New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1918-01-20

Of blood-stand in glass and
stoneware vases, on the mantelpiece, on
a side table, on the low bookcase and on
the bare writing desk. A log fire in the
open hearth tells Of chilly autumn
weather outdoors. Four lamps, with
shades of gauze silk, the color of dead
leaves, burn in one corner of the room.
Carouge is improvising at the piano.
Love lends him touch of genius.
1t is the first anniversary Of his VIC
tory as a lover over the scruples of
Laura d'Aiguerune. long inexplicable
to him, since she admitted that she
loved him and was free. She had finally
yielded, after refusing to do so for many
months. To-day he awaits her, with
the same feverish impotence as year
ago--his fingers on the keys, the tips
OF his toes on the pedals, his heart
swelling with exaltation.
The musical arabesques which he
creates for the pleasure of hearing
them die away into nothingness-these
express his submission, body and
soul, to the only being whom he had
ever preferred to his art. The notes
and the accords which his touch evokes
celebrate her; and he awards her the
credit for those happy accidental COM
binations from which one beautiful
phrase after another Results.
Suddenly, as if he had read them,
traced in letters of light against the
shadowy curtain of space, he murmurs
softly, so that they blend with the
muffed music, these two strange
verses of de Villiers de lIsle-Adam:
"Cest Ia femme qu'om Anne cause
de la mutt;
Eft ceur qui ront connue en- parlent
d voir basse.'
He had copied these lines once at the
top of a sheet of music paper, intend
ing to make them the epigraph of
certain nocturne, whose theme had
he believed it to be within his grasp.
He repeats the words, taken with
their mystery, while the music turns
to an appeal-an appeal of anguish
and Observation-Disclosures. but mod
ulated almost to a whisper, rs his
own accents are. The verse dies away
on his lips and the fugitive harmony
lapses into silence. as he catches
glimpse Of Laura's face, of her neck
and Of the luminous flash of her hands,
on which an emerald and a square ruby
scintillate; Her gown remaining in
distinct, Carouge sees clearly only her
head her neck, the whiteness of her
hands and the flashing stones. He is
uncertain whether it is an apparition
or an actual woman-Laura d'Alguer-
une or the being, fatal, eternal, sim
lister. evoked by the poet.
"Why don't you go on? 1t was very
beautiful"
He doesn't know yet, despite the
words, whether the smile of the eyes
and the mouth is real. She advances
toward him, however, and says in
her measured voice, which he adores
equally with the caresses, the per-
fume and the ardor which constitute
her charm:
isn't there something of me, George,
those words? They please ME very
much"
The music accompanies them, almost
unwittingly on the part of the Carouge,
whose fingers skim over the keyboard.
1t was necessary for his visitor to kiss
him on the temples in order to draw
him out of his fantasy, to make him
welcome her and express his astonish-
ment at her mysterious entrance.
81 thought that you were composing,
and l feared that l might chase away
the muse" she says, with sort of
coquettish modesty.
He got up and embraced her.
"Let US make more light" she begins.
sit is like a sepulchre here"
The electric lights having been
turned on, it is the real Laura d'Aig-
uerune whom the musician sees. She
recognizes. She exhales that familiar,
delicate odor, with trace of musk,
but singularly fresh, the secret Of
which she has many times refused to
reveal to him. A fixed determination
shows on her face as he commences:
ITO think that it was a year ago to-
day.
She stops him, putting her hand
across his mouth. One would say that
his words of love torture her.
George, don't let's talk about that
We have had too wonderful love.
didn't deserve such happiness. Let me
tell you something. You have never
asked me anything about myself. For
q lOHS IiIIc Ac1uoCO my oCt1 w yOu,
because | foresaw this hour-this
frightful hour Oh! close those poor
eyes of yours, in which l see already
so much fear! Be sensible, George!
Accept our miserable fate, without &C.
cusing me. For all the others
have been-well, you shall know.
am going to tell you everything. Why
shouldn't [? The avowal is less fright
full than the thing itself. I love you
Don't judge ME. At least you, you will
not judge me! l have confidence that
our love-
Speak, Laura! What is it you would
like to tell ME and dare not?
81 am spy-and trapped"
"You!"
eyes. They are going to take me.
And l could not resign myself to leav-
ing you without having you know that
our love is above these denominations
and that my f1ight"-
"You! A spy! You'll"
George, in order to have my year
of pure happiness 1 took chances. 1
could have escaped"
"Go!"
Suppose they are waiting for me
outside! Suppose they arrest me at
your door,"
GO! A spy! That is to say, some
thing vile beyond measure, something
which touches the lowest depth of base
nessi"
"Oh, no! Not you, George! You will
never know my shame in your presence.
l carry you away in my heart. You arc
already there, a grief SO great-so
hall