Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 175, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 July 1915 — HIS LOVE STORY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HIS LOVE STORY

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CHAPTER I. A Serious Event. Le Comte de Sabron, in the undresß uniform of captain in the Cavalry, sat smoking and thinking. . . What is the use of being thirty years old with the brevet of captain and mnch distinction of family if you are a poor man—in short, what is the gobd of anything if you are alone in the world and no one cares what becomes of you? He rang his bell, and when his ordonnance appeared, said sharply: “Que diable is the noise in the star Me, Brunet? Don’t you know that when 4 smoke at this hour T.araseon must be kept utterly silenC” Tarascon is never silent. No Trench meridional town is, especially in the warm sunlight of a glorious May day. "The noise, mon Capitaine,” said Brunet, “is rather melancholy." "Melancholy!" exclaimed the young officer. “It’s infernal. Stop it at once.” The ordonnapce held his kepi in his hand. He had a round good-natured face and kind gray eyes that' were used to twinkle at his paster’s humor and oaprices. - 1 — "I beg pardon, mon Capitaine, but a very serious event is taking place.” “It will be more serious yet, Brunet, if you don’t keep things quiet.” *T am sorry to tell* mon Capitaine, that Michette has just died.” "Michette!” exclaimed the master. /"What relation is she of yours, Brunet?’ “Ah, mon Capitaine,” grinned the ordonnance, “relation! None! It is the little terrier that Monsieur le Capitaine may have remarked now and then in the garden.” Sabron nodded and took his cigarette out of his mouth as though in respect for the deceased. "Ah, yes,” he said, “that melancholy little dog! Well, Brunet!" "She has just breathed her last, mon Capitaine, and she is leaving behind her rather a large family." , "I am not surprised,” said the officer. "There are six," vouchsafed Brunet, "of which, if mon Captaine is willing, I should like to keep one.” “Nonsense,” said Sabron, “on no account. You know perfectly well, Brunet, that I don’t surround myself with things that can make me suffer! I have not kept a dog in ten years. J try not to care about my horses even. Everything to which I attach myself dies or causes me regret and pain. And I won’t have any miserable little puppy to complicate existence.” “Bien, mon Capitaine,” accepted the ordonnance tranquilly. “I have given away five. The sixth is in the stable; if Monsieur le Capitaine would come down and look at it . . .” Sabron rose, threw his cigarette away and, following across the garden in the bland May light, went into the stable where Madame Michette, a

■mall wirt-haired Irish terrier had given birth to a fine family and herself gone the way of those who do their duty to a race. In the straw at his feet Sabron saw a ratlike, unprepossessing little object, crawling about feebly in search of warmth and nourishment, -uttering pitiful little cries. Its extreme loneliness and helpless-* ness touched the big soldier, who said curtly to his man: “Wrap it up, and if you don’t know how to feed it I should not be stirprised if I could induce it to take a little warm milk from a quill At all events we shall have a try with it. Fetch it along to my rooms." And as he retraced his steps, leaving his order to be executed, he thought to himself: The little beggar is not much more alone in the world Si»b i am! As he saM that he recalled a word in the meridional patois: Pitehoune, which meefes “poor little thing.” f "I shall call it Htchoune," he thought, “and we shall see if it can’t do better than its name suggests.” . Be went slowly hack to his rooms

and busied himself at his table with his correspondence. Among the letters was an invitation from the Marquise d’Esclignac, an American married to a Frenchman, and the great lady of the country thereabouts. “Will you not,” she wrote, "come to dine with us on Sunday? I have my niece with me. She would be glad to see a French soldier. She has • expressed such a wish. She comes from a country where soldiers are rare. We dine at eight.” Sabron looked at the letter and its fine clear handwriting. Its wording was less formal than a French invitation is likely to be, and it gave him a sense of cordiality. He had seen, during his rides, the beautiful lines of the Chateau d’Esclignac. Its turrets surely looked upon the Rhone. There would be a divine view from the terraces. It would be a pleasure to go there. He thought more of what the place would be than of the people in it, for he was something of a hermit, rather a recluse, and very reserved. He was writing a line of acceptance when Brunet came in, a tiny bundle in his hand. 7 “Put Pitchoune over there in the sunlight,” ordered the officer, “and we shall, see if we can bring him up by hantl.”

