Indianapolis Times, Volume 34, Number 56, Indianapolis, Marion County, 16 July 1921 — Page 4

Sfatoatta Jlailu OTit ms INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA, Dally Except Sunday, 25-29 South Meridian Street. Telephones—Main 3500, New 28-351 MEMBERS OF AUDIT BUREAU OF CIRCULATIONS. . . I Chicago, Detroit, St Louts, G. Logan Payna Cos. AdTertlftlng omces } New Y‘.'rk. Boston. Payne. Burns &. Smith. Inc. BUT WHO wants to ride from the fairground to Illinois street? THE THEFT of a $40,000 pay roll at Charleroi, Pa., indicates business is not so bad. DISTRICT mine worker’s officials were given a salary increase. Were they also granted a six-hour day? THAT “visitor'* who took S3O from a drawer at Shank headquarters should at least vote for Shank in November. A MAN at Wabash walked four miles on his 103d birthday and the account does not contain a statement from him on his rules for attaining that age! HERBERT HOOVER advises the public generally to “work, save, be frugal and honest." That would be good advice for the Government at Washington. HAVING MISSED again with that guess that the heat would be relieved by thunder showers, the weather man has gone back to “fair and not much change in temperature." Let's hope he is wrong again. PERHAPS Fred Bates Johnson believes an audit of the books of the Indiana Bell Telephone Company at Muncie may avoid such orders as the 125 per cent Muncie water rate increase issued while he was a member of the public service commission. Be Thankful for the Council! Fortunately for the people of Indianapolis jitney bus control, such as has been demanded by the street car company, Is beyond the range of power of Mayor Jewett. Otherwise one might judge from his fulsome support of the street car company's demand that the jitney busses would be eliminated overnight, without consideration or deliberation as to their necessity or desirability. For the mayor. In his public statement, which appears to have been all ready for the press on notification that the company had made demands on the council, has made it plain that he has formulated his opinions and intends to side with the company regardless of the public welfare. There is a great deal more to this question of eliminating the jitney busses than the hasty action of the mayor would indicate. There is a question whether, in opposing the jitney busses, the company is not. taking a stand against the ultimate in transportation. There is also a question whether the complete elimination of street cars is not indicated by the march of progress and brought nearer by the domineering attitude of street car operators. Eliminating these two points does not, by any means, wipe out the arguments for the retention of the busses. They must, eventually, stand or fall by the measure of their economic value. Heretofore, in addition to providing rides for 5 cents and less the street car company has improved and maintained a goodly part of our paved streets. Recently, we were advised that it no longer proposed to do street improving. The cost of street improving, it was argued, took tsuch a great proportion of the revenue of the company that it could not maintain service with the balance. The latest position of the street car company is that it will no longer improve streets, that it will no longer maintain service where jitney busses operate, that it will not be content with a 5-cent fare unless, immediately, the city council eliminates the jitney busses. Tne mayor, in approving this ultimatum, does more than “flay a menace,” as our morning contemporary says. He expresses his entire willingness to allow the street car company to continue, as it has throughout his administration, to do just as it pleases. Again we say It is fortunate that there never has been harmony between the executive and legislative branches of the present administration. Usurpers Another example of the apparent inability of the board, of sanitary commissioners to conduct public business in an efficient manner and In compliance with the law developed this week when bids were received for further construction of the sewage disposal plant Acceptance of a bid was announced by Lucius Swift before attention was called to the fact that the bidder had failed to comply with the law requiring the filing of a certified check for a percentage of the bid. In explanation of the failure It was pleaded that the company had been advised by the board s engineer that a bond could be filed in place of a certified check. The incident is of no great importance, except that it shows the manner in which the sanitary board transacts its business. This is the same board that purchased the $170,000 garbage plant, whose owners pleaded was worth less than the cost of Junking. It 1b the same board that contracted with a bonding company to complete at a higher figure work which the company had bonded a contractor to complete. Through careful lobbying this sanitary board has been Invested with the power to levy taxes and issue bonds with more freedom and abandon than the elected official of the community. Through another bit of political maneuvering it has been vested with Jurisdiction over departments of the city government that have constituted political machines of the most vicious type for years. Gradually, It Is usurping the powers and functions of elected officials and eliminating any and all control that the taxpayers have over their government And for the third time it has been demonstrated that it does not ose ordinary business sense in its expenditures of public money. Vacation Thoughts When some enter the quiet country, the raveled sleeve of care seems to mend. Others feel a wonderful sense of peace when among the trees of a woods. Again, to look upon big water quiets and tranqullizes those wbo are nearly distraught at home. Sometimes a drink from a spring Is nectar fit for the gods. Such is vacation. It is a trtte thing to say that a vacation without a change of thought Is a misnomer, but as such Is the case, it should follow that a complete change of thought certainly is next to a vacation, provided, cf course, the substitute is agreeable. There are millions who cannot enjoy an absence from accustomed grind. Perhaps they are a majority of people of the United States. For them, some agreeable substitute of thought, at least, should be given. As the vacation is a complete relaxation, so the pause for a short time In daily activity should tend to rebuild one’s energy. Then, if the mind can have a change, the effect will, to a small degree, be the same. There is always the necessity to have peace of mind, if a vacation or even a rest Is to be enjoyed. Worry destroys the best landscape, dampens the finest sunshine and kills the greatest energy. Whisky and Bolshevism! For clarity, truth and triteness we commend to our readers the following extract from an editorial that appeared recently in the Chicago HeraldExaminer: You like a drink now and then, and take it Your supply runs low. Along comes a whisky smuggler and you buy a case or two of his best. You mention it to your friends; and if you get into trouble over It — •which you usually do not —you speak bitterly of a Government which *ttempts to interfere with your private tastes and affairs. Now consider! You have violated, secretly, but deliberately, a section ©f the Constitution of the United States. Yet the next time a loudmouthed individual In a flannel shirt preaches revolution, and is jailed for It, you are violent in your protestations that, as he doesn’t like the Constitution he lives under, it is his business to go somewhere else; and when he Is deported you give three cheers. Human nature? A psychological mystery? Nonsense. A law is not a law, the Constitution is not binding, for you except to the extent that you believe in It? Then why should It be for anybody else? Don’t get your cases mixed. Be firm in your own citizenship ar and your indignation against “revolutionsists” will ring truer. Did it never occur to you man who smuggles whisky forfeits tsjf Us case against the soapbo.t^f^jj^^l?

