Semi-weekly Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 13 March 1896 — Page 6

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"She's talented to the ends of her nails," asserted Jancey, "if you will but there is one note seh does not strike, with all her temperament, or art, or heart, or whatever you chooae to call it. The note of tragedy." "Mon Dieu!" retorted Breval, rolling his Bonge6ted eyes up toward the inoffensive oeiling, as though calling it to witness his partner's stupidity "Mon Dieu! and. do pou expect, then, a tragedienne nan actre33 fie genre, an actress who is the idol of the Boulevards, who has danced, and pirouetted, and sung for them and with them for two years with increasing and almost unheard of

jmd held it, which is more (this eotto voce) and ha3 been the rain and tne sunshine Of Paris, its mirth barometer, for twentyfour solid months. Mais vous etes fou. Who wants a tragedy in Paris? Not pleasureseekers, certainly. Go to the morgue for it jrou'll find it there. Who wants melodrama but croakers and idiots? Tragedy in a comedienne. You are mad."

Parisiens, we are all artists au fond. We itiear probing when it comes to criticism. IYou can't probe anything Serpolette does. !6he is radiant and healthy, pretty and \Boulless, light and bright but she lacks finish because there is no undercurrent -•which brings the tears to your eyes when vhe laughs, the way Chartrain did in her day. Why, I've seen Chartrain"—and here 'old Jancey rose to his feet as though to |give vent better to his words—"I've seen /Chartrain stir a butcher boy gazing at hen 'through the chinks of one of the board walls of the Cafe Chantants. I have seen a butcher boy lift his dingy apron with his grimy hand and wipe his eyes when

Chartrain sang that song about the gamin de Paris how his 'tongue is brightest when despair lies closest to his heart.' She •struck the key-note, I tell you, always, because of her undercurrent of sympathy.

Parisians love to laugh, but we only [recognize real genius as genius when it [Splays upon all our other emotions, like fingers along piano keys. We want to be roused to merriment. But merriment alone jia colorless. Give us at the same time /the consciousness of life, the belief that [the woman who acts, or sings, or attitudinizes, is a sympathetic soul attuned to life's I uncertainties. Then we fall down and wor-

1

ship her. Then we lift her to the apex of |our imagination. Then we acclaim her far and wide as ours, as not'alone possessed of one talent, but of a whole set of talents as limitless, as fully equipped, aa

THE IMPOSITION.

charged with coloring matter as the sun

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and the air and the sky. Serpolette hao

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not lived. She has skimmed, if you will. She has net felt. I'd be glad to go to sleep for ten years and wake to find her as obscure as last year's danseuse, if only to, prove to you that if she continues as she has her light .will be quenched in another six months at the rate, in the state she going. It's too bad. A bright soul, a butterfly existence. Nothing more. I had hoped much for her. I am disappointed." "And I attest her lightness is assumed •with malice aforethought," insisted Breval. "I contend she studies her world, and that she has the tact to see that life is sufficiently a tragedy without her assistance. I ajn a'Jre she knows her trade, and she has in clean cut fashion resolved to make the •public laugh, frolic, anything you will. But behind it all, Serpolette understands life. :Que voulez vous? She is an enfant de

Paris. A gamin. A waif from the streets. jWhy, twenty years ago, when her mother" trod the boards of the Palais Royal, Serpolette, then a baby, used to amuse her 'mother's comrades at the wings with her little ways, and her wise, bright eyes, and her crow of unmitigated mirth. I have seen Grosbois double up his fat sides over her comic gestures. He predicted a great career for her always. She s6ts the tune to .every joke afloat. She is hummed from the :Boulevard Montmartre to the Chatelet. There are Serpolette hats, and Serpolette fichus, and a horse named after Serpolette and one of the oldest Imperialistic families have sent their dearest offspring to South ^Africa to avoid her wiles. She's hung with jewels, and she's young, and pretty and convincing. All the managers are after her. 'All the jeunosse doree is at her feet. There Is a song dedicated to her. There is a Serpolette march, That is success. Ultimate failure, if you must. Why endeavor to teach her to know all things, and wisely? 6he knows life well. She's tasted it. She .'uses the world as her tool. It will rouler her in the end, but will# that class life is short. Why torment out of her the tragic I note?"

Old Jancey frowned. "I like the child," he confessed "thero is something vastly bette? than wantonness So^" and nastiness in her. Sii® is uncommon. I •would have her make her Art so great a thing that she would command groin the great, as well as the small, recognition. As things are she has not sounded h$r possible depths. I'd have her storm the oitadei of legitimate criticism, not take by assault the roadway, solely, to men's passion#. Her mother had good stuff in her. Sofpolette has twice [her mother's talent «|d four times her beauty and five times ability." "I'll recite you a thing of my own," cried

Serpolette. She had sprung into the rooms noiselessly. There was a whiff of perfume a !a Serpolette. There was a whirr of silken skirts. 'She stood there as though,risen from the (floor, like a stags fairy, .holding in her hand a marvelously tinted umbrella, a la Ser­polette. She had a laughing face, as pert and saucy and up-to-date as her costume.

Her hair, a bright golden brown, which all the coiffeurs in Paris were striving to emulate in "hair dyi, a la Serpolette/' curled and waved rebellious]}- from tier dazzlingly white forehead to the nape of her soft baby neck. Her eyes, as deep blue as. gentians •which gfow

in a

shady place, looked out

daringly irom under the shadow of a gigantic hat, a hat with a bow fashioned after the latest style.

