LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 297, 26 May 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ROMANCE IN A PARIS PENSION. C Continued.) We both go up to the bedroom. In a small white bed lies the child, a feverish spot on each cheek; he opens bis big eyes and smiles a welcome. * We are come to paint your picture,’ Olga says, kissing him; ‘ here are some flowers for you. ’ Victor brightens up, he is propped by pillows. The old grhnd'mcre sits close to him, the window is open, and an acacia tree in full bloom casts a delicious fragrance; a cage with two canaries stands on the sill. I sketch the room as it|is ; the sick child sitting up playing with the flowers, the grand'mere, with her wrinkled face and sweet, sad grey eyes and snowy hair, making such a contrast to the spiritual, unearthly face of the wee grandson. The old woman knits a brown woollen stocking, and a tear now and then drops on her hands as she looks at the child.

Olga, while painting, tells Victor a story of a little boy who was carried away by the fairies, and is still living with them in a beautiful blue palace up in the clouds; he is the only little boy there, the fairies are very fond of him, pet him much, so he is quite happy. Victor’s expression gets more and more ideal, and Olga’s portrait is growing wonderfully like. ‘ What a treasure it will be to us!’ exclaims the old woman' *We shall prize it, oh so much, mademoiselle!’

‘ Why do you look so triste, grand’vierel Suppose the fairies take me away up in their blue palace, you, papa, and mademoiselle must come also.’

A tap at the door; a fine stalwart omrier in a blue blouse comes in; his face is sunburnt, but very handsome. He bows respectfully to us, hopes that he does not disturb us, and going up to Victor kisses him. ‘ How are you, man filsf ‘ Better, petit pere. Look at the pictures the ladies are painting of me. ’ ‘With your permission, mademoiselle/ and he looks at Olga’s work. ‘ltis a very good likeness ; the expression is perhaps a little more sad, mais c’est Men lid ! The eyes are perfect, just the color and the expression. ’ Then he comes round to look at mine.

‘ Ah, that will make a capital picture, old age and childhood. I compliment you upon your aitistic talent.’ *ls he not a type of the best kind of French workmen? so intelligent, refined, and so artistic?’ whispers Olga to me. ‘ Well, how are you getting on, Monsieur Lenoir ? ’ she continues, addressing the ouvrier.

‘ Pretty well, mademoiselle, the commerce is just beginning to get on, and we must work hard—for during the late sad war and the terrible siege, our hard-earned savings were all spent. If the Republic can last; but, hclas, in our unfortunate country, no government is stable, and the happiness of the country at large is sacrificed to the heiirtless ambition of a few. But I shall retire, mesdemoiselles, for once I begin talking about politics I forget the place and hour.’ So saying, he kisses the grand’mere and Victor, and retires. ‘ I do admire the French workman so much ?’ says Olga. ‘ Lenoir is not an exception ; no, as a rule, the ouvriers are honest, intelligent, and refined ; such a contrast, so superior to those horrid little men one meets on the boulevards, sipping cafe, absinthe, and can dc vie. I wish those petits creves had all been killed during the late war ; they are regular pests, and ought to be extei’minated. I assure you that I world gladly shoot them all.’

But it is now getting too dark to work, so, kissing Victor, we go downstairs and have a quiet little dinner in the garden. What will that honest workman do to console the grand'mere when Victor is taken away from her? Why must that small treasure be carried off by that grim reality, Death? The landscape is in unison with our thoughts; the sun is setting, the birds are going to roost, the river flows on mournfully, a few fishermen are plying their net, an owl is giving vent to his single melancholy note, a bat flies round and round. * A sure omen of death!’ remarks Olga, with a shudder, as we hurry on to the cheinin de fer which is to take us back to Baris. The next day Horace accompanies us to Asnieres, his pockets full of toys, pictures, and bonbons. ‘ I asked Mr Morris to join us, but he refused. He cannot bear to see suffering; he shrinks from pain,’ says Olga. * Certainly that trait in his character has astonished and disappointed me. ’ When we reach the sick room we find the father and the grand’mere kneeling by the bedside. A scaur de cha rite, in her big flapping cap, is giving the child some syrup in a spoon, to alleviate his cough. Victor has just enough strength to clap his thin, transparent hands at our approach. Lenoir, who looks very sad to day, begs us to go on with our pictures, and whispers to Olga that the portrait will be a great consolation. It is a sad scene —the father with his honest face bent down in sorrow. The old woman kneeling by the bed. The scaur tripping noiselessly about the room, ‘ I shall see maman in Fairyland, won’t I, mademoiselle ? ’ ‘Yes,’ answers Olga ; * you will meet your mother there. She will be so glad to see you! and we shall all join you there, perhaps, very soon, ’ * And till you all come I shall look at you from the windows of my blue palace up there in the clouds, and perhaps the fairies will allow me to send you flowers and fruit, and I shall go and see who lives in the stars. But lam so tired, and am going to sleep. ’ We leave, for evidently Victor is ebbing away. We return home, feeling much subdued ; even Horace looks pale, and is very quiet.