ROADS of DESTINY

By O, HENRY

(Continued From Fage One.)

at the horses and to exercise their strength upon the wheels. The driver alone urged the animals with Ills familiar voice; David himself heaved a powerful shoulder at the rear of the carriage, and with one harmonious tug the great vehicle rolled up on soldi ground. The outriders climbed to their places. David stood for n moment upon one foot. The huge gentleman waved a hand. “Vou will enter the carriage," ha said, in a voice large, like himself, but smoothed by art and habit. Obedience belonged in the path of such a voice. Brief a* was the young poet s hesitation, it was cut shorter still by a renewal of the command. David's foot went to the step. In the darkness lie perceived dimly the form of the lady upon the rear seat. He was about to * seat himself opposite, when the voice again swayed him to Its will. “Vou will sit at the lady’s side.” The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat. The carriage proceeded up the hill. The lady was shrunk, silent, into her corner. David could not estimate whether she was old or young, but a delicate, mild perfume from her clothes stirred his poet s fancy to the belief that there was loveliness bexeath the mystery. Here was an adventure such as he had often Imagined. But as yet he held no key to it. for no word was spoken while he sat with his Impenetrable companions. In a a hour's time David perceived through the window that the vehicle traversed the street of some town. Then It stopped In front of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammer Impatiently upon the door. A latticed window above flew wide and a nightcapped head popped out. “Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My house is closed. 'Tis too late for profitable travelers to be abroad. Cease knocking at my door, and be off.’’ “Open!" spluttered the postilion, loudly; "open for Monseigneur the Marquis de Beaupertuys.” “Ah!" cried the voice above. “Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did not know—the hour is so late—at once shall the door be opened, and the house placed at my lord's disposal." Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar. and the door was flung open. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of the Silver Flagon stood, half clad, candle in band, upon the threshold. David followed the marquis out of the carriage “Assist the lady," lie was or dered. The poet obeyed He felt her small hand tremble as he guided her descent. “Into the house," was the next command. The room was the long dining hall of the tavern. A great oak table ran down lts length. The huge gentleman seated himself In a ehair at the nearer end. The lady sank Into another against the wall wibt an air of great weariness. David atood. considering how best he might now take h!s leave and continue upon his way. “My lord," said the landlord, bowing to the floor "h had 1 ex expected this honor, entertainment would have been ready T-t there i wine and cold fowl and mm maybe—" "Candles." said the marquis, spread ing the fingers of one plutup white hand in a gesture be had “Y yes. my lord" He fetched half a dosen candles, lighted them, and set them upon the table “If monsieur would, perhnp* deign to taste a certain Burgundy—there Is a cask—” "Candies," said monsieur spreading his fingers. Assuredly—quickly I fly. my lord " A dozen more lighted candles shone In the hail. The great bulk of the mar quis overflowed his chair. He was dressed In fine black from head to foot save for the snowv ruffles at his wrist and throat Even the hilt and scabbard of his sword were black His expression was one of sneering pride The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly to hi* mocking eyes. The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young, and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty He was startled from the contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis. "What is your name and pursuit?" “David M'.gnot. I am a poet." The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to hls eyes “How do you lire’" “T am also a shepherd ; I guarded my father s flock." David answered, with his head high hut a flush upon his cheek. “Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have bltinderred nnon tonight. This lady ! my nicer. Mademoiselle Lucia De Varenns Phe Is noble descent and is possessed of 10.000 franc* a year in her own right. As to her charms you have but to observe your seif If the inventory pleases your shepherd's heart, she becomes your wife a* a word Do not Interrupt me. Tonight I conveyed her to the chateau of the Comte Do Vlllemaur. to whom her hand had been promised Guests were pres ent: the priest was waiting; her mar rlage to one eligible In rank and fortune was ready to he accomplished At the altar this demoiselle so meek and dut'ful. tnrnpd upon me like a leopardess, charged mo with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before the gaping priest the troth I had plighted for her I swore there and then, by 10,000 devils, that she should marry the first man we met after leaving the chateau, be he prince, charcoal burner, or thief Vou, shepherd, are the Arab Mademoiselle must be wed this night. If not you, then another. You have ten minutes In which to make your decision Do not vex me with words or questions. Ten minute*, shepherd; and they are speeding." The Marquis drummed loudly with his white finger* upon the table, n* sank Into a veiled attitude of waiting. It was as if some i;rent house had shut its door* and windows nealnst approach David would have spoken, but the huge man's bearing stopped his tongue. Instead, he stood by the lady’s chair and bowed. "Mademoiselle." he rvld. and he tnsr veiled to find his words flowing easily before so much elegance and beauty. “Vou have heard me say I was a shepherd I have also had the fancy, .at times, that I am n poet If It be the test of a poet to adore and cherish the beautiful, that fancy Is now strengthened. Can I serve you In any way, Madtmolselle ?” The young woman looked up at him with eyes dry and mournful His frank, g'owtng face made serious by the gray ity of the adventure, his strong straight figure and the liquid sympathy In his blue eyes, perhaps, also, her imminent need of long-denied he'p and kindness, thawed her to sudden tears. “Monsieur." she said, in a low tone, "you look to he true and kind. He ia my uncle, the brother of my father, and my only relative. He loved my mother, and he hates me because I am like her. He has made my life one long terror. T am afraid of his very looks, and never before dared to disobey him. But tonight he would have married me to a man three times ray age. You will forgive me for bringing this vexation upon you,

