THE STORY-TELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXIX, Issue 3154, 10 September 1892, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER.

A BENEDICTS FRIEND. A few clays ago after the Grand Prix as every was getting ready to go into the country, or protending to do so, Henri de Saint Armel met hi 9 old friend Captain Boucoiran at the gate of the Bois. The two horsemen foil in together and began to chat. "That's a pretty maro you're riding," said Saint Armel. " She is that, and as gentle as a kitten. I have been training her for the past throe months. She obeys me like a trick-pony, and follows me like a dog. Don't you, Betsy ? The mare pricked up her ears and whinnied gently, as if she agreed perfectly with her master's statement. "She would make an excellent saddlehorse for a lady," remarked Saint Armel. "Perfect; it is a pity she was ever ridden by a man. But perhaps you have some fair rider in your mind's eye with whom you could place her ?" " Perhaps I have, if you do not want too much for her. j have promised a certain young woman —you know her, perhaps, Lucie Bataille ?"

"By name only. She sings somewhere —does she not?—at the Renaissance or the Bouffes? But I do not care for music, as you know, and I never set foot in a theatre for fear I should come in on a lot of caterwauling. And so Mile. Lucie Bataille has inspired a certain interest in you ?" "Well yes. Haven't you heard of it?" " I hope you do not imagine that my course of lectures at the military academy leaves me much time to look after other men's little affairs ? But you have promised this girl a horse, eh ? "Well, you are in for a rather serious present." "It is a farewell gift. Certain circumstances, which you will presently learn, compel me to break with ;her. Poor Lucie! She's a charming woman. Not vei'y pretty, but distinguished, possessed of good manners, and not a caterwauler, as you put it. I must present you to her. If that little woman had any luck, she would be at the OptSra, and I assure you that the glasses in the orchestra seldom centre on a prettier page than she makes. If you could see her in burlesque! But, to come back to business, how much do you want for your mare ?"

The bargain was made, and the two friends separated, promising to meet the next winter. Two months later the Count de Saint Armel married a charming American, as pretty as she was rich—which explained the " circumstances " that led to the acquisition of Betsy as a farewell gift to Lucie Bataille.

Autumn passed, and the winter came. Boucoiran had resumed his lectures and bought himself another horse. Every morning regularly he took his turn in the Bois. A fortnight ago, as he was passing near the circular shelter of Ermenonville, what should the captain see but Betsy, his old mare, a sidesaddle on her back, being held by an ancient servitor, got up in the most correct style and himself mounted on a splendid horse. Evidently Betsy, the side-saddle, and the ancient servitoi were waiting for some fair amazon. But it was not solely through curiosity to see the woman that Boucoiran stopped. What he wished to determine was whether the mare still knew him. He dismounted, drew from his pocket a bitof sugar, and approached the animal, which had already scented him. Poor Betsy, did she still remember her old master? He had only to look at her, to see her prick up her ears, nod her head, and whinny plaintively, almost tenderly. Boucoiran. delighted, caressed the animal, and made her give him her foot, to the great edification of the servant. " The mare is looking well," Boucoiran said. "0, yes, captain," replied the groom. "Wo take good care ot her. But she don't seem to have forgotten her old master." " Why, how do you recognise me?' demanded Boucoiran, surprised at being addressed by his rank though he was in civilian garb. " I have had charge of the mare,

sir, ever since she was given to my mistress, and if it's once, it's twenty times I've heard the count speak of his friend, the captain, and say how well he had trained Betsy." "Well," thought Boucoiran, " Lucie Bataille has a very stylish man to look after her horse. I must try to meet this little siren." He had scarcely formed the project in his mind, when a couple drove up from the Dauphin Gate. In it were two women ; one of respectable ago and excellent appearance ; the other, very pretty and in a riding-habit. The lat L ,er got out, after kissing her companion, and said to her : "By-bve mamma. I shall be here at eleven precisely." "Decidedly," tiiought Boucoiran, " she does things in the mo3t proper style. Mare, groom, and coupe, all are irreproachable—and the mother more than all. By Jove! to allow herself the luxury of a mother like that, she must find comic opera very remunerative." lie lifted his hat to Lucie Bataille, who seemed surprised at first to find Betsy coquetting with a stranger. But, after a few words in English from the groom, she returned the

captain's bow cordially, and said to him, with a smile :

" I ought to be jealous of the interest Betsy takes in you. But I prefer to thank you for having trained her so admirably. And, thanks to her, we are already on friendly terms."

She turned toward the old lady, who was watehiugthisscenefchrough the carriage-window. "Mother," she said, "lot me present you to Captain Boucoiran— tho friend of whom M. de Saint Armel speaks so often," Boucoiran could not repress a feeling of surprise at hearing Lucie Bataille speak thus ingenuously of Saint Armel. Perhaps the marriage had fallen through, and affairs had

remained in statu, quod erat, with Betsy thrown in.

The young woman proved charmingly admirable and had a delicious figure, as her well-cut riding-habit made manifest. They chatted for five minutes about Betsy, her points, her habits, and her feed. Boucoiran gave much advice, and finally asked ]bermission to help the pretty horse women to her saddle, which was granted. lie had not dared to let the conversation touch upon Saint 4rmel ; but, as lie was lciving her Lucie Bataille said, point-blank :

" You haven't asked me a word about your friend."

Boucoiran turned all colors. This was incomprehensible. The idea of trying to defer anything to the finer feelings of such a woman ! Speaking as if by chance and at the risk of seeming behind the times, he replied :

" Well—er—certain events—er —change things. Since poor Henri married—for he is married, if I am not mistaken."

