, 1891-01-22
A VOLUNTARY DEATH.

- OA-S IL
knew Louis Miraz very well, in the old
student days when we used to take our
meals together.
Louis had the deep eyes, the pale com
plexion and the long and disheveIed hair
of all those young men who came to town
from the country to conquer glory.
He was a 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 i met him
one day in the editors Office of n journal
for which I worked.
Each of us was as much pleased as the
other at thus meeting again; aud after the
first What is that your Is that your" we
stood facing zach other, shaking hands
and exposing, in a 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 a horse
who losses his name. Only he had the
clear complexion and calm eye Of a CON
tented man, and his slim figure was clad in
most fashionable costume.
I'VE won't drift apart again, will we'p
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 dayi How we exhausted the
Don't you remembersi" 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 monthsf"
Those days of hardship for Louis were
finished. He had from afar applauded my
success, as l had watched his. But one
thing l did not know, and that was that he
had married n woman whom he adored,
and that he had a charming little girl.
Come and see them; you shall dine
with me"
/ let myself be persuaded, and he carried
me to n 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. Dicki 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 a 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 establishment-the
dining room, frightened by light bits of
faience; the study, Astounding in books,
with its window opening out on the green
turf, so that a puff of wind had strewn
with rose leaves the printers proofs which
were scattered on the table.
This is only a beginning, you know. 1t
wasn't so long ago that we were working
for three sous a line"
And while l luxuriated under a blossom
ing Judas tree which 1 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 lar"
/ do not remember ever to nave had a
more perfect impression of contentment,
We dined pleasantly-two good courses,
that was all; n 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 a rose from the
bouquet which ornamented the table and
placed IL in her hair near her ear with u
HhEANAAA $500 Jaw wa az nav INV
ly 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
raaI- TO- A.I ,,aIn hoo ra,nnt tanv- IN..l
er" and Hail Mary" which the little one
lisped, rubbing her little feet together be-
fore the warm flame.
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.
We met, shook hands. Everything GO
ing well3' ~'Splendidly." And that was
all. TEN, later, l found the name of
Louis Miraz but rarely in the journals
and periodicals. Happy man; he is rest
ing said to myself, remembering that
he was spoken OF as having made a mall
fortune. Finally, last autumn, 1 learned
that he was seriously i'll.
/ hurried to see him. He still lived at
the pretty suburb; but on this somber day
OF the last OF November the little house
seemed cold, and looked naked among the
leafess trees. 1t seemed to me shrunken
and diminished, ike everything that we
nave not seen for a long time.
The dog was probably dead, for his bark
no longer answered the sound of the bell
when l passed the little gate and entered
the garden, all strewn with lead leaves
where the nights frost had withered the
last chrysanthemums.
1t was not his wife-she was absent-it
was Helen who received me-Helen, who
had grown to be a great girl Of Il, with an
awkward manne She opened for me the
door Of her father's study, and brusquely
lifting her great black eyelashes turned
on me a timid and distressed glance.
found Miraz huddled in an easy chair
in the corner of the fireplace, wrapped in a
sort Of bedgown, with gray locks streak
ing his long hair, and by the cold, clammy
hand which he reached toward me. by the
pallid face whice he turned upon me, l
knew that he was lost. Horriblel l found in
my unhappy comrade that worn and ruined
look which used 10 strike MS formerly
among the poor Poles we used to see.
"Ah, well, old man, things ara not going
wellS"
"Deucedly bad. my boy" he answered.
No Wreck Ashore