos.
 1t was now ten o'clock. and eleven had been appointed for the performance of the marriage ceremony, but neither the bride nor bridemaid had as yet assumed the attire prepared for the occasion and the elderly bridegroom, Don Juan Mora quitos, paced uneasily up and down his solitary chamber.
 The gold-digger was admitted by the mulattress, Pepita. It was she who had carried the note to his hotel.
 She conducted him to the elegant bou- doir, usually occupied by Camilla Mora quiros and Pauline Corsi, but which was now untenanted.
 The stranger gazed around him in be- wilderment, but before he could ask a question of Pepita, she had hurried from the room.
 He took the note from his waistcoat pocket, and once more devoured its brief contents.
 If Armand Tremlay would ascertain the fate of her whom he once loved, let him call without delay at the Villa Mora quitoS.
 He read and re-read these words, dur Ing the brief interval he he'd to wait, be- fore he heard ligh. footstep approach ing the door of the room.
 The door opened, and Pauline CorSi stood before him.
 Another moment, and she was clasped in the strangers arms.
 Pauline" he exclaimed, "my beloved, my darling, what magic is this? How Is it, that after thirteen weary years l find you here ill Americay'
 Because 1 came nither to sec you, Armand! But tell me, before say an other word, have you been to France during the past thirteen years?
 'Seven years ago was in Paris-seven years ago l returned to my native coun- try, wealthy and distinguished. to fling all at the feet of her, whom l dared to hope might still be faithful. bitter blow awaited me on my arrival.
 "Stay, Armand, said Pauline, laying her hand lightly upon her lovers llps; s.tell me all as it occurred from the first"
 She pointed to sofa and seated her self by the side of Armand Tremlay. Upon a table near her lay the bridal wreaths which were to be worn by her self and Camilla. The Frenchman per- ceived the floral coronets, and asked eagerly:
 These orange blossoms, Pauline, for whom are they intended2" |. You shall know that by and by" she answered, with an arch smile; mot an other word, until I have heard your story"
 An observer would have wondered at the transformation which the presence of Armand Tremlay effected in Pauline Corsi. She was no longer the cold and ambitious woman, but loving and gen. tie girl. with the tender light Of affection beaining in her blue eyes.
 ''Tell me. .' she repeated, tell me all, Armandr'
 "You remember the day upon which the Duke B. dismissed me from his housoT
 'Remember it, answered Pauline, q have good reason to remember it. That day was the turning point of my life.'
 And of mine. Reckless and desperate, l strode through the streets of Paris, With my breast rent with contending love and hatred. Love for you, hatred l for the conventionalitieS of rank, which elevated an insurmountahle barrier be- tween genius and beauty; for l felt that 1 had genius, ener gy, patience, 10 con- quer fOrtune-all the gifts winch help to make men great, and which the naughty lordiing dare not despisc. since they are ! the root of all ariStocracies. The vtry air of Franco seemed hateful to me, for deSpised the country in which differences of rank could part those whom Heaven had created for each other. sailed for ] America determined that iii a free coun- ! try I would attain such eminenco as 1 might enlitie me to sue for the hand of a 1 dukes daughter. So enraged was I 1 against the fate that separated us, that l threw aside my old name, and what I ever small degree of distinction might be attached to it, and called myself Forester i TownShend.'
 And it was thus that my search fos you was fruitless." said Pauline; "but go on.'
 | ''Under that assumed name 1 won con- siderable eminence as a portrait painter, ! throughout the United States. and seven years after leaving France, had amassed considerable fortune. l returned tC my native country, resolved, if I found YOU still true to me, to make ono more appeal to the duke, and failing in obtain ing his consent, to persuade you to agree to a clandestine marriage. On reaching 1 Paris, my first act was to go to the house you had occupied with your supposed father and mother. I was told that the family had removed to Milan. I lost not an hour in travelling to that city, and there 1 heard from the dukes steward the story of Jeannettes deathbed con. fessioE and the heartless way in which you had been treated. by those who fol nearly seventeen years had caressed you as their only child.
 "But they never loved me-" murmureo Pauline.
 No, dearest; it was an heir for z naughty title, and not fathers affec  ! punished their ambition, and terribl. retribution overlook them for theil cruelty in visiting upon your innocent head the crimes of others. The duchess died, broken-hearted at the discovery O. her guilty deception, and the duke was stabbed by an assassin in the streets O Milan. It is thought that this assassin was his kinsman and the heir to hi: fortune"
 Pauline bowed her head in silence.
 ''This story is very terrible" she said soiemnly; II had long ago forgiven thei wrong to me, in casting me from home and shelter; but l had never forgivel them for parting me from him l loved.
 "Dearest Pauline, the ways of Provi dence are indeed inscrutabe. I Jeff Milan, after vainly endeavoring to ascer tain whither you had gone after leavin! the ducal palace. My inquiries were vain, and my only thought was to fin, you in Paris, to which city l imaginei you would have fled. 1 remained in Pari for three months, during which time inserted numerous advertisements in th papers and applied to the police in orde to discover your retreat. At tho end 0 that time I began to despair of ever find ing you, and 1 was seized with gloom, conviction that you had committed sui eide in the first moments of your an