Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 October 1891 — RENIE'S ROMANCE. [ARTICLE]

RENIE'S ROMANCE.

Rente Normaud opened iny studio doer the other afternoon and received the hearty welcome he had a right to expect. We clasped hands, and after exchanging exclamations of greeting and surprise, peered earnestly into each other s eyes. For it was ten years or more since we had last met: and we had changed in thoso ten years; so wc looked curiously into each other's faces. Ten years and more was stamped upon us since last we met, but still we stood well on our feet and our hands clasped firmly. Hut how handsome Renie had grown! He always was handsome, but this, his mature manly beauty, was wonderful. His dark once-laughing eyes now had a subdued sadness in their expression, his mouth was firmfcr, and his curls, that hud once been so blue-black, were strongly mixed with gray. “You can rest.” I said to Pauline, the model, who was staring at us, wondering at our silence after the first greetings. I had many questions to ask Renie, and many to answer about those past years, and I put down my palette and we began oar cross-questioning. How odd it is to greet a friend you have not seen for years! a friend you have caiod for, been intimate with, and who suddenly dropped out of vour life long ago. You stand face to face with him again, hold his hand and hear the old fniniliarvoicc; and there is the same freedom and familiarity in manner now as before, and yet between you is an invisible space of years, a tremendous void that can never be filled.

We talked— hardly that, we asked question for question, scarcely waiting for the answer, for still we understood each other with half a word. We had known something of each other’s lives—not much—from paragraphs in newspapers, had exchanged New Year’s curds—uot much more: and that was very little considering how intimate we had once been in the Latin Quarter and afterwards in the long summer time at Fontainebleau. And as we tulked Pauline lay curled up iu the corner amongst the cushions listening; uo one minds a model listening.

“So you have been a professor all these years at Bordeaux; but you eumo to Paris sometimes?” “Yes, once or twice a year.” “And you never came'to see me!” “What was the use of ringing your I bell in summer?” “That's true.” “Or in winter; twice I tried to find j you when I came up at New Year’s and j you had followed the sun south.” “I am afraid I am rather unsettled.” “1 remember when you were settled you were always talking of going somewhere. But lam coming to Paris next year. I expect to have a professorship here soon, and then I shall dispute you oftener. But tell me who will be there of the old set?” “The old set —not many,” I replied, shaking my head.” “Where are the Grands,” Ronie continued, “who used to live on the Avenue de la Grand Armee?” “Oh they? They —went back to England years ago.” “I am sorry ; I shall miss them. What strange, delightful evenings—nights I should say—we used to have there, and what a strange crowd it was! Do you know I always enjoyed those long walks home in the gray morning light, long, long past midnight, when no sound was heard on the streets but the distant market wagons, the Alsatian peasant sweeping, and the early twittering bird—” “And do you remember,” I interrupted, “the supper that night at Mndthne Savage’s, the night of the snow-storm, when the coachmen, not oar’s, send in word thpy could not wait longer, and Madame invited them to supper?” , “And what hus become of Madame— Madame —” Renie hesitated trying to remember her name, “who was Miss Kendie?” “She’s dead.” “Dead?” All the light suddenly went out of Benie’s eyes that stared wildly at me. “Dead,” he repeated, aud then trying to pull himself together, usked, “What did she die of?” “Ennui,” I answered. “It’s awfully hot here,” exclaimed Pauline, who, with a woman’s tact and wisdom, had thrown the window wide open. “Are you sure she is dead?” Renie asked. Sure! How could I dcclure .1 was sure to a man who looked at me as Renie did at that moment? No,” I answered, “I am not sure. 1 thought I heard of her death several years ago, but I may be wrontr. I’ll write and find out.” “Thank you, if you will. I hoped to see her again some day. She was a delightful woman!” “A delightful woman!” I repeated. How was it I had, for a moment, forgotten be had been fond of her? W e had talked of Barbison, and the way he said “Berbison,” with a tender note in his voice, should have made me remember, but I did not. For it was at Barbison they first met. Her family had heard the praises of Barbison on the edge of Fontainebleuu forest from the painters, aud came down far a few days. They arrived after dark, were shewn to their lodgings through a farmyard and were horrified with the entrance to their quarters. But what could be done? It was late, Paris was many miles away, they must sleep somewhere, and so they stayed that night; and