Her nose was tip-tilted, with nostrils which palpitated stirringly. Her lips, devoid of paint, were fresh as dew-wet rosebuds. She looked like a live top to a 6l!ver matchbox like the covers of a fashionable cigarette case a la mode, so Parisienne was she, so graceful, so airy, so inconsequent. jHer eyes were wide between. Her forehead I was broad and low. The mouth disclosed a 'row of teeth which were dazzling in their •whiteness, and very sweet in their expression. Her chin was square. Tes, square.

It matched the unexpected width in her forehead. And Just from the fact of its unexpected firmness it made her satisfactory

and puzzling to gaze upon, if the gazer thought. If ho did not think, he found her none the less captivating. Afterward he discovered she was dangerous as well.

She stood lightly, her eyes sparkling, her usually radiant face a little serious. The room was the empty office of a theatrical manager. That is, empty oi everything but a table, a chair, the two managers. Breval and jancey, and Serpolette.

It was large and long and bare, the floor uncarpeted. At the end of it was a grand piano in a dilapidated case. On the walls Paris fin de siecle, from a dramatic and lyric

fuccess? Who has caught the public fancy, standpoint. Pesters pink and blue and yel low, pesters big lettered and small lettered, posters elaborate and posters simple adorned the dingy walls. The biggest one announcing the past, present and future debuts of Mile.

Serpolette, "the idol of the public," the "enfant gate of the hour.". Jancey had turned as she came forward, his shrewd old face reddening with astonishment. Breval puckered his lips to-

"I don't want tragedy," continued Jancey, getlicr and whistled. as though he had not been interrupted. "a thing of my own," explained Serpol"What I require, what I desire from Mile. tte, earnestly, a slight frown ruffling the Serpolette is an undercurrent to her mirth. smoothness of the soft flesh between her It's too frothy. It won't last. Nous autres

eyes: "a little skit I thought of one night when I slept.' I woke and thought it out. I claim for it a niche, though. Boards worth while to play it on. I want the footlights of the Palais Royal to light it up. None of your open air theaters for this production. The legitimate. May I do it?"

Her eyes were earnest and insistant. She was leaning forward on the handle of her green umbrella, her supple waist line curved in as she bent forward, her rounded hips suggestively outlining themselves under her soft pink skirts. She appeared to have totally forgotten everything but the subject in hand. Her subject. Jancey looked at her steadily, the light springing to his eyes. Breval yawned. "What is your project?" demanded Jancey. "First," began Serpolette, "I am not satisfied oh"—as Breval gave vent to a scoffing laugh—"you think we artists are never satisfied. It is true. But this time it is not my pay I shall find fault with, nor my role, or the music of my last song, nor the words. It is with myself. There has been something stirring in me lately I cannot get away from. A feeling that I must give vent to it or things will go badly with me. It ia "Well," urged Jancey, eagerly. "It is"—and she threw back her head as though she could breathe longer and fuller with her chin raised—"it is this

She spoke very rapidly and low. "I wish to hold the public in the palm of my hand. I wish to run up and down the scale of its emotions. I net only desire to force it to laugh and applaud to cheer me, and cover me with flowers. I want to strike a new variation. 'Twould be so intoxicating to make the public my sounding board, and bring forth from it at my sweet will groans or sighs, as well as rampant enthusiasm and applause. I'd like to bid the tears course down their cheeks as well as to see those same cheeks wrinkle up with laughter. I'd redden their eyes as well as make them laugh. It's silly to laugh always. I want more power. Give me the space to try for it."

Breval smiled cynically. "A whim," he said and then he turned, indifferently, and commenced to toss 'over some papers on his desk.

Jancey sat silently regarding Serpolette. Then he stretched forth his hand. "Come here, my child," he said, approvingly "then and there, for the first time, spoke the artist."

Serpolette, with a little graceful movement, lifted her gloved hand to her lips, kissed it, and with that hand laid the kisses on Jancey's outstretched palm.

Then she sprang back, tossed her hat from her. and her umbrella, and her gold eyeglass, and her purse of silver links. She breathed heavily and slow.ly

"You know how I can laugh,".she began ]je

"bid some one write me a play which contains both laushter and tears. I can weep well." "You," fcom Breval, sceptically, "you! You were not made to weep."

A look of pain, as oddly at variance with her saucy face as a cloud across the brightness of a day in June, blotted out for an instant the bloom of Serpolette's radiant countenance. It vanished as quickly as it came, but Jancey had seen it. "Ah, let'me try it." she urged. "Surely you v.-ill let me play my share of tragedy as well as comedy. Surely you will not deny me the knowledge of tears?"

It seemed an anomaly. A woman like Serpolette pleading for the right to weep. Breval rubbed his eyes. "Enough," he said, "have done. I know your type. At weeping you would fail You have not suffered." "I can play at tears." "You cannot." "I will." "You won't. I engage you to laugh. It is like your sex, as soon as the contract is signed to wish to play heavier roles. Try the legitimate, if you will, but, pour l'amour de Dieu, leave out the mournful and lugubrious. The public would only laugh at you and to emphasize his remark Breval brought down his fist with a conclusive bang on the table before him.

Serpolette stamped her foot, "You refuse?" "Not." "Soit." She settled her hat firmly on her graceful head, brought her white teeth together with a click, picked up her purse and umbrella and marched like a pgtticoated drummajor to the door.

