Savannah courier. (Savannah, Tenn.) 1885-1979, 1901-05-17
hNOU will never be success, my

VI w Will hNNNi NC "a ohNNNoSt ~
friend"
Martha Dubreuil said this in tone
half railing and half jesting
Pierre raised his head without an
swering and twitched nervously the
page blackened by ink. 1t was the
twentieth time at least that his wife
had made such remarks, and what
was worse, he realized sorrowful!y
that she spoke the truth.
Once he had written book of which
he had been proud. novel launched
timidly by a publisher who made him
pay the cost OF publication. That was
an hour O. ambitious dreams, long
since dissipated by the grim reality.
II will amount to something in the
world" he had said resolutely. And
he believed it as did those who adj
mired him-which is to say his mother,
his sister and some of his friends who
read the book. Martha, his wife, was
not one of these admirers. She told
him frankly again and again: You
will amount to nothing"
He had no answer to make to Mar
tha's sneers, and he suffered keenly in
recalling the lucky days when they
walked together as lovers along paths
bordered by flowers and they made
vows to each other and kissed. you
will be great man, my darling" she
had said then.
Pierre believed that he had been
faithless in not keeping his promise of
greatness made four years before.
She had brought him her youth and
beauty, and he ought to have given her
in exchange the literary fame she had
| expected. and have earned fortune
for her by his pen. But now she had
abandoned those cherished dreams of
reflected glory.
The poor fellow recalled the happy
days that had preceded their marriage,
and the delights OF their companions
ship during their honeymoon. And he
answered to her taunt:
$50 much the worse. my dear. But
we love each other. and that is enough.
He would not have cared for the paud-
its of the crowd If he had had the love
Of Martha. But she broke into laugh.
ter that froze his feeble smile.
"0h, yes, indeed. That's well
enough. One can't live on love- 1t is all
very well to say SO in the novels you
write-or count on writing-but in real
life things are different"
When summer came they went 70
the seashore, Pierre securing an APP
pontment as the resort cores ondent
of newspaper. When he told her that
they were going, she said: "Ah, you
are a nice husband, after ALL" And she
smiled, but the smile was given as in
aims.
At the seashore she was soon the
belle Of the place, and people forgot
about her husband the reporter, who
remained in the shade. Some men were
with her much of the time, and gossip
linked her name with that of wealthy
idler. Pierre ventured to speak of it
What of it?" she asked "The man
amuses me with his compliments. You
know that / am an honest woman
But | need amusement"
Dubreuil's sufferings were intense.
The thought of that imbecile who
was ever at Martha's side bruised his
heart, He wanted to strange him in
the crowded ballroom; and longed
for a duel. But the man was infu-
entail and ltterateur of renown.
A duel between them would have
been grotesque and useless.
The count deigned to interest him
self little in Pierre.
let us write piece. my young
friend" said he, "and | will give you
recommendations A man has talent
when he has the sense to win a wife
as pretty as yours"
"Yes, Pierre, why haven't you some
thing on hand?" said his wife.
One evening when he was in the
little room, he seated himself at his
work table, while his wife, who had
danced too much, slept peacefully
He rested his head on his hands and
thought sadly: Eyes, Martha's love
for me has passed"
White paper was in front of him
1t was one of those silent nights that