Cinematograph Kiss.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 5, 31 January 1912, Page 54

Cinematograph Kiss.

QUAINT STORY FROM PARIS. JEALOUS HUSBAND. When Georges Clermont returned from <iis office in Paris a day or two ago hly wife was in tears. She handed him a teleirram. 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. lie stood for a few moments on the platform watch lug the empty line which ran off into space. It was the first time since his marriage that he and bis wife had been parted. They were not rich people, but they were very happy, and they lived quite comfortably on Clermont’s little salary. As he walked home he thought of all that he owed to his

wife, wlione gift of housekeeping and clever management made him as rich, if not richer, married than he had been as a bachelor. And then, ns 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 HE FELT LONELIER THAN EVER. He rarely went out to a cafe by himself, cis did so many of his fellow-clerks, 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, he did not want to go home, find did not know what to do with his time. Then he noticed a crowd watching a queerly-dressed man who was standing fibout, and apparently wondering which way to go. Clermont watched with the

rest, and as the man turned up « aide street he followed. Then he laughed, and “Well, why not?” lie said to himself. For the queeriy 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 viewed the pictures, which did not interest him much. But suddenly Georges 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 restante label. Mme. Clermont said something to the clerk, w’ho took out a bundle of letters and handed her one. She opened it, looked at the clock over the counter, 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. Georges 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 Georges Clermont a telegram, the lad started back, frlghtenea 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 hi? office to say that he was not W'ell, and would not go to bis work that day. Then he went out, bought a revolver, had it loaded, and returned home—to wait. He ate nothing all day, and when at eight o’clock that evening the door-bell rang again it startled him. ..“She at last!” he said to himself, and slipped the revolver back into bis pocket. “Why-.were you not at the station? AX hy, 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, Georges Clermont TOLD HER WHAT HE HAD SEEN. She did not answer. She stood facing him and motionless. She 4id not even take her gloves off. She stood looking at him, and breathed rather than spoke his name once In surprise, “Georges!” And a slight smile played round the corners of her mouth. That smile enraged him. He whipped out the re volver 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 Georges Clermont threw the revolver from him and fell into a chair. At the police station, when he bad told his story, Mme. Clermont asked for five minutes’ private conversation with the I olice Commissioner. Georges Clermont SLEPT AT THE POLICE STATION that night. In the morning he, his wife, <and two policemen went out to Vincennes 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 Georges 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, Jean, please.” A young man strolled up and Georges Clermont cursed aloud. It was the man who had kissed his wife in the post office. The tw’o policemen HELD HIM FIRMLY. “Now, please,” said the little fat man. And nil of a sudden Clermont saw a painted background, representing a cafe. There was a real table and chairs In the foreground. Mme. Clermont and the young man sat down. A waiter came and served them. “The 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 was pafe,” she said. “There is no charge against my husband. It is nil a mistake.” And as they left the shed together George., Clermont, with tears hi big eyes, murmured bls wife’s name—*‘Mar!el” And bto wife forgave him.