BRINGING UP FATHER

* V 4 AdH VI V A X AJkA ... 1 n — 1 n r-7 7 I ‘ V I'M FEEUN’ LC t THE 1 OH HO! I COT CLTT MOt>T HAVE *7 WHAT 1 * WELL •IT ‘bEEHSEQ ,LZ ROTTEM today- p matter? i-b TOUR UP This AT ISEEH W^ Z A T>WELL PARTY- DlO TOO LIKE A <OOO lOEA L CLANCT' _> WIFE &ACK PROM DUGAN’S HOUSE ■ EICHT - Ats I T OOK A NOTION D< 7-71 H * T 'MS? LASj'T ISIOHT' • .M Y= THL __ ,_ ■> S=: ? ' TO JUMP THROOCH A -7 FOR -° ' ' J M ~ © ,921 BY INT U FEATURE SERVICE. INC 7-/6

INDIANA DAILY TIMES, SATURDAY, JULY 16, 1921.

monsieur. You will, of courge, decline this mad act he tries to force upon you. But let me thank you for your generous words, at least. I have had none spoken to me in so long.” There wag now something more than generosity in tlie poet's eyes. Poet he must have been, for Yvonne wa* forfotten; this fine, new loveliness held him with Its freshness and grace. The subtle perfume from her filled him with strange emotions. His tender look fell warmly upon her. She leaned to It, thirstily. “Ten minutes," said David, "Is given me In which to do what I would devote years to achieve. I will not say I pity you, mademoiselle; It would not be true —I love you. I cannot ask love from you yet, but let me rescue you from this cruel man, and, in time, love ipav come. I think 1 have a future. "I will not always be a shepherd. For the present I will cherish you with all heart ad make your life less sad. Mill you trust your fate to me( mademoiselle?” “Ah, yon would sacrifice yourself from pity!" “From love. The time is almost up mademoiselle." "Vou will regret it, and despise me." “I will live only to make you happy, and myself worthy of you.” Her flue small " hands crept Into his from beneath her cloak. “I will trust you,” she breathed, “with my life. And—and love—may not be so far as you think. Tell him. Once away from the power of his ej -s I may forget." David went and stood before the marquis. The black figure stirred, and the mocking eyes glanced at the great hall clock. "Two minutes to spare. A shepherd requires eight minutes to deelde whether he will accept a bride of beauty and income! Speak up. shepherd, do you consent to become mademoiseli's husband. “Mademoiselle," said David, standing proudly, “has done me the honor to yield to my request that she become my Wife " “Weil said!" said the marquis. "You have yet the making of a courtier in you, master shepherd. Mademoiselle could have drawn a worse prize, after all. And now to be done with the affair as quick as the Church and the devil will allow!" He struck the table soundly with his sword hilt. The landlord came, knee shaking, bringing more candles In the hepe of anticipating the great lord’s whims. "Fetch a priest," said the marquis. a priest: do you understand? In ten minutes have a priest here, or—” The landlord dropped Ilia candles and flew. The priest caine, heavy eyed and ruf fled, lie made David Mignot and Lucie de Varennes man and wife, pocketed a go’d piece that the marquis tossed him. arid shuffled out again Into the night. "Wine." ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at the host. "Fill glasses,” lie said, when it was brought. He stood up at the head of the table in the candlelight, a black mnun tain of venom and conceit, with s<>mething Hke the memory of an old love turned to poison in his eye, as it fell upon his niece "Monsieur Mignot,” he said, raising h'* wine glass, "drink after 1 say this to you: You have taken to tie your wife one who will make your life a foul and wretched thing. The blood In her is an Inheritance running black lies and red ruin. She will bring you shame Rnd anxiety. The devil that descended to her la there In her ryes and skin sr.d mouth that stoop even to beguile a peasant. There 1* your promise, monsieur poet, for a happy life Drink your wine At la-r. mademoiselle, I am rid of you.” The marquis drank A little grievous ery. as if from a sudden wound, came from the girl's lips David, with his glass in his hand, stepped forward three paces and faced the marquis There was litt’e of a shepherd in his bearing. "Just now." he said, calmly, “you did me the honor to call me ‘monsieur May l hope, therefore, that my marriage to mademoiselle has placed me somewhat nearer to you In—let us say. reflected rank—has given me the right to stand mors as on equal of monseignenr in a certain little piece of business I have In my mind?" “Yon may hope, shepherd," sneered the marquis "Then.” said David, flashing his glass of win- Into the contemptuous eyes that ked him, “perhaps you will coral s-end to fight me The fury of the great lord ouf.hroks In one sudden curse like a blast from a horn. He tore his sword from Its black sheath, tie called to the hovering laud lord: "A sword there, for this lout!” He turned to the lady, with a laugh that chilled her heart, and su'd : "You put much labor upon me, mad,’me. It seems I must find you a husband and make you a widow in the same night ." ”1 k# w not sword piay said David. He flushed to make the confession before his lady. “'I know not sword-play.’" mimicked tbc marquis "Shall we tight like peasants with oaken cudgels? Hot.*’ Francois, my pistols!" \ position brought two shining great pistols ornamented with -erven sliver, from the carriage holsters The marquis tossed one upon the table near Da vid's hand "To the other end of the table," he cried: "even a shepherd may pull a trigger. Few of them attain the honor to die by too weapon of a Ds Beaupertuys.” The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of th# long table. The landlord, In an ague of terror, clutched the air and stammered: “M MMondegueur, for the love of Christ! not in my house!—do not spill blood—lt will ruin my custom—” The look of the marquis, threatening him, paralysed his tongue. "Coward!" cried the lord of Beaupertoys, "cease chattering your teeth long enough to give the word for us. If you ■ an.’ Mine host's knees smote the floor He was without a vocabulary. Even sounds wore beyond him Still, by gestures, he seemed to beseeech peace In the name of his house and custom. “I will give the word." said the lady. In a dear voice. She went up to David and kissed him sweetly. Hor ayes were sparkling bright, and color had come to her cheek. She stood against the wall, and the two men leveled their pistols for her count. "TTn—deux—trols!" The two reports came so nearly together that the candles flickered but once The ma.'quls stood, smiling, the fingers of his left hand resting, outspread, upon the end of the table. David remained erect, and turned his head slowly, search lng for ills wife with his eyes. Than. n a garment falls from where it is hung, he sank, crumpled, upon the floor. With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and stooped nbove him. She found his wound, and then looked up with her old look of pale melancholy. "Through his heart." she whispered. “Oh, his heart!” "Come." boomed the great voice of the marquis, “out with you to the carriage!

