The Dalles daily chronicle. [volume] (The Dalles, Or.) 1890-1948, 1892-01-07

the moment, was precisely what I de-
sired to do. to turn the pages with all
speed, the fair white page of this young
tgirrs life, as yet without trace of cray
on. had turned SO many pages, you
see, that resenbled in everything those
mirrors of the restaurants. which every
body scratches with names and addresses.
'Ah! the young girl. That ignorant,
innocent and timid being, exquisite and
white, white as the virgin snow! had
found her at last, that ideal maid! How
happy | should be to have always beside
me that clear regard, that smiling
mouth, that skin SO satinJ and soft!
was fully decided would marry, as
soon as possible, Mile Brivard
'And then, every evening willie push
ing my suit, went to dine in the Bou-
levard Malesherbes. to find myself again
IN the white and gilt salon, with the
same bronzes. the same screens. the
same divans and easy chairs from Beau
vais, only, Nile. Bertha no longer cut
the leaves of The Revue des Deux
Mondes
Now she read lighter and droller
journals, filed with sketches and pic
tures of genteel little ladies. who greatly
resembled herself Every day, too,
took her a bunch of flowers, roses or
white lilacs, entering daily at the same
hour the same shop, where, on seeing me
arrive thus and always for the same pur-
pose, the same young flower girl put out
her hand to the same compartment and
presented me the same roses and the
same lilacs.
Il had become regular customer, re-
garding no one and always hurried,
though it would have been very agree
able to stay and contemplate those heaps
of odorous blossoms, violets, orange
flowers. above all camellias, their petals
holding the velvety sheen of a womans
flesh. and in that verdure young girls
| trim and smiling and with the rosy tint
of living flowers.
Il grow idyllic No matter! 1t is a
memory.
II did not at first-bar barian that
was-observe the dainty grace and the
pretty, sad face of the young fieuriste
that served me. l thought only of
Bertha, saw only Bertha; her golden
curls danced always before my eyes.
She was a Thousand times prettier than
the little Angelo, and if only, said to
myself. she wore the Morlaque costume
of the peasantress in the opera
Angelo! and that very evening we
turned together, Bertha and |, the leaves
of the family album A very much
mingled album at thatl Soldiers, mer-
chants, parchment aunts, apopleptic un-
cles, artillery colonels and minister. A
minister, | say, as in olden times, one
| always had in ones album GRANDPA
ther coifed in the skin cap of the Ma
tional Guard.
Wait said Bertha suddenly, closing
the covers, I've better one still to show
you. And she ran to seek it, She ran
-ah! what u figure! And she brought it
this one full of actresses, singers.
danseuses; all the shoulders and busts
of the opera. all the trunks and tights of
the ballet.
"And there, sandwiched between Ju-
die and Theo, saucy, roguish, the most
decolleted of the lot, the little Angelo of
the Bouffes.
"'And doesn't she look like me?' cried
Bertha joyously; every one tells me
how much 1 resemble her. Seer
''And assuming the attitude of her
operatic counterpart, winking her eye
and with finger to the side of her nose,
she began to hum-Bertha began to
hum-the rollicking couplets of the Gre
| mentoir!'
Heaven be merciful? Mile. Brivard.
daughter of M. Adolphe Brivard, com
mercial notable and former president vi
the Commercial exchange, knew the
repertoire of the Partisan bouffes!
Il took my leave little suffocated
this evening from the white and gilt
salon of the Boulevard Malesherbes.
The little Angelo and the little Bertha
mingled strangely in my thoughts and
hopped gayly beside me like two little
puppets clad in the same costume, and
1 my faith! the farther l went the less
knew if was going to see Nile. Bertha
Brivard appear in the passage Cholseul,
or to marry BEFORE a tricolored scarf in
the precinct office the little blond
Angelo of the operatic score.
Twas just at that moment that
found myself at the door of the florists
shop, where every evening entered
regularly. They were starting to close
up, but between the aZalea branches
and gilded baskets, among the deep,
! waxy greens of the caoutchouc plants.
shining as if vanished under the spray
of the fountains, perceived finishing a
bouquet, pretty as pink in her black
robe and white collar, which brought ont
so clearly the rich brunette skin, my lit
tie flower girl, who every day for the
past three weeks had given me tine same
bouquet with the same gentle, courteous
and sad little smile that had scarcely
noticed.
And l staid there looking at her.
She was charming, my little friend the
flower girl. Her black hair brushed
smoothly back from her forehead, and
giving to her straight, classic profile the
air of an old medallion. With it all, a
true Parisienne, sweet. dainty, piquant,
the gaslight falling on the glossy banded
hair, the fingers turning in and out
among heap of roses, which she