Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1903-05-02

against such odds, and beside whom all
other men seem to me dwarfed and petty.
There can be no harm in writing of these
matters now. Denis Mallory is very far
away beyond the stir and murmur of this
western world of ours, and She is far away
too. Mackenzie is back in London. He
has an office in Harley street where you
may consult him at certain hours-for a
certain number of guineas / see him now
and then, but we never talk of Paris. Won
Altdorf is, as have said busted in Vienna.
and the prince is with his fathers-God
rest his soul,
To no one beyond these few could the
telling of my tale be of consequence. The
things that stirred us all SO deeply never
reached the great public, though heaven
knows they came near enough to reaching
IT, The very realm over which we plotted
and schemed and fought has been quietly
erased from the map Of Europe by that
swift and noiseless hand outstretched from
the white throne in the north. which will.
some day, as quietly, erase the names of
all the remaining little states that we call
the Balkans and of whose inner history we
know so little.
But let me come to my tale without fur
Their parley save in the matter of this In
what l shall tell there must be. perforce,
much which l did not personally or
hear. Such things 1 have gained in part
from those others who knew directly of
them, partly from my knowledge of what
such a one would do or say when so placed
L must put myself IN the the
writer of fanciful tales, who pretends to
see what is in the minds and hearts of the
puppets his hand bangles. All this for a
greater smoothness in the telling and a
wider scope OF view to him who reads.
I mind that had been dining that spring
evening over the proper side of the
river in the Avenue Kleber, sand that 1t
was somewhere near IL o'clock when my
facre. homeward bound, rolled smoothly up
ba Sfr johf nP fha do
Rennes.
1 have said that 1t was spring There
was a soft. warm little breeze that bore
down the street and pressed against my
face. There were odors abroad, the night
was full of them. the scent of green things
waking to life. of the little sticky chestnut
buds that were just pushing out from
| branch and twig-they would be great
| of starting leaves and quickened sod, and
everywhere the heavy fragrance of lilacs
newly in flower. 1t stirred the blood, sent
| it mounting like wine to ones head, set
ones heart to jumping, filled one with a
vague unrest
THE worlds too tame" said I, taking a
| long breath and throwing out my arms
There's no romance left In it-not even
here in romantic Paris. Who could be ro-
mantle in an opera hat and a dress coat?
One needs silk breaches and shoe buckles
and a wig and a sword" I raised my stick
and regarded 1t with disfayor. Fancy
carrying about silly little bit of wood
| like that said I, morosely. Whats the
| good Of it? It's not even ornamental and
I've no impeachment IN my gait. Romance
| is dead. I'd like to fight a duel or-or
overthrow kingdom or run OF with some
| body's beautiful bride swho had fallen in
| love with me at sight. but can't just
| because it's the nineteenth century and
because this things stick and not a
sword And I shook the cane again dis
/, gustedly.
It's not fair" complained to the night
| at large. It's not fair to stir up a chap
| SO. to put the spring in his blood-aIl those
lilacs and-and things. II you're not going
| to give him some little outlet. Jove. what
| air! It's atmospheric poetry. Cocherr"
| said I. The cocher pulled up.
"Je m ennu de ce monde ci, cocher." I
exclaimed.
There's nothing of romantic in tex
capt me. There 70 nothing of-poettcal Of