Monsieur Le Baron.

Otago Witness, Issue 1190, 19 September 1874, Page 18

Monsieur Le Baron.

One afternoon in the early spring a woman was sitting alone on one of the seats bordering a winding walk in the Champs Elys6es. The air was moist and warm, and the brilliant sunlight poured a flood of golden beauty over her shabby garments, and worn, tired face. She was evidently waiting for some one, for she watched the passers-by with eager interest, her hands clasping and unclasping themselves restlessly. Two young men strolling by looked curiously at her, but she was not young enough to interest them much, and they passed on with a shrug and half pitying smile. Their careless laughter floated back, and hurt her. How the brilliant equipages flashed and glittered ! Bright eyes were sparkling, jewels flashing in the sun. The spring wind laughed and frolicked with the leaves, but she saw none of this, and as the shadows grew longer she sighed a little. Suddenly her eyes brightened, as a tall figure came down the walk — a soldierly man with gray whiskers, and keen blue eyes. He was also looking for some one, for he walked slowly, glancing from right to left. The woman watched him anxiously, and, as he seemed about to address a pretty girl, who was leading two children by the hand, she placed herself in his way. * ' Monsieur le Baron !" "Celeste!" They stood facing each other, the woman with her eyes cast down, the man with a strange look of doubt and surprised recognition on his face. He spoke with a German accent. " I did not know you. I thought — " and his eyes followed the good-looking bonne. Celeste looked up surprised. 'It had been ten, fifteen years since they had met, and yet she knew him at once. The silence had been awkward. A carriage passed, from which looked a lady resplendent in satin and lace. Celeste became painfully conscious of her old dress, the faded ribbon on her bonnet, the rent in her poor little shoe. She drew back her foot so as to hide it. Monsieur le Baron pulled his wiskers nervously. " Wnat ar« you doing now, Celeste ?" The tone was cold, Celeate felt it, and her voice faltered. " Teaching, Monsieur ? Sewing sometimes." " Ah !" Had he nothing more to say, this man of whom she had dreamed by day and night since they parted ? Was it for this that she refused Armand, the notary, when he asked her five years ago to be his wife ? What good was it that since she had got his brief letter she had turned her best dress, and even afforded herself new gloves ? Despair made her bold. "So you did not know me, Monsieur?" "I? How could I?" he said, with a sort of exasperation in his tone. " When I left you, you were young and pretty." He quite forgets his own gray hairs ? With a low cry she shrank back as if he had struck her. "You had better sit down, Celeste," he said, more kindly. She sat down, for she could stand no longer. She had gone without breakfast that she might buy the bunch of flowers to put in her dress. It made her look bright, she thought, and hid an unsightly

darn as well. The tears were washing off the rouge with which she had tried to hide the hollows sorrow and want had made in the once dimpled cheeks. She sobbed weakly to herself. The Baron watched her with a slow impatience kindling in his eyes. " Are you very poor, Celeste ?" "Yes, Monsieur." ' ' I had no idea of this, " he said, with an aggrieved air. "Your uncle, the cure, told me before I left that you were provided for. Your father had sisters — why did they not do something ?" "They are dead, Monsieur." "Jf I had married you then," he went on, disregarding the interruption, "I could not have supported you. My father hated your nation, and would not have given me a thaler. He is dead now, and 1 came back to look for you." He found it hard to go on. How could he tell her that now that he has found her he does not know what to do with her '? Celeste bowed her head humbly. She is very sorry that her relatives have been so unreasonable in the way of dying. Sorry too that her poverty troubles " Monsieur ;" it has become so old a story with her thai she scarcely thinks of it. She was wondering if she could be the same foolish Celeste who came smiling and happy to the sunny gardens. "But it wai wrong to expect so much," s,he said to herself. ' ' I always had so little sense. " Celeste was a lady, and finding that the Baron had really and truly nothing more to say, she would not force herself upon him. Rising, she said steadily, " I must return, Monsieur. lam glad to have seen you.