LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1656, 11 June 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TO HIS OWN DESTRUCTION. (Concluded.) He stnda by the window gazing out on the sky vacantly. His eye is glassy almost, and every now and then he casts a furtive glance toward the table. Yes, there they stand—the two basins—one for Madame, eno for b’mself. Ho does notshudder —no — he is calm and white and wan; standing there by the window he looks rs motionless as an upright corpse. The sound of Madame’s needle cannot be heard, for it is running in and out of the soft cloth noiselessly. fit' 1 !, now and again he gives a conva’ ive start. Is she coming? Is that she? and the cold beads of sweat start to his forehead as he turns. No—she stiff is sewing. Wiff eternity ever be so long as those awful waiting moments? The stillness is alive or he is dead—which ? * Here is your coat. It was au ugly tear,’ said Madame, coming in at last, ‘ but I have done it wel 1 . No one will know it.’ * Thanks, a thousand times.’ .And he advances toward her, takes it from her hand, and puts it on. Then mechanically he takes his place at table, Madame is already seated. She begins to uncover her soup, when Monsieur, as pale as death, rises, saying : ‘ Excuse me, I will return presently; I have forgotten something; an important memorandum I have to make. Continue your soup I will return immediate! y. Madame makes no obj action. Monsieur is always courteous. She is accustomed to this, and begs him to go. All this time she hcs not touched her soup; she has been attending to him while he was speaking. As soon as ho is gone, she looks down, and the light falls upon the cover, which is supported against the side of the basin. * Tlens ! how careless ! How disgusting!’ she exclaims. Excellent housewife as she is, she revolts at dirt. But now sho shudders. Mon Bleu ! a spider ! of all things I loathe a spider,’ thinks Madame. There is reason, too, for this—they affect her physically and make her sick. She cannot eat her soup, for the spider has crawled on the edge of her basin. How tiresome ! and sho is hungry. Vite ! her husband has no such fancies —she will change basms with him. The spider has crawled away. Not for worlds could she kill it. It has gone, and she has changed basins with her husband, and now she can enjoy her soup. Sho eats slowly, silently, dipping her bread into the liquid now and again, rnd then she finishes it Still her husband has not returned. But she never questions Monsieur’s movements ; when he has written his memorandum ho will retnrn. Meanwhile his soup is covered up and keeping warm for him ; Madame, however, has taken the precaution to wipe the cover ; he will not be disgusted by the unsightly dust or spiders—Ouf 1 This is Madamo’s thought as she wipes her mouth with her serviette. She can wait now, having satisfied her hunger, until Monsieur’s return before serving up the second course. She leans back in her chair stolid and comfortable, and then Monsieur walks in. He is very calm. He does not look at his wife, but takes his seat at table, and removing the cover begins to eat. ‘lt is good—the soup,’ says Madame, throwing out a remark, ‘ and very reviving ; I was hungry.’ He does not answer, but drinks spoonful after spoonful, not slowly and leisurely as Madame had done, but hurreidly, as though the time spent in writing his memorandum had to be made good by fast eating. It docs not take him long to finish his soup. A very few minutes sees it .all consumed, and his basin is as empty as Madame’s. When all is gone, he uses again from the table. * What! won’t you wait for the bouilliV says Madame, who rises also to take the meat from the pot and dish it up. ‘No, thenk you,’he answers;! ‘cannot eat any more. I must go, Piniah without mo,’ He returns to the salon to fetch his hat, not daring to look behind him as he leaves the kitchen, where Madame is busy w Ah the meat. His hat is on the table, and he goes over to fetch it; but why is it he cannot put it on his head and go ? He stands there rooted apparently to the ground, fascinated by some influence impossible to withstand, that compels him to watch and listen and wait. What is he waiting for? A cry, perhaps, or what ? But a 1! is silent. Madame is eating her meat, slowly enjoying it; the only sound that reaches him through the half-open door is the occasional click of her knife and fork against the plate, or when the bottle from which|she pours her wine jingles agamst the glass. How he listens? AU his senses seem proUrnaturally strained in the endeavor to catch some sound from within. But none comes. ‘ Why should it! Fool! It is too soon 1 *‘ Natural causes” don’t work thus suddenly !’ he thinks, wrenching his feet by

