A TRAGIC KISS

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIV, Issue 24, 22 July 1911, Page 1 (Supplement)

A TRAGIC KISS

LIVING PICTURE COMEDY. Paris, May 21. When George Clermont returned from his office a day or two ago his wife was in tears. She handed him a telegram. It was dated from Caen, and read: "Mother dangerously ill. Come at once." There was no train until eleven, but Clermont had many things to do before his wife could get away, and when the train steamed out Paris seemed very empty. He stood for a few minutes on the platform watching the empty line which ran off into space. It was the first time since his marriage that he and his wife had been parted. They were not rich people, but they were very happy, and they lived quite comfortable on Clermont's little salary. As he walked home he thought of all that he owed to his wife, whose gift of housekeeping and clever management made him as rich, if not richer, married than he had been as a bachelor. And then, as he reached the house, a clock struck the half-hour, and he thought that he would stroll down to the boulevards for an hour (he lived quite near the station and the boulevards) before he went up to the empty little flat.

On the boulevards lie felt lonelier than ever. He rarely went out to a cafe by himself, as did so many of his fellowclerks, married or unmarried. And he thought, pitying himself, how much he missed his wife's hand on his arm that evening. If she had been with him he would have enjoyed the stroll and watched the people. As it was lie did not want to go home, and did not know what to do with his time. Then he noticed a crowd watching a queerly-dressed man who was standing about, and apparently wondering which way to go. TELL-TALE PICTURE.

Clermont watched with the rest, and as the man turned up a side street, he followed. Then he laughed, and, "Well, why not?" he said to himself. For the queerly dressed man was a walking advertisement for a cinematograph theatre and Clermont thought he might as well spend half an hour in there as anywhere. He paid his tenpence and got a comfortable seat well in the centre of the house. He sat and watched 'the pictures, which did not interest him much. They were the usual scenes, the usual absurditities, the usual sentimental pathos, and_ some living pictures of the recent happenings of a busy world.

But suddenly George Clermont rubbed his eyes and stared at the pictures on the canvas curtain. He thought he must be dreaming, and pinched himself to make. sure. No, he was wide awake, and there on the sheet in front of him was his wife walking hurriedly up to the counter of a post office. Over the counter was the poste retsante label. Mme. Clermont said something to the clerk, who took out a bundle of letters, and handed her one. She opened it, looked at the letter again, smiled-,'and—a man walked up to her. Clermont forgot that he was not alone. "Who is it?" he said out aloud. He heard the people round him tittering, and he could see in the darkness of the little theatre their faces as they bent forward trying to look at him. Then he shouted an oath. The stranger, in the post office had put his arm round Mme. Clermont and had kissed her. George Clermont never knew how he got home, and he will never forget the horror of that night. He spent it tossing over his wife's papers, hunting for further proof of the infidelity of which he was too certain. And next morning, at seven, when the bell rang and a boy in blue gave George Clermont a telegram, the lad started back, frightened by the man's white face and haggard eyes. Clermont opened the telegram, -and read it aloud: "Mother much better. Hope return to-night. (Kisses." He laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh to listen to. At nine he went downstairs and telephoned to his office to say that he was not well, and would not go to his work that day. Then he went out, bought a. revolvef, had it loaded, and returned home—to wait. He ate nothing all day, and when at eight o'clock in the evening the door bell rang again it startled him. ''She at last!" he said to himself, and slipped the revolver back into his pocket. "Why were you not at the station? Vvhv, what is the matter?" said his wife. "How ill you look! Is there anything wrong?" And slowly, in a voice which he himself could hardly recognise, George Clermont told her what he had seen. She did not answer. She stood facing him and motionless. She did not even take her gloves off. She stood looking at him, and breathed rather than spoke his name once in surprise, '"George!" And a slight smile played around the corners ol her mouth.

That smile enraged him. He whipped out the revolver and he fired. The bullet crashed through the open door behind her and broke a gas lamp on the stairs outside. A scream was heard from below, voices and hurried steps, and George Clermont threw the revolver from him and fell into a chair. At the police station, when he had told his story, Mme. Clermont asked for five minutes' private conversation with the Police Commissioner. George Clermont slept at the police station that night. In the morning he, his wife and two policemen went out in Vineennes together. . . . They went.into a big tin building with windows all round it. It was a kind of artist's studio.

There was a crowd of people there. They glanced at George and at the two policemen, and some of them shook hands with Mme. Clermont. Then a little fat man came up and, glancing at his watch, said, "You next, Mme. Clermont, please, and "he turned round and beckoned.

"Now, then, Joan, please!" A young man strolled up, and George Clermont cursed aloud. It was the man who had kissed his wife in the post office. The two policemen held him firmly. "Now, please," said the little fat man. And all of a sudden Clermont saw a painted background. Mme. Clermont and the young man sat down. A waiter came and served them. Suddenly George Clermont understood.

"Tho cinematograph has doubled our income for the last three months," said Mme. Clermont to her Husband. Then to the two policemen: "M. le Commissaire told you that you might go when I said all whs safe," she said. "There is no charge against my husband. It is all a mistake." And as they left the shed together, George Clermont, with tears in hia eyes, murmured his wife's name—"Marie!" And his wife forgave him.