^ He walked with her till they reached the b\isy, noisy streets ; then she stopped. " Have you far to go, Celeste ? Shall I accompany you ?" " No, Monsieur," she said quietly. He watched her till the throng hid her from his sight ; then, with a sigh of relief, he turned away. Pity him a little ; his disappointment was very great. All these years he had thought of the pretty French girl, with sparkling eyes and merry laugh, who had crept into his cold, unimpressionable heart, he scarcely knew how. He had lived happily enough without her, it is true, but when his father's death left him master of his own fortune, his thoughts had turned tenderly to his early love. How different this wan-faced woman in her poor attire, from the Celeste he had pictured. This was not the woman he had meant to make his wife. His heart did not throb one beat the faster at her voice. He would be very glad to help her, to give her money, but shat she would not take — only his love, which was beyond hia control. He had only that day arrived in Paris ; he was lonely and miserable. Hailing a passing cabriolet, he got in. "Take me to some place where I can lodge and be quiet." The driver looked surprised. "Anywhere !" And the Baron slammed the door, and, throwing himself back on the cushions, gave way to his gloomy meditations. The Baron made no objection when his cabriolet stopped before one of the oldest houses in a street — fashionable once, respectable now, and much frequented by people who, like himself, were fond of rest and retirement. The house was let in appartements, and, fortunately, the first floor was vaoant. The Baron was easily pleased, and hired the rooms without delay, despatching a m&ft his servant and luggage ; and Celeste^ coming home some hours later, learned, to her dismay, who was the occupant of the empty rooms. " Promise me, good Picot, promise me that you will not tell him that lam here," Bhe said, earnestly. "Who, Mademoiselle? The Baron?" and the old man gazed at her in unfeigned surprise. "Oh ! any one, I mean, Picot. I would not be known." Then, seeing a look of suspicion dawning on his face, she added : "I have seen better days, Picot, and now " " I see, Mademoiselle, I see ; one does not want remembrance when one is poor. No one shall know, I promise." Celeste breathed freely again, for the old man was faithful, she knew. Once in her own room, she sat down to think over the marvellous chance, which, in all this great city, could find but one house wherein to place the Baron and herself. Change after change flitted over her face. In fancy she again wandered with him along the shady walks in her uncle's garden ; again his low words of love trembled in her ear ; then came the parting, and the tears fell once more at the remembrance, and she smiled a little as she recalled his promise of a speedy return. Celeste read few romances ; her own was quite sufficient. On these memories she had lived through all the long years of loneliness. The paßt was her reality ; what had just occurred, the dream. Lost in her reverie, she sat idly gazing into the court-yard. Suddenly a voice she knew but too well reached her. Springing to her feet, with her heart beating bo that she could scarcely hear, she opened her door and listened. "Hansel! Hansel!" called the voice, impatiently. " Coming, Herr Baron, coming." Then the door was shut, and Celeste shrank back, with the look one sometimes sees on the face of a child, when from the outside he sees the joy of those within. The Baron's windows looked upon the garden, so that he did not see the figure that darted quickly through the gate, in the early morning, nor the gray shadow that stole swiftly across the court-yard in the dusk, pausing a moment in the hall to liptm, to £)tti»g vp the rime, like ,

some poor ghost returning fearfully to watch beside the extinguished embers of its forsaken hearth. Safe in the shelter of her own room, Celeste bolted and barred the door securely. Her dread of discovery grew day by day ; she need not have feared ; the Herr Baron would never have dreamed of ascending those long stairs to visit the attic lodger. The Baron began to find Paris more endurable ; and Celeste, seeing him occasionally erect and self-satisfied, with a smile on his proud lips, said to herself with a pitiful moan : "He has forgotten me already — and I—lI — I love him." Then she sank on her knees before the little crucifix, and prayed as only hearts in such sorrow can pray. And by and by peace came again to the pinched, worn face, and, rising, she said, humbly: "It was wrong ; I should not have hoped." But the Baron had not forgotten her, though often he was tempted to wish he might do so. Her face had a trick of rising before him suddenly in the theatre, in the brilliant salon, not as he once knew it — fresh and blooming — but faded and haggard, as he saw it in the Champs Elyse'es, and then he returned absent answers to his friends, or — if he was alone — he drank rather more than was quite good for him. Hr wrote to her once, to the address she had given him long ago, asking