As sh# laid her hand «pon the handle, Jancey (jried suddenly, "E have an idea. Hear n&," as Breval comwonced a violent protest "let Serpolette l&ugh give her soubretfc* parts. Have another actress to fill the -Utlc roles. Make the play seriocomic. 'Twill be 'a new ^venture at the Palais ®ayal. Serpolette is sure to draw. She ha« filled our pockets.. Give her her head, bi^ in reason." "I. have it," cried Serpolette, and down went her umbrella again. "I know a girl, a friend ot mine from Nimes. She is the personification of grief. All her lines go down as all mine go up. Eyelids droop, mouth droops at the corners, unmitigated grief.

She sdMd, mournfully, trying to look as grief-stricken as she could but her hat belied her, and her willful hair, and her eyes, and he? dimples.

Brevafl smiled reluctantly. "Is she a novice?" "She 1}&s played two years at Lyons and one at Mjffsctlles." "Her same?" "Georggtte."

"Hiihe,"

remarked Big&il, humofcfosly,

his eyes twinkling. "Now who would imagine that to be the name oj? an obscure tragedienne?"

Serpolette flashed an aoQihilating glance in hi« direction. Then she announced, "I'll have ker here within the hour." "Bring her. We will wait."

Serpolette was gone. A carriage door slammed outside. The partnars went to breakfast. An hour lator to the minute a gentle tap came upon the office door.

It fell open at Jancey's cry of "Entrez," and a woman, clothed in the deepest mourning, entered.

She was young and beautiful, with ebon hair turned off her forehead in a thick roll. Her countenance was of distinctively tragic cast. The poliid flesh was untinted except for the shadows, which were deep as bruises beneath the great dark eyes. The lips were pale and colorless the chin was squifrfe the ej'es wide between.

She stood indifferently, listlessly, as the door fell to behind her. Her black-gloved hands hung limply at her sides. Her face, with its drooping lips and eyelids, was 60 devoid of laughter or tl£C knowledge of happiness that it cast an »Aied gloom even across that gloomy room, its anguish was settled and decided. "You ar* "Georgette. FraCn Serpolette."

Til* voice was somber like the .eyes. Gretft tragic eyes w*3iificsnt sashire

5f©!

blue lifted with a very serious intensity te Breval's intereeted voice. "She told you what role she thought you'd fill?" "I havfe never filled but one. To weep. Life has taught me nothing but sorrow and renunciation from the cradle to the present."

The heavy lids fell again hopelessly, listlessly. The classic outline of the sorrowful figure was superb.

And as she stood there before Breval and Jancey, as though the fact"of her having given vent in words to her hitherto chokedup ar.gOish had stirred some us forgotten spring in her breast, the crystal drop3 began to creep one by one from beneath her long thick eyelashes, and slowly, like loose diamonds on white velvet, course down the soft pallor of her white cheeks on to the dull surface of her poor black gown.

Her beauty was so perfect, so unusual the simplicity of her unhidden, unbidden sorrow was so infinitely pathetic in its majesty that she seemed to those past artists as to emotions, MM. Breval and Jancey, the embodiment of sorrow. If she had posed, as she stood thus, for a statue of Woe, Paris would have acclaimed her far and wide as the most perfect monument of Sorrow of the century.

Breval cleared his throat end demanded huskily, "Your price?" "Two hundred francs a 6oiree. I have played for less, but this is Paris. I desire the opportunity to make myself known and heard."

Jancey brought his hand down on his knee With a resounding slap. We'll have her and Serpolette together," he shouted triumphantly. "Joy and Sorrow, Laughter and Tears, Comedy and Tragedy—'twill make a living picture all the world will come to see."

They handed her the contract to sign, calling in a witness for that purpose. She asked for ten days' leeway, with a request to take the contract with her and look it over. They granted her request reluctantly. The door closed behind her.

Two minutes afterward Breval and Jancey heard a laugh which was as well known to them as their ofilce walls, as their debts, as their past failures. A laugh so birdlike, so joyous, so frolicsome, so fraught with delicious mirth and gayety, so ringing with heartiness and happiness and fun, and all the good things of lifeAthat they smiled out loud in sympathy, and made a rush simultaneously for the door, lifting their ears to the sound for more—-the way human nature always does when out of life's tragedy or com-edy ripples the music of unadulterated jollity.

This laugh was famous. It held an abandon so complete, a rapture so all-powerful, its rhythm was so sweet, it meant so much that was good and heartfelt, it contained possibilities of

such/absorbing

interest. It

was chock full and brimming over with such absolute gush and go.

Peal

after peal tum­

bled over each other so merrily that Breval and Jancey both chuckled. "It's Serpolette," gasped Breval. "Serpolette," laughed Serpolette herself, as she pushed the door open from the outside and sprang in between them.

Over her arm was a black dress. In one hand she held the dark wig, in the other the contract. The painted shadows under her eyes were strangely at variance with her dimples.

The ripoling sunny waves of her nair curled tighter than ever from the heat of the wig just removed. Her face was gieaining with a mirth so intense, with a triumph so hardly and earnestly won, with the knowledge of a. strange new power felt ^n'i practiced for the first time in. public, that

was

absolutely dazzling to look upon. The tears were still wet on her cheekls. "Mes compliments, Mademoiselle," said Breval, shamefacedly "you have won the day." ,, -u

But Jancey stood, soberly regarding her, with a great awe in his face. "If woman can play at tears as well as laughter like that," he was thinking, "what is the use of reality?"

