Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 86, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 April 1910 — The Woman Who Listened [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Woman Who Listened

The little club at Royat-les-Balns, I was taking the cure, had swallowed up most-'of my ready money, And I was bound to go over to La Bourboule to see my elder brother. Even If I had not been broke I •should not have taken a first-class on such a little side line. A middle-class dglrl got in, and the hot summer night and the question of a draught from the ■window soon got us into conversation. £he confided to me that she had met her mistress in America, that her mistress was a Polish countess, that she was traveling by the same train, that they had been taking the cure at Vichy, were going to complete it at Mont-Dore, that her mistress was certainly young, a widow, and pretty. This, interspersed with what I vouchsafed, occupied Miss King, sor 1 ’ that was her name, and myself till we stepped out into the dark at the little station of Lagueuilles, from which I learned we were to proceed by an omnibus across the mountains to La Bouriboule. We—la comtesse, King and I—were the only passengers, and this, with the fact of my acquaintance with King, and that none of us were English, soon enabled me to get into conversation ■with the little Polish lady who interested me strangely, for she certainly was very young to be a widow, and was a very fragile little beauty with quite ivory skin, jet black hair, large

dazzling, turquoise-blue eyes, and a little round red mouth. It was a lovely night, but the heat tn the ’bus was intense, and, therefore, there was nothing unnatural in my remark: “Should we not find It cooler if we went outside?" I was soon helping Mme. La Comtesse to climb by the little ladder on to the roof. “So you have been picking poor King's cotton brains about me. Well, what have you v found out?" “That we both belong to a conquered nation." "You are Irish.” “Yes, who told you?” “King. What else?” "She told me I must find out the rest for myself." “You asked her my name?” "No, Indeed.” "Then, what<” "If you were pretty.” She smiled, but said nothing, as if avoiding an obvious compliment, and then said: “If chance had thrown me into confidences with your valet, I think I should have asked your name.” “Do you know,” said I, “It would be a unique experience to meet as we have met, to woo and win, to continue to the end, and if there never were an end, to part unknown and unknowing, never to meet again, but always wondering and being wondered about, and, therefore, never forgotten.” “Do you think “Oh, yes!” I replied. “Every one else you know, every one else I know, knows all about us—our names, our ages, our likes and dislikes; the gpatpaths we have traveled and will return to; they and we have worn out our interest and ohr love and hate, one for the other. But a new experience would be to part before we wore out our Tbves, never to see one another change or grow old, but always to stay tn each other’s memory as we are, young; never to know the other is dead or married, but always to feel that one thing in the world had not come to an end, believing that. If we met again, we would be the same.” “Go on!” was all she said. I took her little hand. "To exchange names is to label oneself, to establish doubt; fear as to the past and as to what the other will do, or think, or say. Not to give names is to act naturally as if alone, unseen, unwatched, unafraid. She was entranced; her head was on my shoulder. She said dreamily: “Go on! Talk to me!” “If I do not tell you my name, if t

never hear yours, nothing that may ever happen to either of us will matter. If your death were announced, if my name became the most dishonored in the world’s history, it would bring no sorrow or shame to either of us, nor shadow our pleasant memory of to-night which must be eternal.” “The idea has endless possibilities. Names, as you say, are a folly. I will not tell you mine.” I persuaded her to break the journey and we went to our hotels, I to the Iles-Britaniques, she to the Ambassadeurs, chose our rooms, and by agreement, met again and wandered about till we. found a place open to eat supper in. But we ate little. I smoked and talked. She listened with her great eyes intent upon me. At what time I kissed her for the last time and we parted, I do not know. I remember she cried and clung to me, and I promised to call for her after I had seen my brother. This I did, but only to leave a note with King, saying my borther required me to start at once for Paris from which I would return immediately and come straight to her. On the third day I was back, only to learn that the lady I described had gone to Lyons. I followed her there, and after some delay tracked her to Biarritz, and thence to Spain. I was madly In love and I determined to find her. I tracked her till I came to Barcelona, where I could not hear of her having left, and yet where I could not find her anywhere. In my despair, I sent her description to the police. At last they came—there were several of them—and the principal one said: "Do you know her?” “Yes.” “Is her name——" I stopped him with I do not know her name. She Is a Polish countess; where Is she?” “You are quite right, signor. You have been following her all over Spain. We have followed you. We know all about you. You need have no fear.” "Never mind about me. What of her?” "Her name Is——" “I don’t know or wish to know her name. Where is she?" "On her way to Siberia.” "Siberia! Why Siberia?” “She was enticed to a luncheon on board a yacht by the Russian secret police.” _ '‘My God! The police!, What is she supposed to have done?” “They say she is a member of some political secret society.” There was nothing more to say, nothing to be done, but journey back to London, worm myself into the confidence of the Russian embassy, get letters of credit and a passport, become attached to a great newspaper, and start on a mission to prove to the world at large that Russian prisons were all that Is beautiful and good, and the Siberian mines were rest cures. I knew they would be so prepared for me, as they had been so prepared for other traveling Englishmen. 1 found them so, and so reported, and accordingly I was given all information I desired. I played my game well, and was more than discreet, never askIng the one thing about the one person in the world I wanted {o know till I found myself inside the fortress of Saint Peter and Paul, for there I found she had been taken. Her dossier was even shown to me. Tne last word in the document was “Escaped." There is but one means of escape from the prison of Saint Peter and Paul, and that is through a trapdoor In a dark corridor which runs over the river.—M. A. P.

I SMOKED AND TALKED.