her to let him help her, offering her, as delicately as might be, an enclosed draft ' ' for the sake of the days that are past." The draft was returned with the words : " I thank you ; 'for the sike of the days that are past,' it is impossible, Monsieur le Baron." The Baron shrugged his shoulders, and wished that women were not so difficult to manage. " What would she have ?" he said, impatiently. He knew very well what she would have, and the thought troubled him. One evening in summer the Baron had a headache, and refusing all invitations, told Hansel to deny him to any chance visitors. The house was quite still, and Celeste, thinking that, as usual, he would be absent, left her door open to catch the faint breeze that whispered through the corridor, and, as she sat at her embroidery, sang softly to herself. She had had an exquisite voice once, and it was still true and sweet. The Baron was passionately fond of music, and as the first notes fell on his ear, he opened his door wider to listen. It was a hymn to the Virgin — one which in days gone by Celeste was fond of singing. He remembered it now, and as the notes rose higher and higher, like some freed spirit exulting in its flight, and then ; sank into a plaintive minor, as if the soul | grew suddenly conscious of its earthly chains, the tears started to his eyes. "Hansel!" he calls softly, and Celeste, hearing him, hastily barred the door, and dropped, trembling and anxious, into her chair. The next evening Picot stopped her as she flitted past him in the early dusk. " I had a hard time to keep your secret, laßt night, Mademoiselle Celeste ; but a promise, you know — -" " Yes, yes, good Picot, tell me quickly, for I must not wait long." " Well, the Baron he sent for me, and he said : ' Good Master Picot '—it is alwaya good Picot when one wants anything — ha ! ha !— * will you tell me who it is here that sings so sweetly V I knew at once that it was you, Mademoiselle, for you have sung for my wife, so I thought — ha !ha ! — 'good ' Picot, you must be careful. 'Well, Monsieur,' I answered, it may be the English lady or her aunt ; they have the next floor.' " 'No, it was the floor above that — quite up in the roof,' answered the Baron. " 'Ah ! it may have been the artist who —pauvre didble — sells no pictures.' "'Then he would scarcely feel like singing,' said Monsieur; 'besides, it was a woman's voice.' " ' Well, well, it must have been the other lodger, then, who sits and sews all night sometimes. ' " ' Sews all night !' said the Baron, 'she must be very poor. What is her name ?' "Then, Mademoiselle, I was frightened, but I pretended there was some one calling me, and excused myself. ' Wait, Picot, you have not told me the name,' I called the Baron. ' Oh, the name, Moni sieur, I have forgotten.' And I ran down I the stair as fast as my feet could carry me. This morning the Baron stopped at the gate. 'So you will not tell me the name of the bird that sings under the roof, Picot?' " ' Will not, Monsieur !' I said, reproachfully. 'It is that I can not.' " 'Ah, Picot, don't tell me that to me. However, I will not disturb your little mystery ; bat you may give my thanks to the unknown for the very great pleasure she has given me.' " There ! Mademoiselle, you must give me no more secrets to keep, or I will tell them all to the Baron." Celeste smiled brightly, thanking him for his discretion ; then hurried up the stairs, that she might enjoy her happiness alone, for it was happiness to this faithful heart to know that from out the shadows of her own dull life she had been able to send an added ray of brightness into the sunshine of his. After that, when the vesper bells were ringing, Celeste alwaya sat in her attic room and sang. She left her door open, that the Baron might hear ; and to him the song of "the bird under the roof," as he still called her grew daily more dear. The Baron's character was changed; he thought oftener of Celeste than was at all pleasant j he wrote to her again, but the Utter was returned afar wme time with

the words "not called for "in pencil on the back. "Where could she be? Dead, perhaps, of starvation ; he had heard of such things. With an eagerness that surprised himself, he plunged into the vortex of pleasure that seethes and whirls in the gay capital. There he found forgetfulness. Still, when he heard that clear voice singing, tender thoughts would come, and strangely enough he cherished them. The human heart is terribly contradictory. When Celeste stood before him only waiting for his love, that love it seemed impossible to give, and the probabilities are, that should she so stand again, he would again turn from her. Many people wish that they might "live their lives over again ;" in nine cases out of ten, they would only repeat them. But now that Celeste was gone — for ever, it appears — he yearned after her love, and his heart stirred strangely at the old remembrances. His new friends urged a more fashionable residence, but the Baron shook his head. He could not tell them that the vesper hymn, associated as ifc was with Celeste's memory, kept him where he was. Once there was a gay party at dinner. The Baron was the life of the assembly — when, hark ! — above the clatter of tongues and the click of the glasses came the sound of a woman's voice, singing a hymn to the Virgin. He ceased speaking, and the guests looked at one another. "Baron, are you ill ?" asks one, anxiously. 