Daybreak shall not find you on my ! bands. Wed you shall be again, and to Ia living husband, this night. The next I we come upon, my lady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then the churl that opens my gates. Out with you to the carriage!” The marquis, Implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in the mystery of her cloak, the positilion bearing the weapons—ell moved out to the watting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rolling away echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of the Silver Flagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the slain poet's body, while the fiames of the four and twenty candles) danced and flickered on the table. THE RIGHT BRANCH. Th.-ee leagues, then, the road ran, and turned Into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to the right. Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vernoy far behind that night. He truveled a league and then passed a large chateau which showed testimony of recent entertainment. Lights shone from every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery of wheel tracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests. Three leagues farther and David was weary. He rested and slept for a while on a bsd of pine boughs at the roadside. Then up and on again along the unknown way. Thus for five flays he travelled the great road, sleeping upon Nature’s balsamic beds or in peasants’ ricks, eating of their black, hospitable bread, drinking from streams or the willing cup of the goatherd. At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within the shilling city that has crushed or crowned more poets than all the rest of the world. His breath came quickly ns Paris sang to him !u a little undertone her vital chant of greeting—the hum of voice and foot and wheel. High up under the eaves of an old house In the Rue Conti, David paid for lodging, and sat himself. In n wooden chair, to his poems. The street, once sheltering citizens of import and consequence, was now given over to those who ever follow In the wake of decline. The houses were (all and still possessed of a ruined dignity, but many of them were empty save for dust and the spider. By night there was the clash of steel mid the cries of brawlers stray Itig restlessly front inn to inn. Where once gentility abode was now but a rancid and rude incontinence. But here David found housing commensurate to his scant purse. Daylight and candlelight found him at [ten and paper. One afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to the lower world, with bread and curds and a bottle of thin wine. Halfway up his dark stairway he met - -or rather came upon, for she rested on ’he stair n young woman of a beauty that should balk even the jus Hoc of a poet's Imagination. A loose, dirk cloak, flung open, showed a rich gown beneath Her eyes changed swift ly with every little shade of thought. Within one moment they w mid bo round and artless like a child's, and long ami cozening like a gypsy’s. One hand raised her gown, undraping a little shoe, highheeled, with Its ribbons dangling, untied. So heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified to charm and command. Per haps she had s.-en David coming, and had waited for his help there. Ah. would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway but the shoe! the naughty shoe! Alas! It would not remain tied Ah! if monsieur would be so gracious! The poet’s fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then he would have fled from the danger of her pres sties, but the eye* grew long,and cozening, like a gypsy's, Riid held him He leaned against the balustrade, clutch lng his bottle of sour wine "You have been so good " she said, smiling ' lice* monsieur, perhaps, live In the house?" "Ye*. madame. I— I think so, madame.” •Perhaps In the third story, then?” "No, madame, higher up." The Indy fluttered h-r finger* with the least possible gesture of impatience. Pardon Certainly I ant not discreet In asking Monsieur will forgive me? It Is surely not bamming that I should Inquire where he lodge* ” Madame, do not say so. I live In the—”

