The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1898-02-18

Leroux would cook for me. Monsieur
Leroux would drive into Dieppe on
| Wednesday, to fetch me and my lug
gage out"
on Wednesday we had been driving
for something like half an hour without
speaking, when all at once Leroux said
| to me, That room, Monsieur. the room
you thought was occupied
"Yes?" / questioned, as he paused,
II have a proposition to make" said
| he. He spoke, as 1t seemed to me, hait
shyly, half doggedly, gazing the while
: at the ears of his horse.
What is it?" 1 asked.
"If you will leave that room as 1t is,
with the things in 1t, we will make
reduction in the rent. If you will let us
: keep il as ii is?' he repeated, with a
curious pleading intensity. you are
| alone. The house will be big enough
! for you without that room, will it not,
Monsieur"
OF course l consented at once. IL
they wished to keep the room as it was,
they were to do so, by all means.
THANK you, thank you very much.
My wife will be grateful to you," he
said
Tor u little while longer we drove on
without speaking. Presently, you are
our first tenant. We have never let
the house before" he volunteered.
"Ah? Have you had it long?" l
asked.
IT built it. 1 built it. five, six, years
| ago" said he. Then, after pause, he
| added, Il built it for my daughter"
His voice sank, as he said this. But
one felt that it was only the beginning
of something he wished to say.
! I invited him to continue by an in
| terested "Oh?"
| You see what we are, my wife and
| l." he broke out suddenly. I'VE are
rough people. we are peasants. But
| my daughter, sir'-he put his hand on
my knee, and looked earnestly into my
| face-"my daughter was as fine as
| satin, as fine as lace"
He turned back to his horse, and
again drove for a minute or two in sill
| ence. At last, always with his eyes on
| the horses ears, "There was not a lady
| in this country finer than my daugh-
ter" he went on, speaking rapidly, in a
| thick voice, almost as IL to himself.
she was beautiful, she had the sweet
est character, she had the best educa-
| ton. She was educated at the convent
| in Rouen, at the Sacre Coeur. Six
years-from twelve to eighteen--she
| studied at the convent. She knew
| English, sir-yonr language. She took
prizes for history. And the piano! No
body living can touch the piano as my
| daughter could. Well" he demanded
| abruptly with kind of fierceness,
| was rough farmhouse good enough
| for her." He answered his own ques-
| tion, mo, Monster. you would not soil
fine lace by putting it in dirty box.
My daughter was finer than lace. Her
hands We're softer than Lyons volvet.
And OH" he cried, "the sweet smell
| they had, her hands! 1t was good to
smell her hands. I used to kiss them
and smell them, as you would smell a
rose" His voice died away at the
reminiscence, and there was another
| interval of silence. BY and by he be-
gan again, II had plenty of money. I
was the richest farmer of this neigh
borhood. / sent to Rouen for the best
architect they have there. Monsieur
Clermont, the best architect of Rouen.
laureate of the Fine Art Schools of
Paris, he built that house for my
daughter; he built it and furnished it.
to make it fit for a countess. so that
when she came home for good from the
| convent she should have a home wor-
thy of her. Look at this, Monsieur
Would The Srandest palace in the world
be too good for her?"
He had drawn worn red leather
case from his pocket, and taken out
small photograph, which he handed
to me. 1t was the portrait of a girl,
delicate-looking girl Of about seven
teen. Her face was pretty, with the ir-
regular prettiness not uncommon in
France, and very sweet and gentle. The
old man almost held his breath while [
was examining the photograph. Est
ellie gentille? Est-elle belle, Monsieur ?"
he besought me, with a very hunger for
sympathy, as I returned it. One ans
wered, of course. what one could, as
best one could. He, with shaking fing-
ers, replaced the photograph in it's
case. Here, Monsieur" he said, ex-
tracing from an opposite compartment
little white card. 1t was the usual
French memorial of mourning; an en-
craving of the Cross and Dove, under
which was printed: "Eulalie- Josephine
Marie LerouX, Born the 10th May, 1874.
Died the 18th August, 1892. Pray for
her."
THE good God knows what He does.
built that house for my daughter. and
when it was built the good God took
her away. We were mad with grief, my
wife and l; but that could not save her.
Perhaps we are still mad with grief"
the poor old man said simply. we
can think of nothing else. We never
wish to speak Of anything else. We
could not live in the house-her house,
without her. We never thought to let
1t. built that house for my daughter,
l furnished it for her, and when il was
ready for her-she died. Was it not
hard, Monsieur? How could | let the
house to strangers? But lately / have
had losses. l am compelled to let it, to
pay my debts. l would not let it to
everybody. You are an Englishman.
Well, if did not like you would not
let 1t to you for a million English
pounds. But l am glad / have let il
to you. You will respect her memory.
And you will allow US to keep that
room-her room. We shall be able to
keep it as 1t was, with her things in
1t. Yes, that room which you though
was occupied-that was my daughters
room"
Madame Leroux was waiting or us in
the garden of the chalet. She looked
anxiously up at her husband as we ar
rived. He nodded his head, and called
out, 1T is all right. Monsieur agrees"
The old woman took my hands,
wringing them Historically almost
An, Monsieur, you are very good"
she said. She raised her eyes to mine.
But l could not look into her eyes.
There was sorrow in them, an aw-
fulness' sacredness of sorrow, which,
felt, 1t would be like sacrilege for me
To look at