Morning journal and courier., 1891-08-28
A Suicide,

Every week certain number of 'vol untary deaths" is registered in the nor tuary statistics of Paris. For the past month the total has been so great as to be appalling. What can be the cause of these suicides! In this prosaic age of ours can love be the motivei Or are they inspired by crime and povertyl He would be more than philosopher to draw conclusions from these fatal figures.
 I heard of one only last week, in which the comic was strangely mingled with the tragic-a silly, yet pathetic story.
 Imagine handsome young fellow, only twenty-two years old, Paul DevIiez by name, full of the enthusiasm and illusions of life, with just that little grain of sim plicity that makes youth so charming.
 Paul was desperately in love with pretty woman who laughed his love to scorn, cruelty making fun of sincere affec- tion. And yet, from wicked innate coque- try, she loved to retain this ingenious lover by her side-to receive a devotion she had no intention of requiting.
 One day, in a moment of madness, dis tracted by the perfdy of his tormentor, Paul so far forgot himself as to threaten u6T, duu tTlcu OO COhQuoE 1OiSc a iOhO she refused to yield graciously. One word of sarcasm-one gesture of contempt-was | sufficient to bring the poor fellow to his senses.
 Shocked and bewildered at his own | audacity, he exclaimed, as she ordered him from her presence: "There's nothing | left for me but death" She received this | declaration with a smile, a smile of such 1 irony that it only decided him the more in | his sinister resolve. He would make her believe him at any cost. "Yes, he repeat ed, "there's nothing left for me but death. | I will kill myself" A mocking peal of laughter struck him like challenge. | He left her with tears in his eyes, ,reeling | like a drunken man, staggered to the nearest cafe, called for writing materials, and wrote her letter full of love and des- pair, and without the slightest reservation I or doubt of his resolution, ending with these tragic words 'I will die to- night, killed by my own hands,"
 Mad with rage and modification, he rush ed for the nearest letter box, and angrily thrust the missive in. Then he felt great relief, kind of satisfaction. She should
 see he was not to be made game of with | impunity and what remorse she would
 suffer when she heard of his tragic death.
 Calling to mind the words of Reynard Fourier, who said: "There are hundred
 ways of leaving this world, he began to
 mediate on the best means of taking his life "Well, ," he thought, "a good bullet
 through the brain is decidedly the best. '
 Suddenly something strange happened,
 cold shivers shook him, 8 hideous vision
 passed before his eyes. He saw himself
 stretched on his bed, cold and dumb, 6
 gaping wound in his head, his features
 livid-an distorted. Horrible! Was thii
 deatha A fearful rspugnance seized him
 Why must he die for that woman, she wal
 nothing to him, after alll Besides, hii offence was not sufficient for so terrible
 an equation And, strange to say, com
 plete indifference succeeded the immenst
 love he had thought incurable. He saw
 thousand ways of consoling himself-lif,
 was charming-to die was madness. Com
 pletely cured of his insane passion, h, walked up and down the gay Boulevard enjoying the fresh air, the soft sunshine
 pleased with everything-but above al
 with himself, feasting his eyes on all thu beautiful things of beautiful Paris A. sudden thought made him stop shor in his walk,-his letter-that letter he hat just posted. Great Heavensi What
 ridiculous position he had placed himsel in, for what could be more absurd than man announcing such 6 tragic determins ton when he was happy to exist, full O life and spirits, looking forward to e joy ous future. What could be thought O - him. "How she would laugh at him, an , | with good reason too. He had made him a self supremely ridiculous.
 Q Well, that letter must never reach il