"No, no, no; do not tell ra*. Now 1 see that 1 erred But I cannot lose the interest I fsei In this bouse and all that is In it Once it was mv home. Often I come here but to dream of those happy days again. Will you let that be tnj excu*.■?" "la-t me tell you, then, for you need no excuse,” stammered the poet I live In the top floor- the fctusll room where the stairs turn. ' "In the front room?" naked the lady, tuning her head rldewise ' The rear, madame." The lady sighed, us If with r-’lief "I w !i detain you no longer, then, monsieur," she said, employ lng the round anti artless eye. "Take good rare of my house Alas! only the memories of it are mine now Adieu, and accept tnj thanks for your courtesy " She was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet perfume. David climbed the stair* as one in slumber. But he awoke from It and the smite and the per ft me lingered with him an ! never nfter ward did e.lher seem quite to leave him. This lady of whom he knew nothing drove him to lyrics of eye*, chanson* of swiftly conceived love, odea to curling hair, and sonnets to slippers on slender feet. Poet he most have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new lovelines: held olm with its freshness and grace. The subtle perfume about her filled him with strange emotions. • • • •

On a certain night three persons were gathered about a ta Die in a room on the third floor of the same house Three chairs nnd table and a lighted candle upon It was all the furniture. One of ths persons was a hugs man. dregxed in black. H!s expression was one of sneering pride. The ends of hi* upturned mustache reached nearly to his mocking eye* Another was a lady, young an I beautiful, with eyes that eouid he round and nrrlesa. like a child’s, or long and cozening, like a gipsy’s, but were now Lett and arahltiou- Hkc any other cons drator’a. The third was a titan of action, a combatant. a hold and impatient executive, breathing fire and steel. He was addressed by the others as Captain Desroiles This man struck the table with his fist, and said, with controlled violence: “Tonight. Tonight as he goes to mid night muss. 1 am tired of the plotting that get* nowhere. I am *lck of signal* and ciphers and secret meetings and such bnragoulri. Let us be honest traitors If France is to be rid of him. let us kill lit the open, and not hunt with snares and traps. Tonight, 1 say. I back my words My hand will do the deed. Tonight, as he goes to mass." The lady turned upon him a cordial look. Woman, nowever, wedded to plots, must ever thus bow to rash courage. The big man stroked his upturned moustache. "Dear captain.” he said. In a great voice, softened bv habit, “this time I agree with you. Nothing 1s to bo gained by watting Enough of the palace guards belong to us to make the endeavor a safe one.” “TonirT t," repeated Captain Desrolles,