1 ' No, no !" and he laughed lightly. " What was it you were saying, my friend ? Hansel, more wine." But ever and anon his voice faltered a little, and he wished to himself that his good friends would not talk quite so loud ; he could not hear a note. Then the song ended, and the Baron breathed more freely, but he was distrait, and unlike himself, and his guests left early. The next day was his birthday. No one knew it. He scarcely remembered it himself till old Picot came stumbling along the corridor with some flowers in his hand— beautiful violets, white and blue, the Baron's favourite flowers. "They were left at the gate. It is Monsieur's birthday, is it not ?" "Who left them, good Picot ?" The old man chuckled softly. " There was no name, Monsieur." " Strange !" murmured the Baron, and Picot made haste to retire before more questions should be askc?. But a few days later he stopped Coleste as she passed him. \ "I will have no more seorets, Mademoiselle," he said, pettishly. " Monsieur has done nothing but pester me with questions all these clays. I will do nothing more for you. No, no, do not talk ; you will 'good Picot ' me into more trouble." And he turned his back on her with an air of great resolution. Celeste laughed a little. She was much happier. Lately she could often hear the Baron's voice ; once in a long while she saw him ; she could not speak to him, to be sure ; but if she could, what had she to say ? It is well to be content. One evening, one of the Baron's countrymen was with him. They had been neighbours in their youth ; their lands joined ; altogether, he was more nearly a friend than any of those around him. To him he oomplained of his fits of depression, his loneliness. "My dear Baron, you should marry. Here am I not yet your age, and my Adolf is already betrothed. One must take interest in something; it is well when one has children. " The Baron made no reply. His gaze rested unconsciously on the violets, fading in their glass, and his thoughts went back to Celeste. Nonsense ! how could he marry a woman who was de^d, for all he knew to the contrary ? Rising, he pulled the bell impatiently. "Hansel, the carriage. Come, my friend, let us go to the opera." But again and again his friend's advice recurred to him. Why should he not marry? He thought of the women he knew ; most of them were frivolous, and too gay for his quiet German home. There was the English widow upstairs ; she was young and pretty. He had met her once or twice. Once he had called, but her aunt was tiresome to the last degree, and he had vowed never to go again; but one day he broke his resolution, and once more entered their pretty drawingroom. His call was a long one, and the pretty widow confided to him how wearisome this living in lodgings was to her. "I have such a pretty home, but we are living in this tiresome Paris on account of Fred, my aunt's son, who is here." Why, my dear, I was quite willing to stay in England ;" and her aunt looked up from her knitting with languid surprise. The niece blushed, and changed the subject. The Baron took some pains to become acquainted with this " Fred," and soon spent many of his hours with the pretty widow, besides being the invariable fourth in all their parties for pleasure. ***** "Ah, Mademoiselle, the Baron will take a wife with him in the spring. The English lady has put off her mourning already." Picot looked reprovingly at his wife ; then from her to the figure standing in the door. "One must not listen to all Jeanette's gossip, Mademoiselle," he said, noting the look of blank despair that had settled on the pale, tired face. " Oome in, Mademoiselle ; you are ill," and Jeanette bustled about; placing a «Juw> i

