The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1895-04-17
er kindness like that they will refuse to
give me sous the line. All, what dogs

enced several small annoyances After a
melancholy glance at his pipe rack Jean
Vignol perceived that his coke fire. al
though well covered with ashes when he
had left 1t, had gone out completely. To
relight it he should have to soil his hands
on the CRATE. His lamp had been ILL pre-
pared by the janitress that morning. SO he
was obliged to change the wick. Then
only did he observe that there was but one
match left in the box.
Thunder of brindeZingue!' he cried.
letting loose his favorite OATH sHere
am fixed; if my fire or lamp should go out
again, I shall have to spend the night re-
suscitating the convict. And five flights
of stairs to go down and climb first of all
for the matches. Well, no; 1 will go and
ask a few of my neighbor.
The neighbor was Mother Matthew,
poor old woman whose daughter, recently
deserted by her husband, had died few
months before, leaving little boy. The
little fellow was 5 months old, and his
grandmother, seamstress, raised him on
the bottle. Great misery there was in this
den. The romancer, who was kindly
man, had come there sometimes and left his
5 franc piece, although he had not enough
for himself.
"Bon soir, Mother Matthew. Can you
give me few matches?" He stopped on
Pho threshold, speechless. By the light
of candle end the old woman was bent
over, rolling and tying up her only mat
tress.
Near the mean bedstead of redwood the
child slept in wicker cradle.
"Ah, Mother Mathieul What are you
doingg'
"You can see for yourself, Monsieur
Vignol, replied the old woman, whimper-
ing. II am going to carry this to the
mont de piete, and I must hurry, for it
closes at s. They will give me 10 francs
anyway. 1t is good enough wool"
"What, your only mattress?'
81 must. You see, my youngest sister,
widow like me, she does housework, and
now she's sick abed, and the hospital
won't take care of her, for they say it's
chronic disease; so must help her bit.
She has been so good to me. can sleep
on the straw few days. won't die of it.
hope to redeem it on the 18TH, when I
draw my quarter. What troubles me is the
boy. 1t will take me at least an hour to go
to the mont de piete and to my sister. I
usually leave hiEl with the janitress.
good woman she is. Tonight they have
family dinner, and they are only now at
dessert"
Jean Vignol's good dog eyes were full of
tears.
Nothing of that kind, Mother Matthew.
Leave your bedding. I have still Is francs.
Here are 10 francs for your sister. AS for
the mite here, bring him in to me. He is
sleeping like the blessed, and he won't
prevent my working. If he begins to
make music, very well. 1t is not SO bad
to rock him and give him a bit to drink"
How pleased is the old woman! "Ah,
my good, kind Monsieur Vignol!' The
cradle is placed near the romancer's writ
ing table, and Mother Matthew retires,
mumbling benedictions. And, left alone
with the babe, the writer laughed softly in
his great beard. "Here I am, dry nurse"
Quite cheered up by this good deed he
seated himself under the lamp and raised
his pen, for he must not forget that tomor-
row morning he is obliged to send his
sheets to press.
The whole story is modified by the res
direction of Bouffe Toujours, but this
evening he is in a story telling vein. His
convict, who had been pitched from the
Tour Eiffel by an elegant scoundrel, Wis
count, descendant of the crusaders and
member of the Jockey club, caught an iron
bar in his flight and climbed down to the
quay with the agility of an ape. The day
after tomorrow he will stab three police
men. 1t is to be hoped that the sub
scribers will feel some emotion.
All at once the infant began to whimper.
Amused at his new duties, Jean Vignol
took the bottle, fed him, not awkwardly for
a beginner, then rocked the cradle, and
the child slept again.
But the writer of romance does not re-
turn to his table. He stays, pepsively
looking at the poor little being, with it's
head deep in the pillow, clinching its tiny
fists on it's breast.
Cradles Babies! Had he Jean Vignol,
not made use of them often enough in his
absurd novels? How stupid he thinks
them now, all these impossible tales of
children stolen and changed one for an
Other A child! Here was one, an orphan,
a son of misery. What will become Of him2
His grandmother Is aged worn with toll
and privation. She will not go much far
ther Then he will become one of those
poor little wretches whom the public as
sistance raises by thousands and who go to
the bad oftenest. 1t is among them that
the army of evildoers recruits itself; fu-
ture convicts these-the true ones.
Jean Vignol falls into mournful rev.
erie. The poet that he dreamed Of being
when he was young is not altogether dead.
Meanwhile the door opens. 1t is Mother
Matthew returning breathless Oh, how
tired and decrepit she is, and what sor-
rowful face, with it's thousand wrinkles,
framed in black hair. The good man sue
cumbed to the desire which had torment
ed him for several minutes.
"Listen, Mother Matthew. I have been
thinking during your absence. When my
mother was here, earned enough for two.
Well, will take you with me If you will
come. You will do the housekeeping, and
I will help you raiae the child"
This is not all. Jean Vignors generous
conduct turned out adyantageously for
him. He continued, Of course, to serve
the same trifes to his especial public.
However, in his last novel, 1.-THE Orphan
of Belleville," there is something indie
scribable, not to be found in his others,
which makes the people cry. The circula-
ton Of The Petit Proletaire mounted up,
and from that time the writer has had his
sous a line. The work has even been