again striking the table. "Y'ou have i heard me, marquis; my hand will do the deed.” “But now," said the huge man, softly, "comes a question. Word must be sent to our partisans In the palace, and a signal agreed upon. Our stanchest men must accompany the royal carriage. At this honr what messenger can penetrate so far ts the south doorway? Kibout is stationed there: once a message is placed in his hands, all will go well." “I will send the message,” said the lady. "You, countess?” said the marquis, raising his eyebrows. “Your devotion is great, we know, but —” "Listen!" exlaimed the lady, rising and resting her hands upon the table: "In a garret of this house lives a youth from the provinces as guileless and tender as the lambs h“ tended there. 1 have met him twice or thrice upon the stairs. I questioned him, fearing that he might dwell too near the room in which we are accustomed to meet. He is mine, if 1 will. He writes poems in his garret, and 1 think he dreams of me. He will do what I say. He shall take the message to the palace." The marquis rose from his chair and bowed. “You did not permit me to finish my sentence, countess," he said, “I would have said : ‘Y’our devotion is great, but your wit and charm are Infinitely ! greater.’ ” j While the conspirators were thus engaged, David was polishing some lines addressed to his amorette d’escaller. He heard a timorous knock at his door, and opened it, with a great throb, to behold her there, panting as one in straits, with eyes wide open and artless, like a child s. “Monsieur," she breathed, “I come to you in distress. I believe you to be good and true, and I know of no other help How I flew through the streets among the swaggering men! Monsieur, my mother is dying. My uncle is a captain of guards in the palace of the king. Some one must fly to bring him. Mav 1 hope—” ‘'Mademoiselle," interrupted David his eyes shining with the desire to do’ her service, "your hopes shall be my wing* 1 el! me how I may reach him.” The lady thrust a sealed paper into his hand. "Go to the south gate—the south gate, mind—and say to the guards there ’The falcon has left his nest.' They will pass you. and you will go to the south entrance to the palace. Repeat the word*, and give this letter to the man who will reply ‘Let him strike when he will.’ This is th*! password, monsieur, entrusted to me by mv uncle, for now when th** country is disturbed and men plot against the king s life, no one without It ■ an gain entrance to the palace grounds aGer nightfall. If you will, monsieur, take him this letter so that my mother may see him before she closes her eyes.’’ "Give It me,” said David, eagerly. "But shrill 1 let you return home through the streets alone so late? I—” "No, no—fly. Each moment is like a precious Jewel. Some time." said the ludv. with eyes long and cozening. like a gipsv s. "I will try to thank you for your goodness." Tim poet thrust the letter into Ills breast, and bounded down the stairway. I lie lady, when he was gone, returned to the room below. The eloquent eyebrows of the marquis interrogated hr. ' He is gone." she said, "as fleet and stupid as one of his own sheep, to deliver it." The table honk again from the batter of <'aplain De*rolle*’* fl*t. "Sacre.l name!'' he cried: 'T have left nu jiNtols behind! I can trust no others." lake this." said the marquis, drawing from beneath his cloak a shining, great weapon, ornamented with carven silver "There are none truer But guard it closely, for it hear* lay arm* and crest, and nlreadv T am suspected. Me I innsr put many leagues between myself and Paris this night. Tomorrow must And me In my chateau. After vou. dear countess." The marquis puffed out the candle. The lady, well cloaked, and til" two gentle m-u softly descended the stairway and flowed Into tlie crowd that roamed along the narrow pavements of the Rue Conti David Sped. At the *outh gate of l lie king s residence a halberd wa* laid to h! breast but he turned its point with the words; "The faleou has left hi* ne*f.” "Pa?. brother." said the guard, “and go quickly." On the south step* of the palace they moved to seize him, but again the mot fle pna*o charmed the watchers One among them stepped forward and began : "Let him *trik?—" but a flurry among •be guard* told of a surprise. A man of keen look and soldierly stride suddenly pressed through them and seized the setter which David held in ills hand. "Ora* with me.” he said, and let him inside the great halt Then he tore open the letter and read it. lie beckoned to a man uniformed a* an officer of musketeers, who was passing. "Captain Tetrsu. you will have the guards at the south entrance and the south gate srretofl and confined, place men known to be ,‘oyai 1u their place*." To David he said : "Come with me." He conducted him through a corridor and an anteroom Into a gpaclons chamber, where a melancholy man. somberly dressed, sat brooding in n great, leathered covered chair To that man he said: Sire I have told you that the palace I* a* full of traitors and spies ass sewer Is of rats You have thought, sire, that It wa* my fancy This man penetrated to your very door by their connivance. He Sore a letter which I have Intercepted. I have brought him here that your majesty mny no longer think my zeal excessive’ "I will question him." said the king, stirring In his choir Ho looked at David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque film The poet bent his knee. From where do you come?" asked the king. V "From iho village of Yernoy. in the province of Eure-et-Lolr, sire." "What do vou follow In Paris?" "I—l would be h poet, sire.” "What did you In Vernoy?” "I minded mv father s flock of *heep.” The king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eves "Ah! in the fields!” "Yes, sire.” “You lived In the field*: yon went out In the cool of the morning and lay among the hedge* In the gras*. The flock distributed Itself upon the hillside; you drank of the living stream: you ate your sweet, brown bread In the shade, and von listened, doubtless, to blackbird* piping in the grove. I* not that so. shepherd ?'* It ts. sire,” answered David, with a sigh: "and to the bee* at the flower*, and. may bo. to the grape gathered singing on the bill." “Yes, yes,” said the king. Impatiently; "maybe to them: but surely to the blackbirds They whistled often, In the grove, did they not?" “Nowhere, stre, so sweetly as In Eure-et-Lolr. I have endeavoured to express their song In some verses that I have written." ••Can you repeat those versos?” asked the king, eagerly. "A long time ago l listened to the blackbirds. It would be something better than a kingdom if one could rightly construe their song. And at night you drove the sheep to the fold and then* snt, In peace and tranquility, to your pleasant, bread. Can you repeat thn*e verses, shepherd ?” "They run this way, sire,” said David, with respectful ardour: " ’Lazy shepherd, see your lambkins Skip, ecstatic, on the mead;

