Iowa County democrat. [volume] (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1877-1938, 1907-12-26
An Artist $ Honor

By Octave Feuillet

"She was in the convent, was she
not? At Oiseaux, l think?'
NO, Mademoiselle; at IAssomp-
tine d Auteil"
"Ah, l know it. 1t is very nice
there, it is a paradise. Gracious, Mon
sieur Fabrice, but the branches Of my
vine hang badly; they are so stiff. All!
il is all wr0ng-I am losing courage,
Monsieur Fabrice,"
"You are wrong, Mademoiselle. l
assure you that you have made ex-
celIent progress"
But then l have no talent, have i?'
Pardon me-" said the painter WITH
his slightly rude sincerity, "you have
excellent talent for an amateur"
Eyes, but I shall never have enough
so that l might live by it, if neces-
sary."
You might acquire it. But in order
to do so you must give much time to
your studies"
More time" she murmured. At that
same moment the clock Of the chateau
struck two.
THAT is for me" said Beatrice, ris,
ing quickly, placing her sketch in her
box. You see, Monsieur, how l would
use my time if l could"
your life is not a happy one"
said Fabrice, looking at her with eyes
full Of tender pity.
. Monsieur Fabrice," she then said,
lowering her voice but with extraOr.
binary energy, 'it is nothing to be I'LL
happy-that which is terrible is TO
feel that one is becoming wicked" and
she walked rapidly toward the cha
teau.
Fabrice Immediately entered his
own room. For a long time he paced
from his bedroom to his parlor, agt-
tated by a supreme hesitation. Then
he seated himself before a table, took
a pen and wrote this letter:
Mademoiselle:| write to you that
which | could not find the courage to
say. My letter will be short. l respect
you too much to inflict upon you the
language of admiration and of COM
mon gallantry. The only homage that
I will bear you place in my destiny
in our hands. HencefOrth I shall be
made happy or unhappy by you. May
I not to say you that there is not one
of our merits, one of our graces, one
of your sorrows with which l am not
profoundly, passionateIy touched ana
effected. l esteem you highly, Maiden
oiselle, that it seemed to me an act
Of proclamation to love you. But at
last I offer you the little that I am.
Will you be the mother of my poor
child?
Respectfully and devotedly yours
forever and ever,
Jacques Fabrice.
AS Fabrice, after having inclOsed
his letter, was thinking Of a way to
send it surely and promptly to its
address, he saw, through his parlor
window, Mile. de Sardonne crossing
the cOur d'honneur of the chateau.
That large court was decorated with
grass plats and partly planted to
flowers, a beautiful catalpa, formed
in an angle a short of boscOge, under
which were some garden seats. Beat
rice went there sometimes in the at
teTnOOns, seated herself there for a
few moments, reading to herself, When
the baroness let her have a breathing
spell. The painter called his daughter
who occupied the next room to his.
MY DEAR" said he to her, MAIDEN,
oiselle Beatrice is seated under the
large tree that you see there, near the
chapel You take this letter to her for
me- Will you not, my dear?"
An instant later, Fabrice anxiously
followed with his eye the course Of
the child across the court. She disap
peared under the thick shade of the
catalpa. The long minutes rolled by.
Then Marcelle came out from the cir
Gle of the shade and with short steps
returned to the chateau. Fabrice be-
lieved that he could see her returning
his letter. He pressed his cold hand
over his forehead and said simply.
All Heavens!" and motionIess await
ed.
MarCelle enterd.
See father" she said.
She gave back to him the note that
he had given her 1t was truly the en-
velope of his letter. but the envelope
only, open and half torn. Upon the
corner of the paper, written with a
lead pencil, was the single word: ''To-
morrow"
After a pause:
Did she say nothing to your" he
asked of the child.
Nothing"
Did she kiss your"
NO"
All those who love or remember
having loved may easily imagine with
out attempt at description the agita-
tatiOns of heart and of mind, he few
erish waiting, the climaxes If hope
and the depths Of despair in which
Jacques Fabrice struggled through the
long hours of the day and night that
separated him from the morrow In
the evening, as was CUSTOMARY, he met
Beatrice, without being able to guess
from her cold attitude or from her
eye, which was as impassive as a
Sphinx, the least sign that could nelp
him TO read the enigma which she
had enclosed in that one word-To-
morrow.
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