He laid his hand heavily on Serpolette shoulder. "You have suffered?" he demanded. "Qui sait?" retorted Serpolette, mutin-ously.—Pick-Me-Up.

THE BLESSING OF REST,

It Will Restore Youth Quicker Than Food or Medicine. Busy women continually resolve to "take things easier," "to rest on their oars for a season." and drift on the river of indolence, if for only one hour a day. We embark on the daily voyage fully Intending to do this, but before the nightfall realize that we have been shipwrecked on the Scylla of duties, real or imaginary, or engulfed in tho Charybdls of social hurry.

Why not really make up our minds that one hour daily should be devoted to recreation or resting in some manner? Either we will walk an hour, lie down an hour, read an hour, sew, knit, do fancy work, visit or chat with a congenial friend for an hour. In short, we will overturn our common methods, for one brief space daily. The result of a month's fair trial of this plan will encourage to a further effort in the same direction, end in faithful observance of some such system we shall renew our "youth like the eagles," while many of the worn and toilsome places will take on new beauties, "and blossom as the rose."

MARASCHINO PUNCH.

They may ft prevented from upsetting and spilling contents by being put in paper cases upon small decorated plates.

Three Delightful Facts. A white brocade with chine flowers makes up well with boaice of white chiffon, red ribbon showing at the bust opening and upon the shoulders.

A dark blue frock looks pretty with a blue and white striped collar, cuffs and waistband and a full white chiffon front.

A pretty wh:ce satin gown, with very long shoulder 8eam«j supporting lace elbow sleeves over the whiU satin is well decked with festoons of pear4g looped upon sleeves and corsage.

.Arizona's Golden Street. Prescott, the capital of Arizona, boasts that It is the nearest, approach to the New Jerusalem as described In the Bible, as its streets are being paved with gold. The granite used for pavements contains $4 in gold and 20 cents in silver to rt/ery ton, so that in time, when less expensive methods of reducing ores are Osed, it may jiay the city to tear up and crush its street pavements.

Those Picturesque Collars. The extremely wide collars of the moment are often cu) deep into separate tabs of em-broidery-dec! ifct light cloth falling over jhe darker materiu of the the gown.

K5

TERRE HAUTE EXPRESS.

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One could not help noticing this man, because he had such a happy looking expression. His whole face laughed, from his bright, black eyes, his lips, his trumpetshaped cose, even to his very hair, which w£us cropped short, his teeth and hip growing iriustache, which he was beginning to train at the corners of his mouth. He was very quick and obliging, and he was not only a favorite with the travelers who put up at the hotel, but every one in the neighborhood appeared to know him and like him.

When he was seated on his driver's box on the way to or from the station, he had to nod, smile, touch his hat or wink to every one we met. The fact was, he liked every one, and every one liked him. This popularity gave rise to certain prerogatives and privileges. Pirotou liked talking, and he was decidedly more familiar than one expects a waiter to be but it all came so naturally to him that somehow every one took it in good part.

When the table d'hote dinner was over, the things all cleared away, and the room nearly empty, Pirotou would glance round and if any one that he had taken a fancy to happened tc be still there, why he would make his way across the room and start a conversation at once. It never lasted long, though, for either the hotel proprietor or one of the customers always interrupted him—he was continually in demand for some service or another. In spite of this, the very first day I dined there he found an opportunity of getting a little private conversation with me. "I've got a brother who is an officer in the army," ho informed me and without waiting for me to express my surprise, he continued: "Queer, isn't it?—me a waiter and him an officer. It's true, though, my brother is an officer in the army "Pirotou, take No. 16's box upstairs. Pirotou, coftee for No. 3. Pirotou, put the horse in at once

He would then disappear like a flash of lightning and cheerfully perform all the duties required ot him.

He talked about his brother in this way to every one because he was so proud .of him, and. although he knew very little ot this said brother, yet he adored him all th« same. He spoke of him always in the same way without any vanity, but simply that he could not help mentioning him, just as a vine dresser must speak about the weather and the sun. It was the subject always uppermost in his thoughts, and he would frequently take up his thread again hours after and go on just as though he had never left it. "I expect you wonder how it is, how it came about?" he said to me, in continuation, during his next interval. "How was it?" I asked, for I could not imagine what he was driving at "Why—my brother being an officer!" "Ah, yes how did it*come about?" "Well, it was like this. It was a lady that lived near our village, an old lady, very well off, and she had lost her eon. Our parents were dead, and she took a fancy to my brother.' You see, he was a fine looking lad, and just about the age of her boy. •Weil, sh© took to him, and she sent him to college, at Paris, just near to her home. Then he went to the military school. Saint Cyr. She died last year, and I can tell you it put me about a good deal when I got the news, for the s&ke of my brother "Pirotou, answer the bell—No. 31!"

I had the next installment of the story the following day. "Well, the old lady "What old lady?" I asked, absently.

