Evening journal. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1888-1932, 1891-05-18
A VOLUNTARY DEATH.

Louis hhu Jhe deep eyes, Jne pale COM
plexion and the long and disheveled hair
Of all those young men who came to town
from the country to conquer glory.
He was writer. ! soon found his name
in Sunday journals and reviews. and then
he began to write those short and exquisite
sketches which have made his reputation.
Thus five years passed, when l met him
one day in the editors Office Of a journal
for which I worked.
Each of us was as much pleased as the
other at thus meeting again; and after the
first "Whatl is That your Is that your" we
stood facing each other, shaking hands
and exposing, in u laugh Of cordial delight,
our teeth, which in old times we used to
exercise on the same crust of poverty. He
had not changed. He had not even sacri-
feed his long hair, which he threw back
with the graceful movement Of horse
who losses his name. Only he had the
clear complexion and calm eye of CON
tented man, and his slim figure was clad in
most fashionable costume
I'VE won't drift apart again, will weY"
said he affectionately, taking me by the
arm; and he led me out in the boulevard,
where the April sun gilded the young
leaves of the plane trees
All, happy dayl How we exhausted the
Don't you remembersf" "Do you re-
member the fried eggs which tasted Of
straw, and the dreadful rice milk, the mel
ancholy air of your landlady, and the Ger
man who used to pawn his watch every
three monthsP"
Those days Of hardship for Louis were
finished. He had from afar applauded my
success as l had watched his. But one
thing did not know, and that was that he
had married n woman whom he adored
and that he had charming little girl
Come and see them; you shall dine
with me-"
/ let myself be persuaded, and he carried
me to a pretty suburb, where he lived in a
cottage among the trees. There every
thing made you welcome No sooner had
we opened the door of the garden than a
young dog frisked about our feet.
Down, Dickl He will soil your clothes"
But at the sound Of the bell Mrs. Miraz
appeared at the steps with her little daugh-
ter in her arms. An imposing and beauti-
full blonde her well nodded figure wrapped
in blue gown.
Put on a plate more I've an old com
rade with me"
And the happy father, keeping his hat
on his head and caressing his little girl,
showed me all over his Notwithstanding
dining room, frightened by light bits Of
faience; the study, Astounding in books,
with its window opening out on the green
turf, 80 that n puff Of wind had strewn
with rose leaves the printers proofs which
were scattered on the table.
"lhis is only beginning, you know. It
wasn't so long ago that we were working
for three sous linen
And while / luxurated under a blossom
ing Judas tree which l saw in the garden
Airaz, nc ease ia his home, had slipped
into his working vest, put on his slippers,
and, lying on his sofa, caught little Helen
in his arms to toss her in the air-"Houp
lal IIoup lap
] do not remember ever TO have had a
more perfect impression Of contentment
We dined pleasantly--two good courses,
that was all; dinner without pretense,
where we served ourselves with the pepper
mill
The charming wife presided with her
bright smile, having her child by her side
in a high chair She spoke but little, but
her sweet and intelligent attention fol-
lowed our light and paradoxical chat, the
good humored fooling Of men Of letters,
and at the dessert she took rose from the
bouquet which ornamented the table and
placed it In her hair near her ear with a
supreme grace She was indeed that love
~ and silent friend whom a dreamer re-
quires.
We took our coffee in the study-they
intended to furnish the salon very soon
with the price Of a story to be published
BY Levy; then, as the evening was cool, a
fire Of sticks and twigs was built, and
while we smoked, Miraz and /, recalling
old memories, the mistress Of the house
holding on her knees little Helen, now
ready for bed made her repeat "Our Faith
err and Hail Mary which the little one
lisped, rubbing her little feet together be.
fore the warm fame.
We saw each other again, often at first
then less frequently, the difficult and com
/ plicated life Of literary labor taking us
each his own way. SO the years passed.
i We met, shook hands. Everything 20
ing wellN "Splendidly.n And that wa,
/ all. Then, later, | found the name OF
Louis Miraz but rarely in the journals
and periodicals Happy man; he is rest
ing" said to myself, remembering thai
he was spoken Of as having made a small
fortune. Finally, last autumn, learne,
that he was seriously i'll.
Il hAAAAlA ~ SIC AAIls AAI nNlAl lANEQ "a
the pretty suburb; but on this somber da,
Of the last Of November the little hous
seemed cold, and looked naked among tn
leaness trees. It seemed to me shrunkel
and diminished, like everything that W
have not seen for long time.
The dog was probably dead, for his bari
no longer answered the sound of the bel
when passed the little gate and entere
the garden. all strewn with dead leave
where the nights frost had withercd ia
last chrysanthemums
1t was not his wife-she was absent
was Helen who received me-lIelen, VIII
had grown to De a great girl Of "a, with al
awkward manner. She opened for me ia
door Of her fathers study, and brusquel
lifting her great black eyelashes turne
on me timid and distressed glance.
found Miraz huddled ia an easy chat
in the corner Of the fireplace, wrapped in
sort Of hedgown, with gray locks streal
ing his long hair, and by the cold, clamm
D hand which he reached toward me, by III
pallid face whice he turned upon me,
1 knew that he was lost. H0rriblei / found
my unhappy comrade that worn and RUNE
look which used to strike us formerl
among the poor Poles we used to see
"Ah, well, old man, things are not goin
e wellf"
e "Deucedly bad, my boy" he answere,