The Bottineau courant., 1909-10-22
The Violin
BY M. P. Wilcox.

ished table and plaque-adorned walls,
Marie Labarthe flung up her hands
and let them fall hopelessly at her
sides. She hated the trimness of the
fiat, the furniture of which he had
so proudly chosen two years ago.
Yet across the tiny hall, under a red
duvet, lay baby Maurice, taking his
morning nap with forefinger tucked
in his mouth. What did that matter
when at the far corner Of the salon
lay the cause of the trouble-the vio-
lin, so tenderly packed in it's case?
Marie was housebred woman; but
in her rage she crossed the room with
the step of a prairie wolf, and, un-
clasping the case, flung it open. 1t
was the work of moment to snatch
up penknife and hack the strings
Of the hated thing that had taken her
place in her husbands thoughts.
Night after night he came back
from his Office to this, instead of TO
her. There were no Sunday trips now;
NO flowers, no boxes of chocolate, no
love la Menier, as he used to call it.
Half an hour later the front door
closed on an elegant woman in black
and orange, with a veil tied as they
tie them across the Channel-to raw
ish hearts. The lady carried a violin
case, and walked fiercely, like grande
dame in passion.
Pictures of the future came where
the dismal pictures of the past had
been. She would go back to the life
she had left for a husband-to her
painting, to her student friends. For
jacques and Maurice she had toiled
and slaved Now she was free-and,
hacked and mutilated, down the Seine
should go the fiddle.
Artist as she was, she instinctively
sought rest in the garnered beauty
of the past; for in picture galleries
one could rest and get courage-for
the nights work.
Cold and shivering at last, she
walked between the trees of the Lux
embourg gardens, where the fauns
peeped at her from their pedestals.
They, like the Monna Lisa, could mock
and torture, heartless in the perfec-
ton of their strength.
In the warm rooms of the Luxem-
bourg she sank with half sob on a
cushioned seat She had taken moth
ing but little soup all day and physi-
cal fatigue was racking her. jacques
would soon be coming back to the
of IN hn tO, ho h
of the cOZy stove, to the scent of cof-
fee. He would miss it; her lips curled
under her veil as her hands clasped
and unclasped above the violin case
He would care for the loss of that.
Then her eye caught the great mod.
ern incarnation of passion, the Baiser
of Rodin. She understood but it
seemed merely like a horrible chasm
that opened before her feet, and she
rose to leave this last shelter.
Opposite to her, as she raised her
eyes was a bronze group-a man and
woman. Of no large, lovely life,
these two, far removed from human
pain, but ill-clad, ill-fed, bowed with
toll and grief, they still clung to one
another in the sorrow of a common
loss borne together.
AS she gazed they seemed to
breathe. And Marie understood; for
even the babe at the breast of the
bronze figure could not make the
mother forget the other child she
had lost
I
wonderful modern statue of the pity
of the sorrowful earth AS Nine. La
barthe seemed to see the child move
its tiny hand panic descended on
her. For baby Maurice had been alone
without her all the long hours of this
miserable day.
1t was quite dark in the hall, and
from the salon came the sound of
child's sobs and a mans voice sooth.
ing the babe Intellectually. She pushed
open the door, and her husband turned
from the red glow of the stove with
Maurice in his arms.
Give him to me-" she cried, push
ing up her veil and holding out her
arms. To the cool freshness of the
outdoor air on her face the child held
up his hot lips, and, cuddling his feet in
her hands, she comforted him. Moth
ing hurt now, not even the mutilated
violin. She nodded curtly toward the
case and said, open it and look; l
did that. And I'm not sorry. You
starved me. You cared for nothing
but it. l was an artist once; and
that's why l understand how it had
taken my place with you. I hated it."
"Why did you come back?"
"To get Maurice" she said. "He
cried for me. He is quiet now. He
wants me-" She was blindly making
her way to the door.
$50 do L." said her husband quietly.
1.-THE violin is nothing-let it CO." He
pushed it till it fell with thud from
the table.
She darted forward as though to lift
it. "Ah, jacques, you have hurt it
more than I did. For the strings
could be repaired"
$50 you do care," said he. II thought
vo,, daopicod mo for 7 WAS nOt hril.