The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1898-01-23


est charm for me, because in the old days,
before 1 abandoned brush and palette for
the pen. I formed one of d quartette of art
students as reckless as any in the quaint
old Quarter Latin, and lived a life Of
feast one day and fast the next. Amid our
gay, careless set man was never judged
by his coat or cravat, and our spells OF
spasmodic work in shirt-sleeves were IN
variably followed by wild outbursts OF
pleasure. Those bygone days were indeed
full of happiness. Little We knew and less
we cared for the worries of life, existing
as we did in Bohemia, our world apart.
Along the Rue RivoH i CHANGED to be
passing. and having an idle hour TO spare
1 became seized by a desire to revisit the
spot where the five happiest years OF my
youth were spent. To satisfy this longing
/ crossed the Pont Neuf to the opposite
side of the Seine continuing along the
ouays until l reached the high, dinsy-look-
ing house, the grey front of which faced
the river. where in the bare. ill-furnished
sly-attic we had lived, idled, and work
ed. smoking our rank cigars purchased IN
the "Boui Mich" at ten confines apiece,
and uuenching our Unsuitable thirst with
an exceedingly inexpensive wine possessed
of a better color than taste.
AS 1 glanced around 1 sighed to note
everywhere change. Bohemia seems,
alas! no longer TO exist there. In the fiji
teen years that have passed since, in fit
of despair because ! had failed with
picture l thought my masterpiece-and
I rrrfsffs
] shook the dust of Paris from my feet
and set out alone. broken by disappoint-
ment and sorrow, to tramp the level dusty
roads to Germany, the Quai Monticello has
become respectable 1t is no longer the be-
loved old Quarter which was once my
home. Its old-world charm has passed
away because it has become modernized
and has assumed a sorry air of mock gen
tility. l stood and looked up at those four
well-remembered windows. There were
actually lace curtains there!
Yet, as 1 fingered sadly, a host of mem
cries crowded upon me, recollections of
those happy, idle, half-forgotten days
when the quiDs of Droz convulsed us,
when the pathos of Murger caused a lump
10 rise in our throats; when time was
counted by the dates of remittances from
home, and when, in our youthful enthus-
iasm, we all of us believed our works
would one day be hung in the Luxembourg
for the admiration of the world What
merry. cosmopolitan, opcn-hearted crowd
we werel The names of many of those
happy indolent jewellers with whom We
used TO dine so frugally each evening at
Mother Gerry little cremerie in the Rue
Galande are now household words. No
fewer than five of my boon companions
-, q H. ont
House of Commons, fully dozen are
members of the Chamber of Deputies, one
is a distinguished A. r. A, another Is
editor-in-chief of the most scurri.ous An
g.ophobe newspaper Paris has yet pro-
duced, another a brilliant French novel
ist, and yet another the most renowned
painter of the modern school in Italy. The
Two aforementioned lived with me in our
sky-parlor and may be known in this scrap
of autobiography as Jean Chauvel and
Paolo Sesto respectively, for ii perhaps
would not be fair 10 give their real names
now they are so well known. The fourth
of our merry quartette was Antoine Mar
tin, a slim, dark-eyed youth, who came
from the town where my own family had
lived for generations before political COM
plications compelled my father TO fly to
England, the quaint old fortified place call
ed Chateauroux, far away, in the Indre
This little memory is mainly of Antoine,
for he was my particular chum
One warm summers evening, when the
rose and orange of the afterglow had fad
ed, and we had all put down our palettcs
and abandoned work. my three compan-
ions went out, leaving me alone. They
had asked me to accompany them to
Mother Gery's, but feeling in no mood for
conviviality, 1 had declined The shabby
old room, which served us as studio and
living room combined, was silent and
gloomy in the dusk, its four easels stand
ing in q line together the lay figure look
ing ghostly in the half-light, while the hui
man skull perched on the top of the cup
board grinned grimly down upon me.
/ stood at the open window bordering,
gazing dreamily across the placid river
where beyond rose against the evening
sky the twin time-worn towers of Notre
Dame, the thin gilt spire of the Hotel
de Vile, and the ancient gothic tower of
ST. Jacques.
cared not to go out, therefore l lit
the lamp, and in order to distract my
thoughts recommended work upon my
picture the one which l fondly dreamed
would bring me renown. The subject was
weird one. Ii represented the gate of
an Eastern harem, on the polished steps
of which was lying the decapitated body
of a woman whose head. struck off 10y a
gigantic negro eunuch, had rolled aside
Its title was by order of the Sultan"
and those who saw il in its incomplete
ing to be remarkable 1t was their we'll
meant but foolish praise that led me to
expect so much.
For fully two hours | had worked in
silence. pipe in mouth, until, tired out. I
at last flung down brushes and palette
and casting myself upon the. old frayed
couch, dropped off TO sleep II was near
midnight when a hand on my shoulder
caused me to jump up with a start. and
j saw Antoine white-faced and scared.
standing beside me.
quick. old fellowv' he gasped. out of
breath Tell me what to do. j want
your advice. Seel"
And turning. he indicated with a wave
of his hand a figure seated in the great
roomy old armchair II was young girl
with a face more beautiful than / had
ever before beheld. Her cheeks were pale
as death, her eyes We're closed her chin
had sunk upon her breast. her clothes
and hair were wet and muddy She was
soaked to the skin and unconscious.
who is she?' ! gasped starting for
ward, gazing amazedly at her
II don't know" he painted exhausted
By his efforts in carrying her up the four
long flights Of ricketty stairs which led
60 our studio. She seemed very young.
scarcely more than II. Her clothes We're