The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1891-03-11
Selected Storm.
A Voluntary Death.

our meals together. Louis had the
deep eyes, the pale complexion, and the
long aud disheveled hair of all those
Young men who came to the 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 ex-
uuisite sketches which have made his
reputation. Thus five years passed.
when / met him one day in the EDITORS
Office of journal for which | worked.
Each of us was as much pleased as the
other at thus meeting again; and after
the first " What Is that you? Is that
your" we stood facing each other,
shaking hands and exposing, in 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 sacrificed
his long hair, which he threw back
with the graceful movement of a horse
who losses his name. Only he had the
clear complexion and calm eye of
contented man, and his slim figure was
clad in most fashionable costume.
We won't drift apart again, will
WEI" said he affectionately, taking me
boulevard, where the April sun gilded
the young leaves of the plane trees.
All, happy dayl How we exhausted
the "Don't you remembers?' do
you remember the fried eggs which
tasted of straw, and the dreadful rice
milk, the melancholy air of your land
lady, and the German who used to pawn
his watch every three months?"
Those days of hardship for Louis
were finished. He had from afar APP
pauded my success, as | had watched
his. But one thing 1 did know, and
that was that he had married woman
he adored, and that he had charming
little girl.
"Come and see them; you shall dine
with me-"
l let myself be persuaded, and he
carried me to pretty suburb, where
he lived in cottage among the trees.
There everything made you welcome.
No sooner had we opened the door of
the garden than 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 daughter in her arms. An impos-
ing and beautiful blonde, her we'll
moulded figure wrapped in blue gown.
Put on plate more. I've an old
comrade with me-"
And the happy father, keeping his
hat on his head and caressing his little
girl, showed me all over his establish
ment-the dining-room, frightened by
light bits of faience; the study, abound
ing in books, with its window opening
out on the green turf, so that puff of
wind had strewn with rose leaves the
printers proofs which were scattered
on the table.
"This is only beginning, you know.
1t wasn't so long ago that we were
working for three sous line"
And while luxuriated under bios
soming Judas tree which saw in the
garden, Miraz, at ease in 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 la Houp lal"
do not remember ever to have had
more perfect impression of content
ment. We dined pleasantly-two good
courses, that was all; dinner without
pretense, where we served ourselves
with the peppermint. The charming
wife presided with her bright smile,
having her child by her side in high
chair. She spoke but little, but her
sweet and intelligent attention followed
our light and paradoxical chat, the good
humored fooing of men of letters, and
at the dessert she took a rose from the
tuh hn fol n
and placed it in her hair near her ear
with a supreme grace. She was indeed
that lovely and silent friend whom a
dreamer requires. 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, 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
Father" and " Hail Mary" which the
little one lisped, rubbing her little feet
together before the warm flame.
We saw each other again, often al
first, then less frequently, the difficult
and complicated life of literary labor
taking us each his own way. So the
years passed. We met, shook hands.
" Everything going well?" "Splen-
didly." And that was all. Then,
later, found the name af Louis Mire2
but rarely in the journals and periodi-
Gals. " Happy man; he is resting" l
said to myself, remembering that be
was spoken of as having made small
fortune. Finally, last autumn, learned
that he was seriously i'll.
hurried to see him. He still lived
at the pretty suburb; but on this SOM
bre day of the last of November the
little house seemed cold, and looked
naked among the leafless trees. Il
seemed to me shrunken and diminished
like everything that we have not seer
for long time. The dog was probably
dead, for his bark no longer answered
the sound of the bell when passed the
little gate and entered the garden, al
strewn with dead leaves where thu