The poor fellow was quite hurt to think that I did not remember. "Why, my brother's old lady, sir! In her will she left him quite a good income. That put me at my ease at once, for you see I had felt anxious for him, but with this money, why, of course, he could keep up his position." "But did she not leave you anything, Pirotou?" "Me!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes wide in his astonishment at my question. "Why, no, 6ir—it was my brother, you see, that was the same age as her son!" "Does your brother come to see you? I asked. "Yes, he came once about six years ago, when he was on leave. I'd got four days' holiday, and we arranged to go to the vil-

It Is Affiliated to Nectar and Is Appropriate for Luncheons. For lunches which have lighter courses iage where we used to live. I was vexed to than dinners liquid appetizers are appro-i have such a short time with him, but as it priate, and the various "arrangements" hapoened I did not stay the four days even, of liqueurs with orange or grape fruits for I got back here on the third

are considered delicious. One of these is known as maraschino punch, and is prc»red in the following manner: Select as many large oranges as the number of guests requires, and prepare them by giving each one a transverse cut, about half an inch from the top. The interior and this sliced part also are then nicely scooped out and the pulp is pressed into a sieve until the juice, is all extracted. This is sweetened to taste and weakened with a little water, until a strong orangeade is made. Into this is finally poured a sufficient quantity of maraschino to flavo. the mixture agreeably, and the empty oranges are filled with it. Two straws are then prettily tied to the tops by narrow ribbons drawn through two punctures.- These ribbons must match the other decorati^as of the table, and harmonize as well with the color of the oranges themselves. "fl%en the cap is fitted again they are ready for serving.

You 6ce, my brother found he could only s'ay two days with me, for he'd got invitations to two or three country houses. Thent too, he didn't tell me this, but I guessed it—he found it pretty dull in the little village. Of course, it was very natural he

should—just

think, sir, an officer!"

"Does he help you?" I asked. Pirotou burst out laughing at this. "Him' help me! Why. he couldn't, sir. It isn'«. the same kind of work we're used to." "Oh' I did not mean in that sense—I mean does he ever send you—any money?" "Oh' I would not have it, sir, upon any account. I'm paid well, you see, and I get a fair amount in tips, and then no expenses, like he has. Why, in my way, I as rich as he is." "Has he never been to see you again7

Pirotou looked slightly embarrassed this time, as he answered: "He'll be coming, sir, soon, because of my wedding. I'm going to get married, you see." "Ah you're going to get married? "Well sir yes you see, it's getting time. I'm nearly 'twenty-four—and then she te from these parts, and we've known each other three years. We haven't been able to see much of each other, that's true, for you see she's lady's maid for a lady who lives at Paris and has a country house near here. They come for three months each summer, and I can only see her on Sundays after church so, you see, sir, I'm anxious to get married." "You'll be changing your trade then, I suppose?" "No, sir, not yet awhile. You see, we haven't got enough money to set up in a little business. In five or six years. If we save up we shall be able to do it. For the present, though, as soon as we are married the lady's going to take me in her house with Louisette—Louisette, that's her name, sir the girl I'm going to mary. My brother'll be best man," he went on, in great glee, "and we shall have a very fine wedding for, you see, sir, I shouldn't like to have anything shabby when he's coming to it—just think, sir, on officer—you know. "Pirotou! Pirotoo! No. 5$ wants his key.

1

After leaving Avignon, it was some months before I happened to go there again. On arriving at the hotel, I was struck by the change in Pirotou. He looked quite morose, and it was only with an effort that he managed to smile as he recognized me. I could see very plainly that he had something to tell me. but there were so many people wanting him, and then the landlord kept calling him for something every minute: "Hurry up, Pirotou hurry, up, ray good fellow!"

He did hurry up, but it was not with the same jovial alacrity as formerly. He used to carry the trunks about as though they were as light as. air but now they appeared to be as heavy as 'lead. I dined

Pirotou was the waiter "at the little hotel when every one had finished, and I was at Avignon, where I had put up. I think I

rea"J

., .. pened and how Pirotou wedding had gone ho was the only man servant they kept, for

he appeared to do everything. I have seen mg but he did not come and lean on the him sweeping rooms, polishing the oak table in his old familiar way. He just stood

floors, dusting, driving the notel omnibus, loading and unloading the luggage, carrying trunks up and down stairs with aa little apparent effort as though they were made of cork and then, added to- all this, twice a day, with his hair well brushed and pomaded and a serviette over his arm. Pirotou served at table.

Wite curious to know what had hap-

As GOOn as he waa free he

8n'

approached

there looking wretched, and it occurred to me at once what had happened. "Why, I don't believe your brother, the officer, came after all, Pirotou, to the wedding?" I said. "Yes, sir yes, he came—but—you see, sir, I must tell you how it all was. First of all, I thought he would be sure to put up here—at my hotel, and so I expected to see a good deal of him—all the time I was free. It was a bit rough, sir, whta I found he had put up at the St. Yves Hotel, right at the other side of the town. Well, then, he did not come himself to see me. but he sent a messenger to tell me to meet him at a cafe, and he told me in his letter not to forget to take off my apron and to put on a

MY BROTHER THE OFFICER.