But Celeste shook her head. "No, I am only tired ; I will go up to my room." As she walked swiftly and noiselessly along the hall she heard voices talking : the Baron's deep full tones, and, mingled with them, the sweet treble of the English widow. Then she heard the clatter of plates, and, speeding up the stairs, she threw herself on the floor by the window with a low Bob. "He is at dinner there with them, and I am hungry," and the tears flowed freely at the thought of her long fast, for which in reality she scarcely cared, so common was it. A carriage rattled up the street, and presently the Baron appeared in full evening dress. He handed the two ladies into the carriage, and then sprang in himself. They waited a moment, and Celeste had time to notice how carefully the Baron wrapped the younger lady's cloak about her white shoulders, and how sweetly she smiled her thanks. Then her cousin hurried out with her fan, and entering the carriage, they drove quickly off. " I will wait till they come back, perhaps he has gone to marry her," and poor Celeste smiled bitterly. But long before they returned she had sobbed herself to sleep. The moonbeams stole in at the window, and shone softly on her wet eyelashes, but their light touch did not wake her. Stir not the leaves, 0 sighing wind ! she is dreaming of her lover as he was loug years ago. His arm is around her— his blue eyes shine upon her face — she cannot speak. She tries to tell him of her long sorrowful waiting, but she can only sob out her thankfulness that it has passed. Many a night Celeste knelt at the window, and watched and waited for the Baron. Sometimes she fell asleep at her post, but oftener she saw him coming home, handsome, happy, with a smile on his grave face. She heard the gay " Good nights " in the hall, and then with a sigh she threw herself upon her couch to dream fitful, troubled dreams, till the gray dawn stole in and woke her to the duties of the day. Once, tired by her long watch for the Baron, who had, this time, gone out alone, she fell asleep in her chair. She dreamed of the firing of guns ; a procession passed— soldiers ; behind a bier a riderless horse was led. They uncovered the bier, and she saw the face of the Baron ; she drew her breath sobbingly. Then she heard some one knocking ; the noise grew louder. "Mademoiselle Celeste, it is I, Jeanette." How long she had slept ! The sun was shining brightly. "Mademoiselle, do wake up." She unbolted the door. Jeanette entered." We are all going to die, Mademoiselle, and lose our lodgers too," Bhe said, in answer to Celeste's eager questions. "No one will stay, and Picot says I must tell you to go, and who is going to take care of the lady, I should like to know." "Jeanette, be quiet, and tell me what is the matter," and Celeste laid her hand firmly on the woman's shoulder. " Well, Mademoiselle, the English lady has been ' tired, oh, so tired ' for days, she says, but she would go out. Last night she was worse. She was ill all night, and now her cousin, the young doctor, says he is afraid it is small-pox she is to have. Her maid has gone this morning. The artist is going — hark !— and Picot tells you to go. They will put barricades in the street, and no one will come near us, and we will all die. And the other lady does nothing but cry, and there are two doctors in the house." Jeanette was continuing her lamentations, when Celeste stopped her. " Who is with the lady now ?" " No one, Monsieur le Baron says," bu Celeste was half way down the stairs before she finished. At the foot she met the young doctor. " Monsieur," she said humbly, "I have seen much sickness, will you let me take care of the lady 1 His face brightened. "Have you had the disease 1 " "No, but I am not afraid." He looked doubtfully at her. " I will see the other physician." They came back together. " Ah, Mademoiselle, you here 1 " and the elder of the two held out his hand. "You were in the hospital of the convent for some time, were you not ! My friend, you. cannot do better," he said, turning to the young man. " You are not afraid, Mademoiselle ? that is right, come then. " So Celeste entered the sick room, which for many long days and nights she was destined not to leave. She beßtowed the most xmwearied care upon her patient. "I am saving her for him," she would say to herself. The doctor was loud in his praises, and one day the Baron stopped her as she crossed the hall. " Celeste" — " I will not speak to you, it may be death," she said decidedly, and, eluding his extended hand, she passed quickly by him The doctor watched her closely, and one day he said, "Mademoiselle, you Must go nnd rest, your patient is out of danger, and I have provided a mtrse to relieve you." ! "Will she live?" and Celeste lifted her great hollow eyes to his face. ' ' Yes, thanks to your nn2*"ng, I think there is no fear now." So Celeste went slowly up to her room, and lay down on the bed, from which she did not rise again for many weeks, for while down stairs the life she had saved grew daily stronger and stronger, she lay moaning and tossing in the wildest delirium of fever. Jeanette, forgetting her fears, nursed her tenderly, and even when the dreaded disease appeared, she indig* Wntty refund fa leay? hgj- post, jwjd. !

