The record-union., 1893-11-11

Drawing his great coat more closely
about him, he moved slowly and eau
tiously along the slippery pavement In
the direction of the music. At last he
stopped i'll front of a house where the
sign ''Grandillot, Artist" still hung over
the door. Shielding his eyes from the
beating hail with his hands, he bent for
ward and peered through the darkness.
The dim, hickering rays of light from
the street lamps revealed the outline OF
dark face resting on the wlndow-slll.
The features were awry with contortlons
of pain, and the unfathomable, big black
eyes, which were looking out into the
dark ness, shone with strong light.
The watchman muttered something
| that was not audible above the deatening
roar of the storm, and then he went hur-
riedly up the stairs, and stepping softly
across TO the window, looked down into
the boys tear-stained face.
"What is the matter, Paul? ?'' he said
! tenderly, stroking the little fellows
coarse, stubby hair with his big, brawny
hand.
The boy gave him no answer, but he
arose with a start, as if aroused from a
deep sleep, and crossed the room like one
who is uncertain as to his surroundings.
In his quiet, dreamy way he picked up
the flute and began the air of the Medina.
He played it through to the end without
taltering, as he had done so many times,
only it was more solemn and sad than
ever before. 1t was the same melody, but
the plaintive, swelling notes. that seemed
to burst from the soul of the musician,
were thousand times more pathetic.
Even TO the dull perception of the gruH
watchman they were not meaningless.
They seemed to tell that saddest OF all sad
tales, the story of a broken heart and q
deranged mind.
After it was finished, even before the
reverberating sound of the last note had
died away, he dashed the flute to the floor,
breaking it into many pieces. Then he
walked slowly back TO the window, and
sinking down into chair, covered his
face with his hands and burst into tears.
All night long, as the watchman walked
to and fro on mis- rounds, he could hear
Paul sobbing and wailing as if his heart
would break.
On the following morning, when the
traffic on the busy streets grew noisy,
and men jostled one another in their busy
rush, patrol wagon went Gathering over
the cobble-stones on the crowded thor
oughfare. 1t was bearing little Paul away
to the mad-house.
Among that great and grand collection
of pictures by the masters of the world
in the Salon at Paris, there is one that
hangs alone near one of the grand en-
tention of the visitor. 1t is now dingy
and old, but the few touches of light the
artist gave 1t still remain. 1t is only the
! picture OF dark-faced boy, but it bears
the unmistakable trademark of the hand
| of genius. One artist declared that there
were so many different expressions
blended in it that he was never able to
fully decide whether it was positively
hideous or magnifcently beautiful !;
whether it bore an expression of rage and
fury or mildness and tenderness. 1t is
the boys eyes that are the wonder and
admiration of all that gaze upon this
amazing picture. They have that pecu-
liar expression that the eyes of man
have whose mind is deranged. When
the artist painted them he made his most
brilliant stroke of genius, his crowning
effort. But for the wild, weird-looking
orbs, his tribute of life's work to art
might have been passed unnoticed.
There is a story often told by the young
artists who saunter through the unend-
ing rooms of the salon to the effect that
one OF the old masters became so fasci-
mated by this picture that he gave up his
work in order to make daily excursions
to the gallery to gaze upon it. He some
| times said he could see dark cloud how
ering about it as night approached. He
also said that at times it took on strange
shapes and colorings, and that the soul OF
the artist who painted it would appear on
the canvas in awful agony.
Whether there is any mystery attached
to this picture or not, it is nevertheless a
fact that while visitors are admiring it
the guide, who knows a little of the his
tory OF every celebrated artist whose
paintings adorn the walls of the salon,
never fails to inform them that the man
who painted it went insane.
1t might be well to add that down in
/ the right-hand corner of this dark, grim
! picture is the name "Grandillot," care
| lessly printed in small gilt letters.