hat. It was just as well he thought to remind me ,of that, you see, for I should never have remembered myself. I was in such a hurry to see him that I should just have nipped off there and then without thinking about what I looked like. Well, sir, when I saw him looking so handsome and so finely dr©3sed, I felt that proud of him and that, excited—but he just held out lfls hand to me and asked me whether I'd have sherry and absinthe. I said sherry, and thffn I lost my head. I suppose, for when the glasses came I just picked up his and drank up his absinthe. You'll think me pretty foolish, sir, for a hotel waiter and all, but I didn't know what I was doing. My brother spoke so kindly, and just explained a bit about things. Of course. I quits understand that he could not come t« see me, but, as he said, I could go there and meet him. He did not wanr every one to know he was here. for. you see, sir, I'd been so foolish and talked a good deal too much about him, and, as he said, he did not care about showing himself off like some curiosity. Of course it was quite right, you see. Just think an officer! Well, I asked him just to come and see my employer here, for that seemed only natural to me at first. He explained, though, that he could not, as that put him in a false ^position and when I looked at it in that light I saw that he wae quite right. But you see, sir, it has made things a bit awkward for me, because my master, and then everybody just round that I know—well, they all think that it was my fault he never came they think I waa ashamed of them, and that I did not like my brother to come and shake h&nds with them "But however did you manage at the wedding, Pirotou?" "Wait a bit, sir, I'm coming to that. There isn't much to tell you about that, sir. Well—let me see, how far had I got?—oh, yes, it was where I went to the cafe. Well, my brother asked me all about my wedding, and I told him about Louisette and about her mistress, and everything. Well, he wanted to see her, of course, and so, as the next day was Sunday, I knew they would be at church, and he agreed to meet me there. Well, when Mme. Dalbert came in and Louisette after her, I just nudged him and told him who they were. 'Isn't she pretty?' I said, and he nodded, but he never took his eyes off Mme. Dalbert. When we were going out of the church he just got first and stood there watching her, and when I wa£ speaking to Louisette he went off, so that I could not introduce him then. "The next day I went to the cafe again to meet him, but I saw he had some friends with him. some officers he had met by chance, old friends of his at Saint-Cyr. When he saw me he left them and came to meet me. for he knew I should feel a bit awkward among all his friends. "Didn't you say tho lady was a Mme. Dalbert, where your Louisette is?" he asked, as soon as ever he had shaken hands. 'Yes,' I said 'Mme. Dalbert.' 'It is very awkward, very awkward indeed,' he went on. 'The idea cf your being engaged to her maid! Things turn out so confoundedly embarrassing. My friends are going there to this Mme. Dalbert's to a hunting party, and they want me to go. You would not mind that?' "I laughed at the idea of my minding it, but, of course, I gave him some messages for Louisette. Two days later I saw him again, but he was quite different. When I asked about Louisette, he said, 'Well, you see, when I was with my friends there, I could not very well talk to the maid. I did not mention you. either—you will understand, I'm sure "I certainly did not understand at all, but I did not say so, and he went on talking and twirling his mustache. 'She's a very pretty woman—Mme. Dalbert—a charming woman!' he said. "I did not answer, for, to tell the truth, I had scarcely noticed her even, for my eyes were taken up with Louisette always. 'Would it really be much of a sacrifice to break off this engagement?' he asked, after a pause. "That was just a little too much, and I reminded him how we had waited for three long years, and how we haa, both of Us, never bad a thought of such a thing as not getting married now. "He bit his mustache impatiently, and soon after I left him to go back to my work. For three days we were so busy at the hotel that I was not able -to get off. I oould not see him then for he was neither at the cafe nor yet at his hotel. It wjls a

week after when he sent for me, end this time I was shown up into his room—a large, handsome room on the first floor of the hotel. He seemed very excited, and kept walking up and down the room. Presently he stopped short right In front of me and said: 'Can I cbunt on you? Are you pretty brave.* 'Go on,' I said, 'what is it?' for I felt that something had happened, but I did not want him to be ashamed of me. "He looked away as he told me the news. *WelI, it is Just this: I fell over head and ears in love with Mme. Dalbert, and—well, the long and the short of it is, she cares for me, too. The only thing Is, I am so vexed for .you, old fellow,' bo said, laying his hand on my shoulder. 'For me—but why?1 'Good heavens—can't you see? Wpll, you cannot exactly marry her maid now! You could not come to us as a servant, could you? It would be too ridiculous— perfectly humiliating, in fact, for me!' "I felt myself go cold all over, and I suppose my face must have turned pale, for he said: 'Well, have patience, and we'll see how it can all be arranged—perhaps something can be done

Pirotou stopped suddenly and two great tears, which had come into his eyes, would have rolled down his cheeks, but, making a desperate effort, he blinked two or three times and so made them disappear. "But how about the wedding, then?" I asked, after a brief pause. "Well, you see, sir, there's been no wedding," he said, looking down on tho floor. "Perhaps there never will be now, either. I've waited and tried to be patient, but my brother does not write, and Louisette hasn't written lately either. I suppose they have talked to her and showed her that it can't be, and I don't know, perhaps, they'll get her.to give me up yet altogether. I don't know how it is. Anyhow, they're back in Parte. It was a bit hard, you see, sir, for I'd been in love with her so long, and we'd waited so patiently and then, you see, sir, with him it was all just a fancy—just a pretty face that took him. But there, it's all the same, there was nothing left for me to do. I couldn't humiliate him, you see. He's older than I am, and I've got no one else in the world but him. And then, too, sir, just think—an officer! I couldn't have stood in his way. sir but it is a bit hard."

And this time, as blinking was of no use, poor Pirotou moved away and busied himself shutting the window.—From the French in the Strand Magazine.

A Celestial Retort Courteous. Lady ftenry Somerset, remarks a London exchange, looked In delightful health and the best of spirits at her son's wedding to Lady Katherine Beauclerk. A subject of some comment was the very small waists of the grown-up bridemaids, and somebody recalled the fact that Lady Henry once attempted to form a league for the suppression of footbinding in China. It failed lamentably. One Chinese maiden is said to have put the case to her ladyship in these words: "We squeezy foot, you squeezy waist samo object—both gette husband." "The more a woman's waist is shaped like an hour-glass, The more quickly will the sands of her life run out."

Odd Ifew Embroidery.