often she would sit wiping the tears from her eyes as she listened to the ravings in ■which were revealed all the sufferings of the past months. There was another listener too, one who would stand outside the door, his head bent, and his hands clasped closely together as if in prayer, and sometimes when she would cry piercingly, "Rudolf ! Rudolf ; " and then say plaintively, " He has forgotten me," and sometimes, " He does not care that I am hungry," he would turn away with a groan. At last the fight was fought, and Picot coming out of the darkened room toiiched the Baron's arm : " She will live, Monsieur," he said tremulously. "Thank God!" One day, when the sunshine was shining brightly in at the window, and Celeste, white and frail as the lilies in her hand, leaned wearily back among the cushions of her chair, Jeanette came in, her face shining with some great secret. " The Baron wishes to see you, Mademoiselle." "Oh! I cannot," and Celesto's lips trembled. "Ah! Mademoiselle, and he has brought you flowers every day, and would stand all night sometimes at the door to hear of you, Picot says." " But my face, Jennette." "It is all gone, Mademoiselle. You have been ill so long, you have a right to look pale." "Bring me a mirror, Jeanette." "Not, now, Mademoiselle, wait till after." " Now," said Celeste decidedly, "or I will not see the Baron." With a sigh Jeanette placed a glass before her. Celeste looked at herself long and earnestly. The flush was gone from her face, but it was terribly, hopelessly, disfigured. " I had lost my beauty before, but now I am frightful," she said. "Take it, Jeanette, and call the Baron. I will see him." The old woman turned away sobbing. Celeate smiled strangely. A few moments after the door opened, and the Baron came swiftly towards her. Dropping on his knees by her chair he took her hand fondly in his. " My own Celeste !" he said tenderly. She trembled and withdrew her hand. " Have I transgressed beyond forgiveness ?" he said sadly. " I was blind, fool that I was ; but I have suffered bitterly. Celeste will you not pardon me, and let me shield you now from all want and sorrow — " " Stop, Monsieur," and Celeste laid her hand on his, " you do not know what you are saying." " Perhaps not, Celeste. lam so happy at seeing you that I may not speak quite clearly, but you know surely how much I love you, and — " Again she interrupted him. " Monsieur, you forget. The English lady." He looked puzzled, then a light broke over his face. " The English lady is only waiting for you to be well enough to be present, to marry her cousin, to whom she has been engaged six months " Celeste uttered a low cry. "I thought—" The Baron clasped her in his arms. " Rudolf," she said presently, " look at me ; you were disappointed in me when you saw me first, I was old and plain, but I am much worse now." He looked at her fondly, reverently. " Hush ! forget that if you can, Celeste. I was a fool then, and saw only with eyes blinded by pride and arrogance ; forgive me, suffering has made me fitter to receive the blessing that may still be mine. Now I see with the eyes of the soul, and, Celeste, your face is to me the most beautiful the sun shines on to-day."

A strong, but unavailing, effort has been made in Tennessee for the pardon of one Charles M. Stewart, who killed his wife while he was intoxicated. Gov. Brown, in giving liis reasons for refusing to save the man from the penitentiary, says : — "Drunken husbands, and drunkards generally, of all social grades, cannot too soon be taught that they cannot shelter themselves from ci imes that shock every refined sensibility behind the plea of drunkei^ness. If men, with a full knowledge of their weakness and temper, will persist in drinking to drunkenness, let them be taught that they will bo made to feel the penalties of the law by every department of the Government." Tobias Morch, the Greenlander whose ordination at the Metropolitan Church in Copenhagen on the 13th of May produced so much sensation, was bom in 1840, in Upcr« navik, absolutely at the outermost limit of the range of human life. In 1872 he came to Denmark, where the King, and the Prl« mate, the eminent Dr Martensen, united in showing him particular kindness and attention ; and after two yearß* careful instruction, he has now been publicly sent out to carry the Gospel to his countrymen. The 13th of May will be a notable day in the annals of the Lutheran Church, for this is the first time that a native Greonlander has been. Ordained. The Massachusetts Legislature has takes in hand a question which is well worthy theattention of out' own legislators. It is considering a law prohibiting the employment of children under fifteen years of age tor the performance of acrobatic and equestrian feats. A Bill to the effect that no children beneath the age of fifteen shall be sa emplo}-ed, i» now under discussion there. It interdicts the mayor, aldermen, or selectmen of each) town and city from granting licenses to 1 showmen, any part of whose entertainment 1 is interpreted by children of such tender years. All effenders are to bo punished witJfc a fine not exceeding 500 dols. for each offence. This decree w memfnUy flonceived^ be imitated ip England,