St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1894-04-15
PALOTTE.

That Morning. gray, misty day in early
November-pretty Madame Cladat had a
melancholy and romantic awakening, and felt
"vagueness of SOUL" which to her seemed
very considerable.
Her husband, the head of the house Of
Cladat, Mastock & Co., feather and flower
commission merchants and exporters, was
away from home hunting. Madame Cladat
had retired the night before very early, and
had awakened very late and was leaning on
her elbow reading a fashionable novel, The
subject was vastly exciting. 1t was ques-
ton of finding out whether the wife of the
Marquis de B, abandoned by her first
lover, the Baron de c., could in common
delicacy, accept the homage Of the Count de
D.
The success of this novel had been instan-
taneous-the ''thirtie;h thousand was al
ready on the market-and the author, good
man of business, believing in the old saying:
ITO strike while the iron was hot" had has
tened to prepare another work, in which this
time, duchess, after having inflicted the
unhappiness Of Menelaus upon the duke, her
husband, and had rendered count and
marquis in turn. the happiest of mortals, in
the last chapter responds to the passion of
baron, without for one moment, so graceful
and charming had she been throughout, los
ing the respect and sympathy of sensible
people.
Pretty Madame Cladat, twenty-five years
of age and childless, married to a merchant,
a great huntsman and politician, passed her
time ordinarily in reading just this style of
literature. No fiction interested her unless
it placed under her eyes with high-fown n.y.
perbole, and in the midst of aristocratic fit
tings, the fall of a titled woman. Not being
in society herself, though very rich, she read
all these impure and seductive novels and
was filled with respectful envy.
Though enervated and her head filed with
frivolous and unhealthy reveries, pretty
Madame Cadat had in reality nothing as yet,
with which to reproach herself. She had
been born into an old Partisan bourgeoisie
family, where honor still held the first place
and where the daughters were we'll brought
up. Besides, good habits contracted in child
hood are happily not so quickly lost. How
ever, the young wife, married to dull and
heavy husband, much older than herself, was
bored almost to death, and nothing is more
dangerous to virtue than this.
M. Cladat never by any chance invited
other than dull business men like himself. to
dinner, and while at table the sole topic of
conversation related to his glorious carnage
Of hares and partridges. Madame Cladat
(serious SYMPHONY often hid doleful yawn
behind her little hand. She had even come
to the conclusion that her best days were
those in which her husband absented himself,
to 60 to the village of Seine-et-Marne, of
which he was mayor, where he massacred
peaceful burrowers or inoffensive flutterers;
or tormented the cure by relating some vexa-
tious deliberation of the municipal council.
A phenomenon infinitely more disquieting
was the fact that Madame Cladat no longer
found any pleasure in shopping in the large,
fashionable stores.
But to tell the truth she had Irritation on
hand.
At the house of one of her friends, who was
the wife of dramatist Madame Cladat had
made the acquaintance of young poet of
the symbolistic school, Alfred O'Gaga. With
his long blonde hair, he passed himself off as
an Irishman, from whence his pseudomine,
but, in reality he was called Isidore Lepifre,
and his father, who gave him liberal allow
ance, was refner in Picardy. Their flirta-
ton, gradually growing more serious, had
resulted in letter-one of many-just re-
cefved, in which the lover reminded his
friend-the husband being absent-that she
had promised to join him that day in visit
to the Louvre.
But Madame Cadat was not altogether
fool. Il, was not merely question, as she
well understood, of listening to lot of nom
sense, spoken before some pretty badly drawn
figures of men, on golden background; it
was question Of going to meet a young
man, in love with you, for the first time
This was becoming serious, and the pretty
little bourgeoise hesitated.
At two O'clock did she so will it, she could
recognize standing in ecstacy before fresco,
in the long gallery given over to the antique,
Isidore's tall person, changing from one foot
to the other to rest himself. Indeed, she
had not decided upon this step, and in her
Utmost conscience there was small quiet
voice, which energetically protested. How
ever, at her maids question: 'What robe,
madame?" she replied languidly, ''My steel
gray costume" which was in itself bad
sign, and whilst her hair was being dressed
she said to herself, and repeated in low
voice: shat this visit to the museum, was
after all an act of curiosity, an imprudence,
frivolity, and nothing more; that it held her
to nothing.
Madame is served" 'TsT
The announcement of the breakfast found
Madame Cladat, in the same way of thinking
She entered the diningroom, her face puck
cred into an anxious thoughtfulness and sat
down to the large, square table.
soft and timid voice made itself heard
from the embrasure of window:
:. GOOD morning, madame
"Ah it is you Palette? Good morning,
Palotter'
The person addressed was a young girl,
seamstress, who worked for Madame Cladat
once week. She was we'll named, this poor
Palette. Small, emaciated, bent over her
work. How little space she occupied in this
vast room, crouched near the high window!
What age was Palette? Oh, not old, but
faded Already Thirty perhaps, and that is
almost old age for q girl of the people. But
the profile had remained fine and pure; the
black dress looked as though it had just come
out of bandbox, and her countenance was
SO good and so modesti Palette still RETAIN
ed something of the look of young girl.
Over two years ago she had been recommend
ed to Madame Cladat as an irreproachable
person and worthy of any interest. But the
pretty woman, though employing her, had
perhaps never addressed ten words to her.
1t was out of the ordinary that Palette was
Installed to-day in the dining room. The
sewing room looked upon the courtyard, and
undar o comhar Novan,hor clyx If ip,poc