The Washington times., 1894-04-08
The Vow of
Vengeance
Written for THE TINES.

1t was the most uncanny storyI ever heard
had gone to Pascagoula, on the Gulf coast
of Mississippi, for the purpose Of being pres
ent at press convention. While there met
x, a companion of my younger years, and
he suggested stroll down the beach. 1t was
June day of song and sunf1re, bloom and
balm-a day OF matchless loveliness and
miracle, life, and light
We went our way past fine old villas sur
rounded by verdant lawns, in which magnolias
tossed their flowing frond, and sheaves ol
lilies lifted high their cups, and radiant roses
flung their fragrance forth On we went
while larks rained down their songs upon the
scene, and blue waves broke in flash and
foam upon the shining sands.
Suddenly, at a trend of the highway. we
saw a young man sitting on the fallen trunk
of pecan tree, with his gaze fixed upon
Ship Island. that lifted its glad woods over
the waves in the dim, magnetic distance.
His profile was the handsomest have ever
seen; his dress conformed with the latest
fashion OF the day.
upon US. and we startetback in terror. His
eyes! Green as the emerald that st. Ernul-
phus cursed, yet glowing with flame thar
seemed to burn its way into the very core Of
one being.
''Don'tI'' he cried, rising and lifting his
hand in protest; don't shrink from me as if
l were a leperl o, don'tn' And he sank
back upon the trunk of the pecan tree with q
low, quick moan of unutterable pathos.
''Madr' 1 whispered to X. "We must
humor him."
mo, no. am not madr' interjected the
stranger, lifting his eyes to ours again. Il
did not hear you speak, but 1 can read YOUR
| ntrbt 7 tall fba bact
both hemispheres pronounce me sane. Will
! you listen to my story?"
We seated ourselves on either side. and he
began:
81 was born in Cuba twenty-five years ago
of Italian parents. and my name is Fabio
Sienaigo. My father and mother died when
| / was an infant and NY uncle brought me to
this country the same year. He died the day
l graduated at Harvard, and found myself
| the heir of great wealth. Liking New
Orleans, made that city my home. One
| day three years ago l sauntered carelessly
into my hotel, the st. Charles. Hearing
music in the parlor as l passed to my room,
l paused at the open door. A young lady
was seated at the piano singing and draw
! ing divine strains from the keys. Beside her
stood young man of elegant bearing, who
looked as IL entranced by the song or the
singer.
Suddenly the young lady lifted her head.
| L
| piano. saw the reflection of my face as 1 stood
in the doorway at her back Uttering a cry
of rage, pathos. and despair, she turned, gave
| me glance of hell-horror. and fell fainting
| in the arms Of her companion.
II fed to my room half crazed by what I
had seen. That facet Her facel Where had
l seen it before? When? Under what cir
cumstances? racked my memory for an an
swer, but none came, though felt in every
atom of my soul and sense that somewhere
and some time that woman and had met
"The day wore on and l still sat in nv
room. bewildered by the mystery of it ali.
The last dull rays Of sundown were sitting
over the housetops and spires OF the city when
a rap came at my door.
"'Comer called.
"a bell-boy entered and handed me note
Opening it 1 read:
"'No. - CARoNDELET STREET
1--we have met before We must meet again
at once. Call at the above address at p. m
"1soLA ST. CYR
"'was this this the young lady who had
mystifed me that afternoon queried to
myself. If so. know her not, or certainly
l know her not unless she has assumed q
name never heard before
Taking my hat 1 left the room and bent
my steps in the direction of Carondelet street.
was soon in front of the address indicated
by the note. 1t was grand old house. set
back from the street in green old garden.
Ringing the doorbell l was ushered in by
an old man servant who led me into spa
cious and stately reception room. Before l
could send up my card the portierre parted
and found myself face to face with the
young woman had seen at the ST. Charles
"'Heaven. how beautiful she is l thought.
Her face was Of the perfect type that is only
found in the far Orient. Her dusky features
were relieved by u dash of red in her CHEEKS
and illumned by large electric eyes, that
seized upon ones very soul and held it by
subtle charm. Her hair swept in dark wavy
masses round her magnificent shoulders.
Her lissome figure was replete with grace in
every curve. movement and suggestion.
$50. Paul Bayard, you have come she
said in steely tones, not unblent with an un-
utterable sneer.
"'My name is not Paul Bavard. You have
made a mistake. and
mo: it is not Paul Bayard now, but what
was it in the time when Charlemagne was the
master star and spirit OF France?'
Il was smittep with an unearthy fear as
she spoke-not fear of her, but Of myself.
"'What mean youY cried.
''.This, Paul Bayard, we met in that old
day. long centuries ago-net at the castle of
my father, on the banks Of the Seine. I was
Madeline L Berge then. My father was thu
Chevalier L'Berge my mother was the
daughter of an Egyptian prince. and"
Il began to remember. She was speakinS
the devilish truth,
And, she went on, you wooed me; you
won my love and then betrayed my trust. You
left our babe and me and my father turned |
me from the roof that knew its first disgrace.
Through cold and hunger and agonies with
out a name sought to find you, but found
you not. One night in hovel where I had
been driven by the rain, my child-our child |
died from lack of food, and over its dead
body l vowed revenge. and that vow, regis |
Ia..x -. 49, f.,Ia ttAI lnrt
ha, ,ha.-at--last. Listen. 1 have lived and |
died and lived and died again since that far
hour; have been princess and peasant;
have known all the joys. griefs, loves. hates, |
victories, and defeats that many reincarna-
tions can bring to man or woman; but never |
forgot my vow of vengeancel Neverl and its |
fulflllment shall begin now-begin this very
nightr
''She reeled; she fell back into the chair |
from which she had risen; then, staggering |
to her feet again, she came toward me and |
caught me by the throat. As l sought to free
myself a thin stream of blood oozed from be-
tween her lips, and the next moment she lay |
rigid in death at my feet. But drop Of her |
accursed blood dripped there. pointing to
the back of his right hand, land there it re-
mains, burn, burn, burning like a spark of
hell-fire. Oh. Godr' and he tore at his hand
with teeth and fingers-tore at it till the flesh
hung down to his wrist in bloody strips.
lain yourSell, Slr; II is all lmaSlnatlon,
1 interposed.
NAY! 1t is not! Since the night met
Isola st. Cyr her vow of vengeance has been
fulfilling itself through the medium of that
drop Of blood. 1t has driven me out of
society. 1t has caused me to be Stunned by
all my kind. 1t has made me a wanderer on
the face of the earth. 1t never leaves me-
not for the flight of flying moment. Sleep
ing or waking, it rankles there like the point
Of fiery dagger.
II would have my hand amputated, but
know and feel that there is no relief In that