The National tribune. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1877-1917, 1896-04-02

paused in her rapacious and inexhaustibl'
| energy.
VIA" she whispered to Harlequin, "l
have enough; / 60. Amuse tLyself, Co
rinne Thou art -
She slipped her arm abont the neck Of hel
friend and raised her face gratefully.
g For whom is il, all this?" said Harle
quin, rattling the spangled bag.
Anisette laughed and shrugged her shoul
ders. For POOR devil of an artist, whC
owes me for 10 poses; he paints me a:
an angel l am rs much alive to him rs the
| Holy Mother to priest"
! And l will be as much alive as the Holy
Mother if l am not back in time TO make
my good man his bowl of soup. Till to-
morrow, Anisette!"
Till tomorrow, Corinne,"
Anisetie slipped away into a side street
she shOwered confetti as she ran. The blood
was flying through her veins and singing IN
her dizzy little head. The air struck her
hot cheeks gratefully, and she found her
breath as she darted in and out and around
corners, through the circuitous route she
had chosen.
What would he say" she thought, that
strange, grave man, who starved and fell
into rage, and was one moment in heaven
and the next in hell; who gnawed his mus
tache and bit his lips, and shook like a
drunkard over his work; but who painted
painted, painted. He would be a great man,
without a doubt, or, perhaps, reflected Ami
settle, sagely, he would die some day with a
pistol hole in his head, like that other poor
George she had known with the drOll Amer
lean name. At least, for once, this poor
George would have q dinner-as much as
she could carry.
The sky was studded with stars-twink-
ling with enjoyment, thought Anisette-the
air tingled with frosty radiance, the moon
had risen behind the bare light trees of the
Luxembourg Gardens.
As the clock struck the half hour after z
Aniseite turned into the house where Black
wood had his studio on the top floor. The
concierge had joined the reveIers, and the
small flicker of gas which usually empha-
sized the darkness was not yet lit Ami
sette felt her way carefully y-she had her
arms full. There was a window on one
landing, and her shadow, laden with bun
dies, threw long, grotesque blackHess on
the opposite wall. She swallowed q little
burst of laughter.
Before Blackwood's door she paused to
get her breath; it was intensely still. Her
hands were full, so she knocked gently with
her heel. There was no answer, and Anisette,
trem bling with imratience, deposited her
bundles upon the floor, and, putting her
cheek against the door, called his name in a
voice that gradually sank to whisper. An
orange rolled out from bag and dropped
with soft, melancholy distinctness from stair
to stair. One of the beautiful oIangesl Her
heart began TO beat heavily-there was no
sound-no sound from within. She turned
the handle softly and it yielded to her
touch.
The light streamed from the great un-
shaded window, and Anisette saw in one
terrible, Illuminated vision the ragged line
OF a knife cut quivering down the beautiful,
painted angel, and stretched at the foot of
has easel black fgure-the face like a
white blot in the darkness, the head fallen
back, with a hole in it, like that other poor
George with the droll American name
ArgOnaut.