next morning, when they awoke, the family were surprised to find they had slept well, that the bods were comfortable, and, although the chambers were not luxurious, they were very clean. The sun was shining; they would stay one day, as they had some so far. and all that day they wandered in the forest and —it’s the old story—they stayed all summer. There Rene met Miss Helen and all that long summer they \»layed croquet, explored the forest and sang songs together, songs longsince out of fashion. Rene was not u painter, although a friend |of many painters, but a student of phil- : osophy. He had a pile of books with him, and read at times, but it was his vacation, and bis studies never interfered with Miss Helen's plans or prevented him from being always in attendance at any picnic, tea or forest ramble. One evening wc went into the fore.-,,, „ merry pack of us starting early together an'd returning lute iu pairs; and when we returned one couple was missing. Miss Kendle ami Reno. Mrs. KendTe was very anxious, fearing her daughter had been lost and would be devoured by the wild beasts. We tried to console her, telling her that probably Renie would see her safely home, and that the wild boasts of Fontainebleau i were mostly rabbits and deer. But Mrs. | Kendle refused to be comforted and so |i I relief expedition was organized. There j were plenty of volunteers, and as the night was lovely many volunteered in couples. Hunting horns and a drum were carried to wake the forest echoes, and torches to see the “babes in the woods” when found. The party did not go far; they hud not started off" with serious in- i tent —only to pacify the mother, and contented themselves by exploring the "brigands’ cave,” where some were almost smothered by the smoke of the j torches, and came back singing in chorus, almost forgetting why the torch- | light procession had been organized. As ! the returning explorers neared the village, the lights of their torches fell upon a couple sitting on the bench just inside the forest gate. "Hullo!” exclaimed Leon, suddenly | changing the note of the solo he was i singing. “Hallo, yourself!” answered Rente, ‘•you nre making a great deal of noise.” i “But how did you get here?” asked \ Lean. • Easy enough—round the other way.” Leon began it, and we all burst into a laughing chorus. “What is the joke?” asked Renie. “Joke! Suppose you and Miss Kendle fall into line with us and we will explain.” And the march continued, horns blowing, drums beating, and nil shouting ut the top of our voices; and so the successful rescuing party returned with the lost one. It was about Christmas when the Kendies gave a grand dinner. Renie sat on j the left of Miss Helen and a stranger, a young man whose looks 1 scarcely remember, sat on her right. Of course Rente monopolized Miss Kendle. The young stranger tried to join in the conversation, but was not successful. I ! cannot say Renie was rude to the man, he did not seem even to recognize his existence. “Don’t you think it is outrageous?” whispered Miss Tipman, my neighbor. “What?” 1 asked. “Don’t you know?—of course you do i —everybody does except him—” “Him?” i

At that moment Mrs. Kendle gave the signal for leaving the table, and mv question was left unanswered’. We were allowed to smoke in the drawing-room at the Readies’ so we followed the ladies. Miss Tipman captured Renie and insisted on his looking over the family photograph album with her. He did it politely, but his attention and eyes would wander across the room where Miss Kendle was talking with the stranger. But Miss Tipman kept him at the album. What was she unout? I wondered; surely, not trying to fascinate Renie; she must woll know any attempts of that kind would he wasted. Besides, Miss Tipman was not a fiirt; she was one of those—yes, I must say it —uncomfortable women to have about. One of those women who are always trying to “do their duty.” What was she up to now? Talking loud enough for any one near to hear, so there was no indiscretion in my listening. “There, do you know her?” “Yes,” answered Rente, turning over the page, anxious to finish the book. “And do you know him?” “No.” Again Jn> would turn the puge, blit Miss Tipman put her hand upon his.

“Butdon’tyou recognize that picture?” she insisted. “Well, yes; it is of the man who snt next to Miss Kendie. 1 was introduced, but forgot his name.” “But don’t you know who lie is?” “No, and what is more ” “Don't vnu know he is engaged to Miss Kendie?” This time Renie turned the page without any hindrance from his neighbor. He closed the book, rose and laid it on the table, turned, and without a word to anyone left the room. Miss Tipmun and I looked at each other for a few moments in silence. I felt as if I must say something. If she had been a man 1 should have told him lie was a first-class fool. As it was, I simply remarked, “You’ve done it!” “I thought it was right,” she answered, compressing her lips disagreeably. Renie went home and had a brain fever, and Miss Helen Kendie married the other man. Why had I not remembered all this when my old friend usked about madamc. who was Miss Kendie? What right had I now, after my brutal manner of announcing Miffs Kendlo’s death, to criticise Miss Tipmun? Renie did not make me a long visit, ; but at the door 1 uguin promised to find I out “if it was really true.” “She was a charming woman,” he said, ias we shook hamls; and for the second J time I repeated, “A charming woman!” i “Aud he has never married?” asked Pauline when I closed the door.

“No.” “And was she handsome?” I hesitated, but why should 1 not tell the truth to Pauline’ “No.” “And was the other as handsome as Monsieur?” “Oh. no; nothing like!” “But he was the richest?” i “Yes, I suppose he was.” I well knew Renie had only a modest patrimony, while “the other” had houses and lauds and a “big business.” For a while I worked in silence, Pauline's eyes were very bright, with a suspicion of tears. 1 knew- her thoughts had wandered from Renie to her soldier lad and the baker’B shop that was to be opened on his return, where behind the counter Pauline was to reign supreme. At last Pauline's thoughts returned to Renie, for she said with an accent of conviction in her voice, “How could she have done it? I don't understand,” thus unconsciously echoing what “the old set” had exclaimed many years ago. I wrote to a friend as I had promised,

and received the reply expected—- “ Madame , who was Miss Helen Kendle, died several years ago.” This note I enclosed to Renie and lie sends me a card in acknowledgment. On it he has written—“ Thanks, my friend, for voui note. lam sure those who die do not suffer the most.” And Renie Normandisan eminent professor of philosophy.—[Boston Transcript.