See the firs dance in the breezes. Hear Pan blowing at her reed. "Hear us calling from the tree-tops, See us swoop upon your flock; Y'ield ub wool to make our nests warm In the branches of the —’ ” "If It please your majesty,” interrupted a harsh voice, “I will ask a question or two of this rhymster. There is little time to spare. I crave pardon, sire, if my "anxiety for your safety offends.” "The loyalty,” said the king, "of the Duke d’Aumale Is too well proven to give offense.” He sank Into his chair, and the film came again over his eyes. “First,” said the Duke, ‘T will read you the letter he brought: “ ‘Tonight Is the anniversary of the dauphin’s death. If he goes, as is his custom, to miduight mass to pray for the soul of his son, the falcon will strike at the corner of the Rue Esplanade. If this be his intention, set a red light 1n the upper room at the southwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.’ "Peasant,” said the Duke, sternly, “you have heard these words. Who gave you this message to bring?” “My Lord Duke,” said David, sincerely, "I will tell you. A lady gave It me. She said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetch her uncle to her bedside. I don’t know the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beautiful and good.” ‘‘Describe the woman,” commanded the Duke, “and how you came to be her dupe. ’ “Describe her!” said David with a tender smile. “You would command words to perform miracles. Well, she is made of sunshine and deep shade. She Is slender, like the alders, and moves ] with their grace. Her eyes change while you gaze into them ; now round, and then half shut as the sun peeps between two clouds. When she comes, heaven Is all about her; when she leaves, there Is chaos ; and a scent of hawthorn blossoms. She came to me in the Rue Conti, number j twenty-nine.” “It is the house,’* said the duke, turn- j ing to the king, "that we have been j watching. Thanks to the poet's tongue we have a picture of the Infamous Countess Quebeuaux.” “Sire and my lord duke,” said David, ; earnestly, "I hope my poor words hare done no injustice. I have looked into that lady's eyes. I will stake my life that she Is an angel letter or no letter." The duke looked at him steadily. "I will put you to the proof,” he said, slowly. “Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend mass In his carriage at midnight. Do you accept the test?” David smiled. ”1 have looked into her eyes,” he said. “I had mv proof there. Take yours how you will.’' Half an hour before twelve the Duke d’Aumale. with his own hands, set a red lamp in a southwest window of the palace. At ten minutes to the hour David, leaning on his arm, dressed as the king, from top to toe. with his head bowed in his cloak, walked slowly from the royal apartments to the waiting carriage. The duke (insisted him inside and closed the door. The carriage whirled away along its route to the cathedral. On the qui vive In a house at the cor ner of the Rue Esplanade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to pounce upon the conspirators when they should appear. Tut it seemed that, for some reason, tlie plotters bad slightly altered their plans. When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it buret Cnptaiu Desrolles. with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage. The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature attack, descended nnd fought valiantly. The noise of conflict at tracted the force of Captain Tetreau. nrd they came pelting down the street to the rescue. But. tn the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the King * carriage, thrust hi* weapon against the body of the dark figure Inside, rnd fired. Now. with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away Fpon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, *ialn by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur,’the Marquis de Beaupertuys. THE MAIN ROAD. Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned Into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles IJaTld stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest upon it* side. Whither those roads led he knew not. Either way there seemed to lie a great world fail of chance and peril And then, sitting there, his eye fell upon a bright star, one that he and Yvonne had named for theirs. That set him thinking of Yvonne, and he wondered if he had not been too hasty. Why should he leave her and Ms home because a few bot words had coine between them? Was love so brittle a thing that Jealousy, the very proof of it. could break it? Morning* always brought a euro for the little heartaches of evening. There was yet time for him to return home without any one tn tlie sweetly sleeping village of Yernoy being the wiser. Ills heart was Yvonne's; there where he had lived always he could write his poems and find hts happiness. Dave rose, and shook off his unrest nnd the wild mood that had tempted him. He set his face steadfastly back along the road be had come. By the time he had retraveled the road to Yernoy, his desire to rove was gone. He passed the *Ueepfold. and the sheep scurried, witn a drumming flutter, at his late footsteps, warming his heart by the homely sound. He crept without noise into his little room and lay there, thankful that his feet had escaped the distress of new

roads that night. How- well he knew woman’s heart! The next evening Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young congregated in order that the cure might have business. The corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit her set mouth seemed unrelenting. He saw the look; braved the mouth, drew from It a recantation and, later, a kiss as they walked homeward together. Three months afterward they were married. David’s father was shrewd and prosperous. He gave them a wedding that was heard of three league? away. Both the young people were favorites in the village. There was a procession In the streets, a dance on the green; they had the marionettes and a tumbler out from Dreux to delight the guests. Then a year, and David father died The sheep and the cottage descended to h!m. lie already had the seemliest wife in the village. Yvonne's milk pails and her brass kettles were briught—oof! they blinded you In the sun when you passed that way. But you must keep your eyes upon her yard, for her flower teds were so neat and gay they restored to you your sight. And you might hear her sing. aye. as far as the double chestnut tree above Pere Gntneau's blacksmith forge. But a day came when David drew out paper from a long-shut drawer, and began to bite the end of a pencil Spring had come again and touched his heart. Poet he must have been, for now Y'vonne was well-nigh forgotten. This fine new loveliness of earth held him with Its witchery and grace. The perfume from her woods and meadows stirred him strangely. Dsilv had he gone forth with his flock, and brought it skfe at night. But now he stretched himself under the hedge and pieced words together on bits of paper. The sheep strayed, and the wolves, perceiving that difficult poems make easy mutton, ventured from the woods and stole his lambs.