Cutwork piano scarfs, or valance of frieze, is handsomely ornamented by a bold arabesque border. One recently admired is of fine fawn color. The design consists of arabesque on a ground of bars, having a quarter-foil at every intersection. The bars are to be worked in plait (cross-bar) stitch. The plait stitch is executed with dark red filosello sHk and bordered with rows of gold thread, overcast with yellow silk. The quErter-foils are outlined with gold thread and filled up with loose stitches in two shades of red. The arabesque is outlined also with heavy gold cord. When this is finished the frieze is cut away between the plait-stitch bars and the valance or scarf lined with fawn silk.

Confusion in a Love Story. It is always irritating to a writer to find a printer's error in. an article, particularly when a ridiculous change in the sense is made thereby. I couldn't help being amused, however, says a contributor to "London Lady," at a series of unfortunate blunders that I noticed in a love story I somehow or other found myself reading in one of the penny weekly papers. Instead of falling into a reverie, the young lady fell into the "river "bull-pup" appears for "pull-up," "nasal" for "natal" and "trombone" for "trembling." The fair heroine was awfully "hungry" instead of "ang-y." Her heart was filled with "etceteras" and not, "ecstasies," and when she meant to say

,?thine"

Fancy the enormity of sending a typewritten love letter—a crime of which the nineteenth century lover is often guilty. One cannot picture even a new woman caring for such a letter—one cannot imagine even the most sentimental maiden reading and re-reading such a missive much less preserving it -among her treasures— Its proper place is the waste basket, to which, be sure, it is promptly consigned.

And fancy, too, the enormity of dictating a love letter—or, worse still, the stenographer's train of thought as she takes down the burning words—and later the ardor of the sighing swain as he glances over the blue lettered sheet before he affixes his eignature.

And, then, what must be the feelings of the recipient of this soulful communication? the sweetheart that realizes that a typewriter—perhaps even fairer than hersolf—has had the felicity of hearing the en4earing epithets at first hand! Truly the type written love letter is the very apotheosis of fln de siecle romance. Women have ever been the accomplished letter writers of the world—With, here and there, it may be, a Horace Walpole—so to them muBt we look for a revival of the dying art.

Though the old lengthy epistle will never again be popular, the short letter, like the short story, may be brought to perfection and can be made as distinctive a feature of this age as was the lengthy discourse in the less hurried dayB of the seventeenth century, when letter writing was regarded as an art, not as a burdensome necessity.

.All in Blue Gauze.

A blouse in sky, blue gauze a little low at the neck and trfwimed with a band or Jewels. The points tff'gtiipure Are placed on the front of the corsage with the points, downward. The balloon sleeve reaches to a point a little abovo the elbow. The possessor of this waist wore a chain of Jewels and a love of a b?nnet mada of nothing but holly foliage and berries.

As Gay as a Butterfly.

A bodice with aggressive basques is made of dull red velvet opening over a plaid silk vest. The sleeves and collar are also of plaid, and the basques are lined with it, too. There is a belt of velvet which fastens with fancy buttons and the immense revers that stand out over the sleeves are of black lynx.

THE DEAREST ONE OF ALL.

Upon the table, thickly strewn. In wild profusion Jay The laced and perfumed valentines

That came for her that day.

Her taper fingers tossed them back, She smiled with careless ease "The dear, good boys, an* said* Poor tilings!

How hard they tiled to please."

And then her eyes fell on a slip She had not seen before 'Twas but a plain and printed things

With writing—nothing more.

Upon its homely face there waa No sentimental line, And yet she caught it up, and criedj "This is a valentine.

The dear! How swe«t it was of hUft To think he should send this.' The very instant he appears

I'll give him such a kiss."

And then, alas for ail the rest! Into her bosom went— The valeatljae she prized the most—

A check papa had sent.

J'W?*

at fv

the typer made

her say "I am thin, I am wholly thin."

GLINTS AND GLEAMS.

FR&M

PARIS, Feb. 14.—The password to amaif toilets at this moment is complication. Simicity ia passing Jato a memory, and the dear only knows where we shall fetch up. This much Is certain, however. Fashion is a pendulum. It has swung a marvellous distance since the days of tho underrated Jersey fitting bodice and sheath skirt—almost* in fact, as far as it can go in the opposite direction, and a reaction is bound to set in sooner or later. For the present, though, elaboration is the cry of the ho-r and getting louder every minute

One of the most widely adopted designs for introducing a little change ia the matter of dress skirts appears ia

a

Doucet calling toilet of light cloth showing a damesse figure in dull red, made up shown in the sketch over dull red velvet The draped skirt, the use of the plain velvet corselet little wider than a skirt band and the throat band between the two rows of trimming assist in the general air of distinction of the toilet. Bands of very narrow sable with a jet heading border tha dress, and the wrap for such a gown if one can afford it should be one of the regal cape collars of sable with a ruffle of tha same, lined sumptuously with white satia and finished off with a fall of fine old laca under the chin.

A matinee bodice of pale blue velvet an4 black tulle, with cream applications, is a lovely concoction. A model that deserved the admiration which it excited when shown yesterday to a iittle coterie of friends gathered in a certain boudoir whither the bodice had just been sent home I will sketch for you. The body of the wakt was of the velvet laid in soft plaits from the shoulder to the girdle. The sleeves were of the tulle over pale blue silk the color of the velvet, with gauntlet cuffs turned back. These, the neck band with its side loops and the girdle, were of the velvet embroidered delicately with silver spanglea. A wide graduated middle plait and a narrow one on each side of the front were of the tulle, bearing exquisit© flower and arabesque patterns in lace. The velvet overlapped these plaits,* giving the effect of opening over an under waist of great delicacy and beauty.

