Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1895-09-18

SO natural. I could reproach her with
only one thing-sometimes, in telling
me about the families to which her pu-
pills belonged, she gave quantity of
intimate details and told of imaginary
intrigues. She saw always the romance
around her and seemed to live in dra-
matte combinations. These dreams trou-
bled my happiness. I, who wished to
fly far from the rest of the world to live
alone with her, often found her occupied
with Indifferent things. But I could
pardon these dreams in woman young
and unhappy, whose life had been sad
romance, without hope Of a happy de-
movement.
Once only I became suspicious, or,
rather, uneasy. One Sunday evening
she did not return. I was in despair.
What should do? Go to St. German?
I could not do that without compromis-
ing her. However, after fearful night,
I had just decided to go there when
she arrived, pale and troubled. Her
sister was i'll; she had remained to care
for her. believed what she told me,
not suspecting the flow Of words which
met the least questioning. Two or
three times, in the same week, she re-
turned to spend the night; finally, the
sister having recovered, she again took
up her regular and tranquil life.
Unhappily, some time afterward, it
was her turn to fall i'll. One day she
came home from giving lessons, trem-
bling, weak, feverish. Inflammation
of the lungs declared itself, became
more serious, and soon-the doctor told
me-irremediable. I was crazed with
grief Then thought that I would
make her last hours happy. Her family,
which she loved so much, of which she
was SO proud, would bring to her bed
side. Without saying anything to her,
wrote first to her sister at st. Ger
main and went myself to the grand
rabbi, her uncle. When I arrived at
his house, I was ushered into all ante
chamber, and soon the grand rabbi came
to receive me.
"There are moments, SIR" began,
"when hatred ought to be forgotten. +"
He looked at me in establishment. I
went on:
"Your niece is dyingv'
"My niece! Ihave no niece! You
are mistaken.
81 beg of you, sir, to forget that fool
ish quarrel. speak of Nine. Deloche,
the wife Of Captain
II do not know Nine. Deloche. You
are mistaken, my child, I assure you. !"
And kindly he pushed me toward the
door, taking me for lunatic or fool.
may have looked so, indeed. What
I had heard was so terrible, SO unex-
pected. She had lied, then. But why?
Suddenly all idea struck me. I would
go to the address of one Of her pupils,
of whom she was always talking, the
daughter Of we'll known banker.
"Mme. Deloche," began to the serv-
ant
'She does not live here
eyes; I know that She is the lady
who gives piano lessons to the young
ladies'"
"There are no young ladies in the
house-not even piano. I do not know
what you mean," and she closed the
door in my face.
went no farther. was sure Of re-
ceiving the same answer everywhere.
Returning to our poor little home, a let
ter was handed me, postmarked st.
German. opened it, knowing already
what it's contents were. The general did
not know Nine. Deloche. He had, more
over, neither wife nor child.
This was the last blow. So for five
years every word she had uttered had
been lie. A thousand jealous thoughts
seized me, and foolishly, not knowing
what I did, ran to the room where she
lay dying. All the questions which tor
mented me poured from my lips in q
torrent of words. "What did you 60 to
st. German every Sunday for? At
whose house have you passed your days?
Where did you stay that night? Come,
answer mel" And caught hold Of her.
searching through her eyes into the
depths Of her soul. But she remained
mute-passive.
I was trembling with rage. "You
never gave lessons! have been every
where. No one knows you. Come,
where did you get the money, those
laces, those jewels?"
She gave me one long, sad look, and
that was all. Ishould have spared her,
I should have allowed her to die in
peace. But I loved her too much.
jealousy was stronger than pity.
"You have deceived me for FIVE
years." I went on. "You have lied to
me every day, every hour. You know
all my life, and I know absolutely
nothing of yours. Nothing-not even
your name! Because it is not yours,
this name that you bear. Oh, liar,
liar"
She was dying, and I not to know
what name to call herl "Come, now,
who are you? Where did you come
from? Why did you come into my life?
Speak! Tell me something!'
Instead Of replying she turned her
face to the wall, as If she feared that
her last look would give up her secret.
And thus she died-died without
divulging her secret, liar to the end |!
Translated For Argonaut From the
French of Alphonse Daudet.
A Famous Cook.