David's stock of poems grew larger and his flock smaller. Yvonne's nose and temper waxed sjiarp and her talk blunt Her pans and kettles grew dull, but her eyes had caught their flash. She pointed out to the poet that his neglect was reducing the flock and bringing woe upon the household. David hired himself a boy to guard the sheep, locked himself In the little room In the top of the cottage, and wrote more poems. The boy, being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet In the way of writing, spent bis time in slumber. The wolves lost no time in discovering that poetry and sleep are practically the same; so the flock steadily grew smaller. Yvonne’s 111 temper increased at an equal rate. Sometimes she would stand in the yard and rail at David through his high window Then you could hear her as far as the double chestnut tree above Pere Gru neau’s blacksmith forge. M. I’apineau, the kind, wise, meddling old notary, saw- this, as he gaw every thing at which his nose pointed. He went to David, fortified himself with a great pinch of snuff, and said : "Friend Mignot. I affixed the seal upon the marriage certificate of your father It would distress me to be obliged to i attest a paper signifying the bankruptcy of big son. But that is what you are coining to. I speak as an old friend Now, listen to what I have to say. You have your heart set, 1 perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have a friend, one Monsieur Bril—Georges Bril. He lives In a little eloared space In a houseful of books. He is a learned man; he visits Paris each year: he himse'.f has written books. He will tell you when the cataI combs were made, bow they found out I the names of the stars, and why the | plover has a long bill. The meaning and ! the form of poetry is to him as iutellil gent as the baa of a sheep is to you. I will give you a letter to him. and you shall take him your poems and let him read them. Then you will know if you ! shall write more, or give your attention to your wife and business.” ! "Write the letter.” said David, "I am sorry you did not speak of this sooner." At sunrise the next morning he wa* i on the road to Drenx with the precious ro'l of poems under arm. At noon he wiped the dust from his feot at the door |of Monsieur Bril. That learned man broke the seal of M. Paplneau’s letter, and sucked up Its contents through his | gleaming spectacles as the suu draws water. He took David inside to his study, and sat him down upon a little island seat by a sea of books. Monsieur Bril had a conscience. Hs flinched not even at a mass of manuscript the thickness of a finger length and rolled to an incorrigible curve. He broke the back of the roll against his knee and began to read. He slighted nothing; he bored into lump as a worm Into a nut, seeking for a kernel. Meanwhile, David sat, marooned, trembling in the spray of so much literature. It roared in his ears. He held no chart ‘or compass for voyaging in that sea. Half the world, he thought, must be writing books. Monselur Bril bored to the last page of the poems Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. "My old friend, Papineau. is well?" he asked. "In the best of health,” said David. "How many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?” "Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday. The flock has had ill fortune. To that number it has decreased from 850." "1 ou have a wife and a home, and lived in comfort. The sheep brought you plenty. You went into the fields with them and lived tn the keen air and ate the sweet bread of contentment. You had but to be vigilant and recline there upon nature’s breast, listening to the whistle of the blackbirds in the grove Am I right thus far?" | “It was so," said David. I have rend all your verses," continued Monsieur Bril, his eye* wandering about bis sea of books a* If he conned the hoizon for a sail. "Look yonder, through that window. Monsieur Mignot; tell me what you see in Fiat tree.” "I *ee a crow.” said David, looking. “There Is a bird,” said Monsieur Bril, ‘that shall assist me where I am dig posed t ■ shirk a duty. You know that bird. Monsieur Mignot; he is the philosopher of the air De is happy though s ibmission to his lot. None so merry or full crawed as he with his whimsical eye f:d rollicking step The fields yield him west he d>*ircs. Re never grieves tha’ h!s Plumage is not gay, like the oriole's. And you have heard Monsteur Mignot, the notes Hiat nature ha* given him? Is the nightingale any happier, do you think?” '>Mtd rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his tree. “I thank yon. Monsieur Bril.” he said, slowly "There wss not. then, one nightingale note among all those croaks?" "I could not have missed it,” said Monsieur Bril, with a sigh. "I read every word Live your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more.” ,“I thank you.” said David, again. “And now I will be going back to my sheep.” "If you would dine with me." said ths man of books, “and overlook the 6mart of it. I will give you reasons at length ” "No." said the poet. "I must be back In the fields cawing at my sheep.” Back along the road to Yernoy h* trudged with his poems under his arm. When he reached his village he turned into the shop of one Zeigler. a Jew out of Armenia, who gold anything that cams to his hand. "Friend." said David, "wolves from the forest harass my sheep on the hills. I must purchase firearms to protect them. What have you?” “A bad day. this, for me. friend Mignot.” said Zeigler. spreading his hands, “for I perceive that I must sell you a weapon that will not fetch a tenth of its value. Only last week I bought from a peddler a wagon full of goods that he procured at a sale by a commisalonalre iof the crown. The sale was of the chateau and belongings of a great lord—l know not his title—who has been banished for conspiracy against the king. There are some cholee firearms In the lot. This pistol—oh. a weapon fit for a prince!—lt shall be only fortv francs to you. friend Mignot—lf I lost ten by the sale. But perhaps an arquebnse—” “This will do,” said David, throwing the money on the counter. "Is it charged ?” “I will charge it," said Zeigler. "And for ten francs more, add a store of powder and ballr" Dsvid laid his pistol under his coat and walked to his cottage., Yvonne was not there. Os late she had taken to goddling much among the neighbors. But a fire was glowing in the kitchen stove. David opened the door of it and thrust his poems in upon the coals. As they blazed up they made a singing, harsh sound in the flue. "The song of the crow!” said the poet. He went up to his attic room and closed the door. So quiet was the village that a score of people heard the roar of the great pistol. They flocked thither, and up the stairs where the smoke, issuing. drew their notice. The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed. awkwardly arranging it to conceal the torn plumage of the poor black crow. The women chattered In a luxury of zealous pity. Some of them ran to tell Yvonne. M. I’apineau. whose nose had brought him there among tlie first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over Its sllvei mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurshlp and grief. “The arms," he explained, aside, to the cure, "and crest of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertnys."

UfIBTEBED F. 8. PATENT OFFICE