The Portland daily press., 1892-01-06


speed, the fair white page of this young
girls life, as yet without trace of cray
on. l had turned so many pages, you
see, that resembled in everything those
mirrors of the restaurants, which every
body scratches with names and addresses.
"Ahl 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 l should be to have always beside
me that clear regard, that smiling
mouth, that skin so satiny and soft! l
was fully decided would marry, as
soon as possible, Mile. Brivard!
"And then, every evening while 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 bsonzes, the same screens, the
same divans and easy chairs from Beau
vais, only, Mile. Bertha no longer cut
the leaves of The Revue des Deux
Mondes.
Snow she read lighter and droller
journals, filled with sketches and pic
lures of genteel little ladies, who greatly
resembled herself Every day, too, I
took her 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
came 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 woman's
flesh. and in that verdure young girls
trim and smiling and with the rosy tint
of living flowers.
81 grow idyllic. No matter! It is
memory.
Il did not at frst-barbarian that I
was-observe the dainty grace and the
pretty, sad face of the young feuriste
that served me. ] thought only of
Bertha, saw only Bertha; her golden
curls danced always before my eyes.
She was thousand times ,prettier than
the little Angelo, and if only, said to
myself, she wore the Montague costume
of the peasantress in the opera
"Angele! and that very evening we
turned together, Bertha and l, the leaves
of the family album. A very much
mingled album at that Soldiers, mer-
chants, parchment aunts, apopleptic I'M
cles, artillery colonies and minister. A
minister, | say, as in olden times, one
always had in ones album GRANDPA
Their 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 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 resemble her. Seer
Sand assuming the attitude of her
operate 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 'sRe-
mentoir!'
Heaven be lherciful? Mile. Brivard.
daughter of M. Adolphe Brivard, com
mercial notable and former president OF
the Commercial exchange, knew the
repertoire Of the Partisan bouffes!
II 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
hoped gayly beside me like two little
| puppets clad in the same costume, and,
my faith! the farther l went the less
knew il was going to see Mile. Bertha
Brivard appear in the passage Cholseul,
or to marry before tricolored scarf in
the precinct Office the little blond
Angelo of the operatic scorel
"Twas just at that moment that l
found myself at the door of the florists
shop, where every evening I 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
bouquet, pretty as pink in her black
robe and white collar, which brought out
so clearly the rich brunette skin, my lit
tie flower girl, who every day for the
| past three weeks had given me the same
bouquet with the same gentle, courteous
and sad little smile that had scarcely
| noticed. @l
Sand I 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