CHAPTER li. Julia Redmond. He remembered all his life the first dinner at the Chateau d’Esclignac, where from the terrace he saw the Rhone lying under the early moonlight and the shadows falling around the castle of good King Rene. As he passed in, his sword clanking —for he went in full dress uniform to dine with the Marquise d’Esclignac — he saw the picture the two ladies made in their drawing-room: the marquise in a very splendid dress (which he never could remember) and her niece, a young lady from a country whose name it took him long to learn to pronounce, in a dress so simple that of course he never could forget it! He remembered for a great many years the fall of the ribbon at her pretty waist, the bunch of sweet peas at her girdle, and he .always remembered the face that made the charm of the picture. Their welcome to him was gracious. The American girl spoke French with an accent that Sabron thought bewilderingly charming, and he put aside some of his reperve and laughed and talked at his ease. After dinner (this he remembered with peculiar distinctness) Miss Redmond sang for him, and although he understood none of the words of the English ballad, he learned the melody by heart and it followed with him when he left It went with him as he crossed the terrace into the moonlight to mount his horse; it went home with him; he hummed it, and when he got up to his room he hummed it again as he bent over the little roll of flannel in the comer and fed the puppy hot milk from a quill. This was a painstaking operation and required patience and delicacy, both of which the big man had at his finger-tips. The tune of Miss Redmond’s song did for a lullaby and the puppy fell comfortably to sleep while Sabron kept the picture of his evening’s outing contentedly in his mind. But later he discovered that he was not so contented, and ounted the hours when he might return. He shortly made a call at the Chateau d’Esclignac with the result that he had a new picture to add to his collection. This time it was the picture of a lady alone; the Marquise d’Esclignac doing tapestry. While Sabron found that b« had grown reticent again, he listened for another step and another voice and heard nothing; but before he took leave there was a hint of a second Invitation to dinner. The marquise was very handsome that afternoon and wore yet another bewildering dress. Sabron’s simple taste waj dazzled. Nevertheless, she made a graceful picture, one of beauty and refinement, and the young soldier took it away with him. As his horse began to trot, at the end of the alley, near the poplars at the lower end of the rose terrace he oaught a glimpse of a white dress (undoubtedly a simpler dress than that won. by Madame d’EßClignae).

CHAPTER 111. e A Second Invitation. “I don’t think, mon Capitaine, that it is any use,” Brunet told his master. Sabron, in his shirt-sleeves, sat before a table on which, in a basket, lay Michette’s only surviving pappy. It was a month old. Sabron already knew how bright it-! eyes were and how alluring its young ways. “Be still, Brunet,”' commanded the officer. “You do not come from the south or you would be more sanguine. Pitehoune has got to live.” The puppy’s clumpy adventuresome reet had taken him as car as the highroad, and on this da>, as it were in order that he should understand the struggle for existence, a bicycle had

cut him Aowa a the (rtow of his youth, and now, according to Brunet, "there wasn’t much use!” Pitchoune was bandaged around l)is hind quarters and his adorable little head, and forepaws came out of the handkerchief bandage. "He won’t eat anything from me, mon Capitaine,” said Brunet, and Sabron ceremoniously opened the puppy’s mouth and thrust down a dose. Pitchoune swallowed obediently. Sabron had just returned from a long hard day with his troops, and tired out as he was, he forced himself to give his attention to Pitchoune. A second invitation to dinner lay on Ills table; he had counted the days until this night. It seemed too good to be true, he thought, that another picture was to add itself to his collection! He had mentally enjoyed the others often, giving preference to the first, when he dined at the chateau; but there had been a thrill In the second caused by the fluttering of the white dress down by the poplar walk. To-night he would have the pleasure of taking in Miss Redmond to dinner. “See, mon Capitaine,” said Brunet, "the poor little fellow can’t swallow it” The water trickled out from either side of Pltchoune’s mouth. The sturdy terrier-refused milk in all forms, had done so since Sabron weaned him; but Sabron now returned to his nursery days, made Brunet fetch him warm milk and, taking the quill, dropped a few drops of the soothing liquid, into which he put a dash of brandy, down Pitchoune’s throat. Pitchoune swallowed, got the drink down, gave a feeble yelp, and closed his eyes. When he opened them the glazed look had gone. The officer hurried into his evening clothes and ordered Brunet, as he tied his cravat, to feed the puppy a little of the stimulant every hour until

he should return. Pitchoune’s eyes, now open, followed his handsome master to the door. As Sabron opened it he gave a pathetic yelp which made the capitaine turn about. “Believe me, mon Capitaine,” said the ordonnance with melancholy fatality, “it is no use. If I am left with Pitchoune it will be to see him die. I know his spirit, mon Capitaine. He lives for you alone.” "Nonsense,” said the young officer impatiently, drawing on his gloves. Pitchoune gave a plaintive wail from the bandages and tried to stir. "As for feeding him, mon Capitaine,” the ordonnance threw up his hands, “he will be stiff by the time . . .” But Sabron was half-way down the stairs. The door was open, and on the porch he heard distinctly a third tenderly pathetic wail. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Sabron Looked at the Letter.

"He Won’t Eat Anything From Me."