The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1890-07-08


country; the fever takes the children
from the very cradle, and only at the
graveyard does it leave the men who
have resisted it. 1t is because of the
pool, which should be drained" )" he added,
extending his hand toward the window.
"And then we, sir, we are sadder than
the others, for we lost our daughter a
month ago."
''YOur daughter is dead, Chartierg' 1
asked.
GOD knows, sir. As for Us, we do
not know what has become of her"
| Presently he went on in a very low tone:
Madeleine was very sad, very i'll; she
was as we are, my good sir. But the
birds still sing when they are i'll, and
| Madeleine sang near us, who do not even
talk. thought she would resist the
scourge, and said to myself, Some day,
God willing, shall take her to live in a
city To see the roses In her cheeks we
would have given our lives, my poor
wife and 1. But she was very pale; she
went too often to the edge of the water.
| She loved-I do not knew why-that
water, which harmed her so. Often,
when her mother called her to dinner,
she was seated in the wet grass at the
side Of the pool. We scolded her, but it
did no good. Itspleased her, she said, to
listen to the noise of the wind in the
reeds. She had nothing else to amuse
her, the dear child. In other countries
the little girls of poor people can gather
flowers, peep in the birds nests and have
doves and play with them as in the pict-
ures have seen in the city shops; here,
sir, there are no other flowers than the
lilies of the pool, the little birds would
be afraid to build their nests in our
great, gloomy trees, and the only doves
are ravens. My-poor girl, then, loved the
pool. Sometimes, of an evening, 1would
hear her open the window Of her cham
berthe chamber where you will sleep
tonight, sir. Come IMP l. would cry;
go to bed, you will take cold No, nor
she would say; and when l asked her
what she was looking at. There is a star
m the pool she would answer. One
morning at the breakfast hour Madeleine
did not come down stairs. Her mother
hereP cried my wife. 1t was month
ago, one Sunday morning. Madeleine
has not yet come back"
Charter had spoken slowly in a mo-
notonous tone. Now he wept silently.
The disappearance of theirchi more
than accounted for the gloom of my
hosts. Irepented having judged them
harshly, and it was with sincere pity that
pressed the old mans hands as l re-
tired.
My chamber was a room covered with
moldy paper; in one corner an iron bed,
two cane seated chairs at right and left
of a walnut commOde, a portrait of
young girl-Madeleine, doubtless-facing
the single window; that was all. l
went to bed and to sleep, not without
some difficulty, for the stewards tale
had predisposed my mind to lugubrious
thoughts, and then thought of the fever
which dreaded SO.
After an hour of restless sleep / awoke
with a start
''Who's there?" / cried.
The lamp which had not extinguished
enabled me to convince myself that was
alone-absolutely alone with the portrait.
From my bed, where l could no longer
sleep, l looked long at this picture. 1t
was a young girl, very pale, dressed in
white, in an attitude of meditation; she
gazed at the window with a strange
earnestness. AS one involuntarily fol-
lows the glance of person near, di-
rected my eyes parallel to those of the
portrait. The window had no curtains;
beyond the panes appeared vaguely the
indiStinct silhouettes of the forest, and
in the shadow there was a single star.
Turning back from Madeleine, noticed
that her gaze had become more intense, |
but it was easy to explain to myself why
It seemed so: plunged for an instant into
the night, my eyes should now see more |
clearly those of the portrait, on which |
the lamp shone full.
What I could not explain, what do |
not understand even yet, was an absurd |
idea-the result, no doubt, of my ner- !
vous excitement-which led me to get |
up, open the sash, as if in obedience to |
the desire of the portrait, and, the win |
dow open, turn back to it to receive its |
thanks. A breath of wind which en-
tered the room extinguished the lamp, !
and the portrait disappeared.
Without, the shadows were profound; /
beneath the low and black sky vast trees |
stood out, terrible against the night, /
about a great, pale space in which shiv-
cred furtive, steely lights and the dimmed |
reflection of single start was the |
pool.
Shuddering, l knew not why, gazed /
at the heavens, the trees, the pool. 1t |
slept, but it lived l OWNED that a
ceaseless agitation moved it, revealed on
the surface by the trembling of the
weeds; strange visions were in its inky
depths, shadowy dreams of that slum-
bering water whose respiration rnstled
dolorously among the reeds. Some
thing inquietiug and fascinating Law
prone in that sea. Near the side toward
the house the reeds were very thick;
their heads, now bowed, now lifted up
by the breeze. formed a moving black
surface, which made still more somber
the shadows of the neighboring trees.
n as it possible that the thing / now saw
itself on the tips of the reeds
was but the reflection OF a tree? I
could distinguish perfectly body and a
gigantic head, lightly stirred like those
Of a giant asleep. rocked on shadovy
waves, and two terrible arms stretched
forth toward my window.
strove in vain to draw myself from
the casement: q greater power thar mine.