When we return the following day, we hear that Victor had been beckoned away that night. We go up to the little room. The child is lovely in death; there is a sweet expression in his face, as if he really saw the Wonderful Land; ‘ there are ilowers all about him. ’ The father begs us to make a sketch of the dead child. We comply; it is a very painful work. Olga makes a charming sketch; the likeness is striking, and just over the bed she draws a little angel smiling down upon the dead child. The father and grand’mere press gratefully our hands, and we leave the sad 1 louse, promising to return in a couple of days for the funeral. It is a delicious morning in June ; a morning balmy and full of life; birds are singing merrily, insects are humming, bees are sucking honey, as little Victor’s coffin, covered with a white pall, laden with flowers, carried by two croque-morts, makes its way through the fields to the pretty c'mctiere. Olga, Horace, and I follow the mournful cortege. The venerable grand’mere totters in the rear, supported by the good sceur. Several groups of people are dotted about in the fields and meadows ; every man raises his hat, and every woman makes the sign of the cross as the tiny funeral passes by. The coffin is laid by the side of the mother’s under an old cypress tree. It is a pretty shady nook : flowers grow round it, and ivy creeps lovingly round the white marble cross. When it is all over Igo back to the house, and Olga and Horace remain behind talking to the poor father. La mere Gigun is much more composed and quiet than I could have imagined it possible. ‘ Pauvre petit!’ she exclaims, * his last words were, *I go to the fairies ! Maman is smiling and stretching out her hands to me. Tell Mademoiselle Olga that I am going ’ —and he was gone without any apparent pain. And I, who am long past seventy, survive him! It is strange ! JStifin, Victor is now with his mother, well cared for, no doubt. ’ The old woman falls asleep. The room is getting very dark, there is an awful stillness. 1 fancy that I see the child’s big eyes looking at me. The sceur comes in, throws a warm shawl over the old woman—she will spend the night with her —and I depart. At the door I meet Olga and Horace, still talking to the ouvrier. We all shake hands with the poor fellow. ‘Poor man!’ sighs Horace; ‘he bears his cross courageously. He is going to work harder than ever, in order not to allow himself to dwell too much upon his sore affliction. lam going to ask him to do me a lot of carving for my London house.’ Horace and Olga. A few evenings after this sad episode Horace comes into my room, looking rather meek, and, indeed, sheepish. ‘I know,’ he says, ‘that you are going to laugh at me. Can you guess what I have done? and he stares uncomfortably out of the window, ‘Well, I think I can guess,” I reply laughing. ‘Oh yes ! you can laugh. Go on. Well, what is it ?’ ‘ Why you silly old boy, you have of course fallen head over ears in love with that little sprite, Olga, though she is a Bohemian, a Radical, an artist, independent; in fact, the very contrary of what you pretend to admire. ’ ‘ Well, you have found me out!’ and he colors up very much ; ‘ but the wonder of wonders is, that she cares a little for me also, and has consented to become my wife. ’ ‘ Nothing surprises me, she is such an inconsistent little damsel. She declared to me not many weeks ago that she would never marry ; but I am so glad that she has so soon changed her mind. You are to be congratulated, for she is a charming girl, though she is fond of art, and a Radical. ’ It was at the funeral of poor little Victor that I decided upon proposing to her. A look she gave me, a general something in her demeanour that morning, made me feel that I was not indifferent to her ; and Olga tells me that my kindness to the child made her care for me against her will.’ So the poor little fellow was the unconscious means of making up a match. I rush off to Olga’s room. I find her lying full length upon the hearth-rug ; her cheeks are very Hushed and her eyes sparkling. {Tobe continued,')