The Press., 1891-04-02
LA BELLE ELISE.

of market women intrenched behind the barricades of golden melons and blushing peaches, the rich, green mounds of peas and giant cucumbers.
 Mime. Perreaup' called out the cobbler from his corner by the Lion dor. "How fares the world in Paris? Has Boulanger returned, and when is it that Louise Michel shall be crowned5"
 She heard nothing, saw nothing, tread ing her way automatically among the glis- tening tins and market melange that filled the square and overfowed the narrow sidewalk, clasping a rusty black sachel firmly in one hand and stout gingham umbrella in the other as she hurried on.
 The searching sun revealed the white aeams of her shabby dress, the rusty crape on the meager, pinched little bonnet that conveyed a whole drama of misery in it. self, the lines of silver sparkling in her yellow hair-a pathetic figure with her white, worn face and shriveled, calloused hands that mutely spoke of years of unre- Enitting toll.
 Yet had she raised those dropping eye ids that trembled in the glare you would nave seen pair of pale blue eyes filled with dreamy light-the eyes of one who goes forth to meet lover. And it was lover Mme Perreau was hurrying to meet.
 
 years, and loved still and would love until :he end-her husband.
 She was known as La Belle Elise in the lays when they went to live in the stueco village adjoining Monsieur le Maire. But one August day, and excessively warm, Jean returned from his work in the Care ,lu Nord earlier than usual. He com plained that his eyes pained him. In a week he was blind. They left the little yellow villa with it's absurd little tower; they entered the narrow door of the ruined bunting lodge that stood on 8 bit of waste land at the foot of the hill.
 Here La Belle Elise bravely took up the toll of two. Jean did not suffer, you may be sure. They were still happy, foolish1y happy. He hardly noted the change He did not know, while he was dining on the same savory ragout, that his wife, with eyes of love bent upon him, was choking over crust. How could he, being blind?
 Soon after he was asleep snd the moonwas bright she worked at some coarse sewing, and on market days furnished bouillon and coffee in the early morning to the market gardeners. So years passed, and La Belle Elise wasted and whitened and lost her roundness of figure, and grew sharp of chin and shriveled like a flower scorched in the sun.
 Mime. Perreau, people began to call her now, ,and then poor Mime. Perreau; but Jean saw no change. How could he, being blinds
 She was still La Belle Elise to him, as fresh and fair as on that day he had first seen her face shrined in the flowers of a kiosk on the Boulevard Malakoff. He saw her still with waves of rippling golden hair and eyes like the sapphire flowers that blossomed in the wheat; the solid round throat and dimpled arms, the slender graceful figure. The memory was fresh as on their marriage day.
 By the side of madame's lump of bread one morning lay a huge envelope, bearing the Paris postmark. The last letter had been demand for money, the payment oi an old debt contracted by her husband. That was six years ago. She opened the letter with trembling fingers. Baptiste was dead; had absorbed too much of the stock of his dingy cafe in Montparnasse A good thing for his wife. But he had left 5000 francs to his cousin Elise, and that was better still.
 She said nothing to Jean about the mat ter at the time, though the secret burned her. After he was asleep she fingered long in the moonlight thinking it all over "Jean shall have this," she communed "Jean shall have that" Never a thought of herself. Yet it was years since she had bought new gown, and La Belle Elise of other days was such a daintily clad fig ure. Now it was Jean always.
 Dreaming still of her prospects and plans for him she fell asleep with the moonlight glory on her face,
 A ready excuse was found for her trip to Paris. Everything she did Jean believed was right. He was not ungrateful, poor fellow!
 So it was month before madame found herself again on the hills of Montmorency. Small wonder that she did not see the market people today, that she moved si- lently through their midst, as if guided by an unseen hand, for that rusty sachel clasped tightly in her hand jingled 5000 francs in good gold of the republic.
 It was more than mere money to her. life so dear to her.
 She was on the hilltop now. The gray walls of the house rose like shadow be- fore her. Was that his face at the window2 She was not sure, her eyes were so dim with happy tears.
 How the coins rattled in the sachel with ring of triumph as she ran, half stum- bling, down the incline. Foolish for a wom- an of 32 to be so childishly delighted, com ing home to a blind husband. "Where is it that you are going, madame" called out hoarse voice.
 Mere Choppine, with face like baked apple, was cutting sticks in the hedge
 "Why-why, to the house-to Jean," staring at the gnarled, stepping form of the old woman affrightediy.
 "Gone," ]" said Mere Chopptne laconically, snapping off 8 bough with cracking sound.
 "Gones" vaguely, "gone?"
 ''Mais. oui, you know of the good Dr. Bourdel?'
 Madame nodded, still dizzy with what she had heard
 file called on M Jean while you were gone They had g long talk together. He said that M. Jean could be cured"
 The other looked at her blankly and laughed, but it was more like Q sob.
 *'And what then?"
 THE TRIALS OF WINTER. is a 4