A superb tea gown in tho wardrobe of the Duchesse de la Rochefoucauld 13 o! rose velvet, made after the most novel design I have seen anywhere. The gown at the back falls in a sweeping Watteau from below a cape collar, made double. This cape is of black Irish point, made in silk twist, laid over rose, and in front fails to meet by tho width of a Jeweled plastron, forming a point above a drooping blouse front of delicate black lisse. This falls below the girdle In an embroidered flounce. The front of the skirt is of black net, spangled in diagonal lines. Tho sleevea match the front. The jewelled embroidery is so successfully accomplished it is graceful and not heavy. The jewelled '-ucklea holding the front breadths of the velvet upon the bust line, and the disposition of the velvet which is carried from them to the shoulders, are odd features. The flowing fronts give an air of negligee ease to the robe, which a perfectly close fitting gown does not possess, while the fitted underarm forms preserve enough of the contour of the figure to make the gotfn enhance it instead of conceal it outright.

But velvet is a present possession, anfl everybody who shops from now on Is looking for what is to be worn, and not iqiKfti for what is being worn. The Paris leaders In dress are neither women in private life nor in public life, as one so often reads, but the Inventors of toilets In the swell dressmaking establishments, who succe&l in interesting their patrons in their creations. Not one woman in 500, or in 5,000, knows what she wants to wear, and not fn 25,000 what she should wear. The (designers who make up designs for the dress goods manufacturers bdvt more to do with the fashions in vogue, from season to season, than any queen on any throne. Tha loom owners come next, staking much upon their belief that a certain design will sell. Then the dress designers, who do nothing but make pen and ink and colored chalk pictures of fashion figures that they think will show off to advantage the goods in the market, come in for an important place in the line of fashion creators. The "big" dressmakers buy the designs of these artists, and employ other artists of their own to invent fashions, and only then does the woman who buys and wears the clothes come in for any place in the procession of those who are responsible for the modes of tho times. Do heather mixtures and chameleon mohairs, colored damas and faconnes with filete effects, moire velous and wool and mohair jacquards, Mozambique checks and two-toned silk construction crepons, grenadines and et avimes, and so on and so forth—do any of these become the fashion because a duchess wears them, or is it because Worth or somebody else coaxes her into having gowns made from them? The great popular demand for anything does not spring qut of the fact that real queens wear certain things too few people ever see them to know what they wear. It is because some of the people in the popular eye like stage queens exhibit taking toilets.

The first spring suits for the street will be light rather than dark, and will consist of a skirt and bodice made to look liko a Jacket. This will have a basque in ripple effect, but will be tightly belted in at tha waist under the narroiv belt in vogue, providing, always providing that tho wearer is not short and stout if she be, she must forego the belt. The skirts will be mixtures or plaids, small ones, and the Jackets will be plain, or vice versa. The hat will be of medium size, and trimmed with flowera and lace, and a general well-groomed look, with a bit of decorative effect introduce® in the Jabot of lace at the chin, in the lovely coloring and in the dressy millinery will be the end sought. But this manner' of toilet will obtain for the young womaa only. Middle aged women will wear the silkier wools, made en princess, with such variations as the art and skill of the designer can compass. Very short zouave jackets are introduced on some bodices for women no longer young and slender, to reduce the apparent size of the waist, ana colors are sought that are not trying, as are the pale shades, the preference being for those combinations and mixtures wher« a bloom of one shade or color seems overlie another. The printed warp goods and all the shaded effects are par excellence the choice for the woman who has not the figure of a Diana and the complexion of child.

The craze for green purses i» -not abat ing they now are shown In every form under the sun. and with a variety of decow tions. The stained alligator skin is POPUI^V as also is the finely grained leather, brought to a high degree of polish. Filigree cor« ners of beaten silver or gold decorate most of the purses. A pretty fad is to have na decoration save a huge initial in silver .X. one corner.

A Daaalinar Tea Gown.

Now ia the season for teas and receptioas as well as theaters, and the tea gown is v«rt much in evidence. A very spectacular gown, which few of us can hope to imitate in ma* terials furnishes good suggestions f°tume in less pretentious fabric. The slble gown Is made of purple velvet with in

ermine-bordered

—Tom Masson.

AIRY FLITTINGS.

Clear days bring out new tailor gowns. Vary wide ribbons will have the call the coming season.

It is not cute to put the stamp on the lefthand corner of an envelope. A charming vinaigrette has a gold top wlta a Sight of jeweled files upon it. gome dainty ootton draperies for summer homes are already on the market.

Some new ruse strewn plush for cushions ixiatjt ootv *»vanlv-flYB cents a yard.

train. Angel .leeve. are MneJ

•with white satin and are .fastened

to

with a bow of white satin tight sleeves are of pule

Uie w.r»

rose

b£d of ermine tf.e white streamers fail

relret. From

to..

skirt, and ermine forms the collar.

A swoet little waist that oarne^ has not yet b«o worn ^S madeofWu«»!«c with a dainty the Ve

S3?

SH?

£$

The Marie Lojilfe reUcules aA»ra ,ii 4ha im&rt dows now of All tu© oat, sfid made of dainty light ailk for evwjwF^^.^ for shopping tber„ere more oi

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