The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1903-08-27

such stupidity? But then what would
you? 1t was in Bretagne. Now, had
! it been held in Paris, the trial, the
! jury would have seen in the sweep of
an eye that one so beautiful could not
be guilty. 1t was not possible. Be
| sides, the husband was a beast. But
before jury of peasants All! pigs!
dolts! what is it that you have de-
stroyed?
Yes, they convicted her. She pro-
tested her innocence, but for the rest
remained obstinately silent. How the
thought of it makes me- sad. And the
truth of it? I go at once to tell it to
you.
1t is the night of Shrove Tuesday,
| the Mardi Gras so loved of us Latin
! peoples, and the scene is Paris. As l
| glance here and there among the
maskers my eye is arrested by Pier
rotte. Bauble in hand, jaunty hat on
head, her white dress with its tufts of
black ending above her ankles; yes, it
is merry-making Pierrotte, complete.
And yet, that expression. 1t is the cry
Of a soul in anguish, heard mutely,
through the eyes, great, sad eyes,
which look so strangely out of place
in that chalk-besmeared face with its
carmined grimaces. 1t is despair in
cap and bells. A mortal woe in the liv-
cry of folly. An inspiration comes to
me. My picture for the salon. 1t is
there. Two steps and I am beside her.
A word and it is arranged. She will
pose.
So, on many succeeding days, she
dons her costume in my studio while I
try vainly to fix on canvas the two ex-
pressions of her face. And so it hap
pens that one day, throwing aside my
palette in despair, fall to pacing the
room. In nervous preoccupation I
tritie with the litter on a table there
| throw my model a look which saws,
sit is yours?" and she bows in affirma-
ton. Idly l lift pretty trifle such as
Neopolitan women wear in their hair,
tiny dagger of welded gold and steel
the hilt, small even for the hand of a
doll, formed of golden serpents inter-
twined. On one side of the needle-like
blade read the words: "Only to right
wrong" And on the reverse side,
rudely scratched, these: at is done"
and date.
Musingly | repeat the inscriptions to
myself and wonder what it is that
seems familiar, that seems as though
it should awaken a memory which will
not stir. In flash it comes over me;
it is the date of the tragedy at Mont
st. Michel. In my surprise | cried the
name aloud, "Latouche!"
"Ah, you know!" she shrieked, you
know, and I am LOST"
For moment only she grovelled in
terror, then facing me with dignity,
tragic even in her grotesque garb, she
resumed, calmly:
''But no, you did not know that
had done it. 1 am overweight, your
exclamation startled me, and l have
betrayed myself. Well, what matters
it? He for whose sake did it is dead,
and II am weary"
She loved, this wretched Pierrotte,
loved the brother of the peerless one
so falsely accused, so uniustIv pun
ished This brother-surely a malig-
nant fairy cursed both children in
their cradles-proscribed, fugitive
from justice, was yet fortunate be-
yOnd most men; for two women loved
him; she who told me these things, and
his sister. One man could clear him
of the charge under which he lay
Latouche. And the ill-assorted mar
riage-you see it now-was the price
he put upon his service. But the sac
rifce once made this Latouche de-
layed to fulfill his compact, delayed
until the brother, grown impatient.
sought him on the rock of ST. Michel.
There, while brother and sister hold a
stolen interview, she whom | will still
call Pierrotte, though not then one,
God knows, watches against surprise.
And while she watches comes La
touche, Latouche, the market-place
wooer, the repudiator of bargains, he
who withholds from the man she loves
the right to resume his place among
honest men. She entreats him; he an
swers with sheer. She taunts him
that he has lied as to his ability to
save; he taps some papers in his
pocket and leers; he can clear her
lover when he will. But he will not.
He has been sold. He has sought a
wife, love; not passive sacrifice. So
he will not.
He turns to leave, but the woman
detains him. Love, said he? But if
his wife already loved another? If she.
Pierrotte, could prove it, what would
he give?
What? Why the papers. Proof for
proof! Eagerly he bends to catch her
whispered words, mad with jealousy,
murder in his heart; then 1t is done.
Pierrotte holds the precious papers
and Latouche lies at her feet, dead.
You ask why Madame Latouche did
not speak out at her trial? Had she
not given herself in loveless marriage
for the sake of her brother? To have
spoken would have been to deliver him
up to his pursuers. 1t was lesser
sacrifice that she made in keeping ST.
lent. And he? He knew nothing.
Interest VIII Revive.
Now that concessions are being
granted for The Pike of the st. Iouis |