" Pshaw !" interrupted the young woman, laughing as if at au excellent jest " I assure you he hasn't changed so much as that. But you shall judge for yourself—come and lunch with us presently sans ceremonie."

" Lunch !" stammered the dum founded officer ; " Why—where V'

"43 Rue Murillo," cried Lucie Bataille, as she set off at a gallop, prettily saluting him with her crop. And the groom followed after her at a little distance.

The coupe rattling off in the other direction, Boucoiran was left alone, filled with wonder and misgivings. So Saint Armel continued to see Lucie Bataille. To see her ! —why, he lunched at her house. True, this little diva was pretty enough to lure a man from the narrow path. But why the deuce had Henri married ? To get his hand into some old oilkings' coffers, probably, and heaven knows where the girl's dot was going —though it needed no omniscience to make a close guess. Well, a soldier need not be a saint, and Boucoiron's lectures at the military academy were not on morals. A pretty woman had invited him to lunch, and he'would go. At the stroke of noon, Boucoiran dismounted before the door of a cosy little house in the Rue Murillo. Lucie had come in, for in the court Betsy's toilet was being made. The entrance-hall and the first saloon were in admirable taste. In a more intimate room, Lucie in a very simple gown of white laine, received her guest. " Henri is keeping us waiting," she said ; " you shall see how astonished he will be when he see you. Do you know, Captain Boucoiran, that I am quite angry with you tor not having presented yourself earlier !" " I am very busy with my professional work, and I scarcely ever go out in what is called the real society — though it is not the most amusing—and I detest music. You will hardly believe me when I tell you I have never heard you sing." "You have not missed much then. I have a very poor voice, and only sing when I have to." " But you sing every morning, if I am not mitaken." "I! It is more than a fortnight since I have sung a note."

"So much the worse for the ears of Paris. If I were in Henri's place, I would send you on in your art; for our friend"—with a fine smile—"seems to me to have retained some influence over you."

"If you only knew how unsympathetic he is ! On the contrary, he is always discouraging me." "Then it is through jealousy. But when he spoke to me of you— it was the very day I sold Betsy to him—he said he would like to see you at the Opera." "You must be joking. And what more did he say ?—it interests me extremely to hear the confidences." " Will you pardon me if I go into details ?" "Oh, pray go on, captain. Tt seems we are old friends." " Well, Henri said to me : ' She is simply perfect in a page's part. With a figure like hers—' " " What! he spoke to you of

my — " And to think that I have never had the curiosity to judge for myself 1 lam quite laid away on the shelf, am I not 1 But, really, lam so busy. Besides, I do not share Henri's tastes. We are quite dissimilar. Between ourselves, lam always asking myself what the duece he wanted to marry for."

Lucie Bataille opened her eyes as large as saucers, but did not deem it best to make any response.

" When he announced," continued Boucoiran, "or, rather, let me infer the impending catastrophe, I thought to myself : ' My boy, if your fair

American is not absolutely faultless, you will have given her many a gray day inside of six months.' You must oonfess I knew Saint Armel pretty well. And, besides, I had not seen you then. Now I can understand why he was not long in coming back to you." The young woman's face wore so singular an expression that Boucoiran stopped there.

" I see, he said, " that you do not altogether approve of my freedom of speech, and I must confess I think your reserve in excellent taste. But I hear our friend coming."

A moment later the two friends were shaking each other cordially by the hand. The story of the morning's meeting was told, and there was much talk about the wonderful Betsy. Boucoiran apologised for having let himself be invited so cavalierly.

"It was a case that called for cavalier treatment," responded Henri, " for you had been presented by Betsy," and they sat down to luncheon in the best of humour.

" Come, old man," said the count, "you must confess that marriage has not changed me."

" I should say ' not enough,' but that I am not here to preach you a sermon. And at sight of the deity that presides here, one must excuse everything. And to think, you wretch, that you spoke to me of her as a woman of ordinary beauty ! But, what is this I hr-ar, the nightingale is dumb 1 True, it is winter, but that is the very season when the nightingales of the stage show their most gorgeous plumage, and trill their most brilliant roulades."

Never did llowery speech so miss its mark. Henri and the young woman glanced at each other with a sort of anxiety.

" Have I been putting my foot in it V inquired Boucoiran, growing more and more gay; then let us talk of something else. Do you know, fair lady, that you are very prettily housed here? What taste, what comfort, what a cook ! I can understand that Henri likes to dine here, fori suspect the conjugal board "

" Perhaps, sir," said the supposed Lucie Bataille, who began to show signs of anger, " you are provoked by my husband, and "

" Your husband !" interrupted Boucoiran, springing from his chair. " Your husband ! —you are his wife ?"

" Come, my dear fellow," said the count, who was pale with vexation,

" Mme. de Saint Armel will think you are crazy. " Sit down, and let us finish our luncheon in peace and quietness. I suppose you will soon be promoted V'

But Boucoiran had dropped his napkin, and before anyone could prevent him, he had fled, tearing his hair.

It is unnecessary to state that he has never again set foot in the St. Armel's house. But he did eventually get light on the causes of his horrible mistake. It seems that the very day that Betsey was to be given to T.ucie Bataille, the capricious diva had levanted with a Russian of fabulous wealth, and Saint Armel, practical fellow that

he was, had kept the mare to make her later a saddle-horse for his wife. But the captain had not heard these details. — Translated from the French of Leon de Tinseau.