LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1655, 10 June 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TO HIS OWN DESTRUCTION. • And your life now, what is it ? not a marriage, surely, such as God love?. No, it in a hollow, harsh life—an unnatural bondage. Think of the long, slow years that have passed ; can you live through as many to come? No—thrice no. What, then, will you end your life, and leavo Marie I Impossible. Then how to escape—ah, how? A very little would do it. Yes, a very littlo would do it. Here—do you see that shop ; it is full of drugs—y«>B call them drugs, you —a Professor, skilled in all kinds of science, what is easrr for you than t> use your knowledge, and defy detection ? It is only the clumsy bungler who is discovered, but you—ycu are capable of controlling events to Eerve your own purpose. Risks—yes—ia everything there is risk ; you risk your life every time you walk a street, you may be run over, y u may—hah! a thousand things may happen, and is not your freedom and Marie's happiness worth a hundred such iisk3? Chut! Qualmish, are you, about taking a life ? Why you are doing a fel'ow creature a service to send him or her to heaven speedily ! ha, ha, ha !' • Mon Dieu ! save my reason!' moans the miserable man, awakened from his hideous reverie by the sound of his own low chuckling laugh ; and recoiling in horror from the spectacle of meditated murder, that the demon of his imagination holds before his brain with a mocking irony. Ah! ho has passed tho shop where the drugs are sold. Yes—he is safe. He has not gone in, he thinks, looking back to make sure of himself. Ye', he passed it, but the temptation is not over, for here are more shops. Every day he must pass them. Will ho in the end le-iet or yield? For every day these thoughts will come, and at last the devils will overmaster him and have him in possession. Impassible ! And yet—Marie ! So little. What shall he do ? -Ah, what shall he do ?

And he stands for a moment appalled by tha consciousness that demons are fighting with him, hungering fir the possession of his heart, his brain, his will. He watcbeH the combat. He sees the fate that is hia due if he listens to them. He feels the executioner taking his life. It is a short agony —He is gone—Where. ' Fool —thou art in the streets r. f Paris,' laugh the demons of his own heart. He cinnofc discern which. ' What is the use of your brain, your intellect, if destiny is to make a sport of you and toss you on the horns of circumstance? Tt is only blunderers who wait upen fate. If you are not able to defy it and thrust aside the weight that threatens not only to suffocate you, but the woman who loves you, then man or slave that you are, you are no* fit to live, ar.d de'~th i=i your fittest destiny. Bah ! one would think you were called upon to phed blood. B'.ood ! who wants to shed blood? Macbeth was wor«e than a criminal in this, for he was a blunderer. Had you been there it is not with knives you would have put poor old King Duncan out of his life into a better ; a better, mark —why, that alone is a service. Knives —who but a fool would use them unless to proclaim the folly cf their owners ? The Borgias and Medio! knew better than this ; when living impediments stood in their way no bloody victim, ghastly and hideous was suffered to bear witness against them publicly. But the impediment ceased to nevertheless —died of course, from natural causes in a decent manner, and was piously buried with funeral honors. Natural causes ! Science and skill can compas them surely, if even in an unnatural manner ; but tben so little does it—so very little—and judiciously administered, why, the verdict on all sides would be ' Natural causes.' The words chirm him. He keeps repeating them over and over in his brain, as though they possessed a sponge-like property that could absorb the evil from his iutentio s, aid convert a medidatei crime into a freak of nature They soothe and fascinate him. Natural causes ! He fondles the wor ?s again and again. He will not part from them. They inclose so many darling possibilities that they become at length the angels of his freedom and the messengers of his love to Marie. What joy th a y will carry to her ! What a long life of happiness lies bound up in them ! The mocking demons have gone, it Feems to him. But the sly traitors are sti'l in ambush, laughing at their victim because he cannot recognise them in their changed dress as angels cf light. He is almost in good spirits when he returns to Madame, hii wife, in the evening She has prepared a savory dinnor for him, of which ha partakes, and tonight he seasons their usually silent meil with conversation. Madame listers, but pays no attention to the chango from a sentimental point of view, •ileiit or talkative, he is the same to hor — her husband —whom she has married to cook and mend and economise for. She does her duty ; he doe 3 his. He earns money for the house, which she lays out judiciously. Nothing more is required, and Madame is at all times indifferent to the trivial signs of the change of manner. Glad or sorry are terms that can soon loose their meaning for many. When Monsieur talks she listens ; when he is silent, she is not disturbed. In fact, madamc is an excellent wife. What more could be desired ? This evening as on every othsr, as soon as Monsieur has finished his dinner, ho_ goes into the salon, whi'e Madame remains to clear the table, and leave the kitchen ready for the concierge's who comes each day to e'ean and scour.

A week passes away. Madame still goes on with her round, with her routine of duty. Each afternoon finds her iu her accustomed seat by the window, when r.ot tempted out by the exigencies of society. Oo one evening in every week she receives. She sits now thinking over yesterday's reception, when Monsieur had entertained some fellow-Professors, and they had talked learnedly together, while Madame was listening to their wivep. It interests her to remember what this one said, what that one wore. But in the midst of his indulgence, she recollects Monsieur's dinner, aud she goes into the kitchen to prepare for her husband's return. Presently she hoars his footsteps on the stairs and hurries with her preparation. Re comes up slowly, calmly, like one tired. On reaching the top he goes into the kitchen. His wi'o is in the act of pouring out the soup into two separate basins standing ready on the table to receive it. So far as she can be surprised she now is so, to see Monsieur come in to dinner before fhe has summoned him. Such is not his habit. He is looking pale. ♦ What is it?' she asks. • I have torn my coat, he answers gravely. ' I must, I find, go out immediately after dinner. Will you do me the kindness to mend it for me?' (Monsieur is always courteous to Madame ) 'Here, I will pour out the soup for you. AUow me.'

He tJtca the saucepan from her hand, and gives her Ulttf coat, which he has thrown off while speaking. 'As you wm,' replies Madame, receiving the coat 'lsit a ! long affair ? If so, cover up the sonp after you have poured it in the ' basins. You will find the covers on yonder ohelf.' • Yea, it will take some few minutes to repair; but never mind, I will wait, and beep your soup warm.' Madame then leaves the kitchen. The coat is over her arm, and she carries it into tho salon, where stands her basket of cottons and needles. It is an ugly tear, andtakts her quite ten minutes to mend. Meanwhile Monsieur is not idle, pours Ihe soup into the basin, and puts them into their respective places. Then he gof sto the shelf Madame lias indicated, and finds the covers, which he at once makes use of. It is evident he is not accustomed to the minor details of the table, for he forgets to pass a cloth over the covers, which are dusty from lying several days in a dark cupboard, But what of this ? It is only a trifle after all It would have been better had the covers been dusted, but Monsieur has overlooked them and burried them on the basins as he takes them from the shelf. Then all is ready and he wait*. Let ns look at him while he is waiting. [lo be continued.)