The Colorado statesman., 1914-04-04
THE LOST PERFUME

single uay Ihey grow TO yield tnelr
fragrance to the perfume distillers,
who haunt this region.
The vine-clad house of Henri Conde
was situated in the midst of lovely
garden bordering the flower fields.
Poplar trees sheltered 1t from the in
tense heat. and fountain bubbled and
sparkled among the flower beds, now
and then casting misty spray over
the thirsty plants.
The unrivaled distiller of perfumes
dwelt with his young daughter Eliza
beth In this pleasant environment. and
they were very happy. Each day found
Monsieur Conde busily engaged in his
laboratory at the foot of the rose gar
den, striving to obtain a wonderful
blending of essences to produce some
exquisite perfume. His fame had al
ready spread over the earth, and the
perfumes made in the Conde distillery
were favored by the courts of Europe.
On this particular morning in June
the maker of perfumes perused the
contents of note which came from
the Empress Josephine. This para
graph, particularly, he re-read several
times: Il desire, my dear Monsieur
Conde, a perfume possessing spicy
odor, free from musk and altar of
roses, something delicate, yet char
acterfstic enough to linger with all
who ever breathe it into their nos
trils."
He smiled and gazed through the
window toward the flower fields, where
the women were filling their huge bas-
kets with the full-blown flowers. So
enraptured was he by the scene that
the entrance of his daughter Elizaset
was unnoticed. Her beauty in its fragile
delicacy rivaled that of the flowers.
Always simply attired in white, she
made many an artist long to transfer
her charms to canvas.
Finally Monsieur Conde, being sub
consciously aware of her presence,
turned and pleasantly greeted her.
Daughter, we have a new commits
sion from the empress. She desires a
perfume such as we have been trying
to perfect for years-a delicate aroma
combining the scents of flowers with
the witchery of eastern perfumes You,
my Elizabeth, possess the ability to
mix the essence, knowing intuitively
what varieties and proportions blend
best to produce a delicate odor.
know the secret of extracting the
scents, but to you l shall intrust the
mixing. The empress must have
perfume so exquisite that she will
never use another, and the formula
will be preserved for her descendants
alone"
After many attempts Elizabeth OBJ
tanned the desired result by combining
the scents from 100 flowers.
my daughter" said Henri Conde,
never has there been such per
fume. 1T is perfect. Do not commit
the formula to paper, for none must
know it. You remember perfectly the
proportions combined?"
Perfectly. l have thought of moth
| ing else for days" They carefully
packed the bottle of perfume and sent
the gardener personally to deliver 1t
| to the empress.
He brought back letter stating how
! pleased she was with the scent and
requesting them to send so more bot
ties Immediately Monsieur Conde
kissed his fair daughter. See, my
Elizabeth, we are famous at last. To
morrow we will begin the empress
perfume" But on the morrow Eliza
beth was unable to leave her room.
Monsieur Conde had not noticed how
extremely pale she had grown during
the year, nor how slowly she moved
about among the flowers. When a
week passed and she was still too
weak to rise, the father said: Child,
we dare not keep the empress wait
ing. Tell me the formula and l will
combine the essence"
She repeated accurately two-thirds
of the proportions, then suddenly
strange expression overspread her fea-
lures and her memory was blank. In
vain the distracted father strove to
win her recognition. Eminent physi-
clans were consulted to no avail. Her
reason was destroyed. At the sight of
flowers a sweet smile would spread
across her features, then quickly fade
away.
One morning a royal messenger ar
rived bearing small packet contain
ing a string of pearls for Elizabeth.
This was a gift of appreciation from
the empress Josephine. Monsieur
Conde quietly entered the room and
leaned over the sleeping form, intend
ing to clasp the pearls about her neck.
He saw that her face was as waxen
as the white roses in her arms. Eliza
beth slept and there would be no awak-
ening.-Jean Douglas in the New York
Press.