The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1894-03-23
followed the attendant up through the

at the blaze OF Color. 1here were peoples
that looked like field of blood. Grass
stood up greenly from the neglected paths,
and daisies f1ecked the lawn with white.
Two great dogs came bounding toward
her and rubbed themselves affectionately
against her skirts. The countess stopped
and caressed them.
Now she was near the house. The front
door stood open, and from some inner
room came the sound of piano. 1t was
bsazg very exquisitely played. She enter
ed the house There was big, square
hall. bare and comfortless, and leading
from it were many doors. 1t was from
one of these that the music came, but
something had attracted the notice of the
countess and she paused. An easel stood
in the middle of the stone floor, and upon
it picture 1t was the portrait OF wom-
an. Her glowing beauty seemed to live.
Nine. la Comtesse recognized face more
fair, it might be, than her own.
stYour mistress?" she said to the attend
ant. She spoke in low voice, and with
reverence, as one who speaks before
shrine.
eyes, madame, my mistress, as she
was five and thirty years ago."
The countess said no more. She stood
for some moments before the painting in
silence, and then she made sign that she
was ready. The woman led her to the door,
which she opened, and then she withdrew.
In the last few minutes the countess had
grown deadly pale. She found herself in
a large and we'll furnished room, with
three windows that looekd out upon the
flaming sea of mmarigolds. A lady rose
from the piano as her visitor entered. The
countess advanced with a chill fear at her
heart.
Was it possss that this thin and with
cred creature lad once sat for the portrait
that stood in the hall? Gould 1T be that
the flesh, once SO firm and white, was the
same as the dry and puckered skin OF the
face before her-that those were the cheeks
that had glowed with health and lowell
ness-that those dim eyes set in network
of lines were the laughing eyes of the pic
ture?
81 scarcely know how to explain my Wis.,
it, the countess said in an uncertain
voice. 'sI greatly wished to see you, who
have also been called the Venus of Paris. !"
"Once," said the old woman.
There was pause.
ttAnd my mantle has fallen on you, !"
she added, half in question. "I have heard
OIL you, SIG W6ub Ol diUCL a Low LIZ
ments, land I expected you. The Mare
chal Boutigny had written. Look at me.
You are very beautiful, but not more beau
tiful than was l. See my hands. They
were once white and soft as your own, and
this poor neck was round and full like
yours Beauty counted for more in my
day than IN yours, and I had my lovers by
the score"--
There were tears in the old woman's
eyes, and her voice shook.
"You are believed to be dead, " said the
countess.
ssThat was my wish," replied Aurelie
de Frontignac. "My day was over"
The Comtesse de Pile dor paused once
more before the picture in the hall and
tried to trace in the exquisite features
some likeness to the face she had just seen.
A film was before her eyes, and she could
see only the haggard face of the old wom-
an. Through the fresh beauty of the paint
ing the withered and faded face seemed to
look out at her. She could see now where
the lines had been destined to weave their
grim network round the eyes. She could
trace the gradual falling in of the cheeks,
the puckering of the fair skin. She turned
away and passed through the open door.
She did not see now the flaring blaze of
the marigolds and peoples. She followed
the attendant through their flames as one
who walks in dream.
The countess stood before her mirror
and looked at her beautiful face. The
specter came and stood beside her. and
the reflection underwent hideous change.
The freshness seemed slowly to fade from
the skin, and the mouth fell in little and
grew hard and set. Then the chin and the
nose seemed to advance, and hollows form
ed themselves in the cheeks. The fore
head was no longer smooth. The two
faint lines had deepened to burrows. And
the eyes! Her own eyes, grown eager and
wild, gazed out at her from wrinkled wells.
She looked again. There was only her
own young face, but could she not trace
even now the beginning of these horrors?
A shuddering went over her.
She reviewed the miserable weapons with
which she might wage her war against
these grisly foes--the morphia needle, the
rouge pot, the blanc de perle, the golden
dye, and she shuddered again. There re-
manned one other weapon.
She chose, of course, according to domes-
tically inconvenient but time honored prec-
edent, the night of ball. She moved
about among her guests, radiant and the
embodiment of youth and perfect beauty.
Her conversation sparkled with witty re-
tort and ready jest. The marechal came
up to her with old fashioned gallantry,
and paid her grim compliment.
She laughed back at him.
81 have seen Aurelie de Frontlgnec, !"
she said.
'sThen you have seen what remains of
the most beautiful woman of her day."
81 believe you, said the countess.
tiShe did well to bury herselfP" he asked.
ssShe did WELL" replied the countess,
"but I shall do better"
The marechal searched her face.
"You have discovered the elixir of life"
he asked.
1.-THE secret of eternal youth, she an
swered.
You know the end of this type of story.
They found her dead the next day, and
the Marechal Boutigny understood =
Richard Pryce in San Francisco Argonaut.
The Seven Rests In Disease.
Mention is made by Professor Hilton,
z,al Orxs, "a !,