an effort away from the spot to which they appear to have been chained. He will go out now, but lie must not fo-get some cigarettes And he delays again while searching for the materials to make one. Madame has finished her dinner by this time, and having cleared away as usual, sho leaves everything in readiness for the concierge's wife the next morning, and returns to the salon, It has been growing dusk the last quarter of an hour, and Madame lights the limp Sho thinks Monsieur has gone out, and utters a mild exclamation of surprise to find him stdl in the salon, wh-;re he has been for the last ten minutes, still pursued by a spell that forbids him to leave the room. After finding bis smoking materials, he had flung himself into a seat, where Madame finds him. He starts np on seeing her enter with the lamp, end excuses himseff. ‘ I was so very tired that I sat down for a moment, and forgot how time goes.’ ‘You work jour brain too much,’says Madame, placidly. ‘ You have eaten nothing but the soup—you took no wine. You will growiil if you fail to supply the stomach with sufficient nourishment, Let me fetch you some wine. ’ Then Madame pats down the lamp on the table and sees him, * Your face ! What jiallor ! You are il? Speak—say what is the matter!’ she exclaims, shaken out of her stolidity by b'.s terrible appra-ance—for he is staring at her with a ghastly stare—and hia face is convulsed with horror. Sho hurries into the kitchen to br’ng him wine ; holds it to his lips, end unresistingly he swaUows B. Then he rises, saying he will go out. ‘ You are not fit to go out,’remonstrates Madame. ‘ Rest quietly. I shall have you laid up ill for days if you work your brain any more to-day. Sit where you are. Tomorrow you will bo better.’ Ho obeys her. He feels powerless to assert his will any longer. Ho is conscious of a gnawing sinking end sickness that prostrates him, and he yields to her command—and watches her 1 Her calmness how returns. Monsieur is subject to occasional fits of cerebral excitement when he has been much overworked. She has nursed him through more than ons attack Quiet is w-hat ho needs, and nothing more is requisite. She takes a chair and draws it to the table to be near the lamp, for she wants to work. The light falls upon her face, throwing out every feature, every movement, distinctly. Monsieur, in the shadow, sits like one fascinated ; he cannot take his eyes off her—and watches her. Thus two hours pass away. ‘Time flies so fast when one is occupied,' thinks madame, as the clock st r ikes nine. Monsieur has closed his eyes at last, overpowered by the mesmeric pendulum of Madame’s needle. She looks up at him, and thinks it is time ha were in bed. Patting away her work, she go- s t > him, and touching him lightly on the arm, says ‘ You wi’l be better in bed. Lit me assist yon ’ He opens his eyes vacantly ; then they grow wild. He struggles to lift himself up to a standing posture, but in the endeavor to do so he falls forward with a groan, and lies collapsed with agony. Madame is in a fright, for this is a phase of Monsieur’s malady she has not before witnessed. When she tries to raise him he is ligid, and she summons the concierce’s wife to her assistance. ‘ Vite —run!’ she exclaims. ‘My husband hai fallen in a fit. Fetch a doctor at once !’ The 'concierge’s wife sends her husband, and returns to help Madame. Between them they car. y Monsieur into the adjoin;ng bedroom and put him into bed, where he lies writhing and groaning until the doctor comes. After a thorough examination, the doctor looks grave, rnd, turning to Madrme, says, * This is a sad case of poisoring. ‘ IVson I Impossible!’ exclaims Madame. ‘Yes, poison,’ repeats the doctor, severely * Whit has he eaten V ‘ Nothing but a little soup,’ says Madame, * and a littlo wine, I took both the soup end the wine at the same time, and behold me 1 I am not poisoned.’ Notwithstanding bis mortal pa ; n, Monsieur hears what passes between Madame and the doctor. Turning to the latter, he says : ‘ Send the women out, I would speak to you alone.’ Tne docter conveys the message, and the two women retire. As soon as they are alone, Monsieur asks : * la it true, doctor ? is this poison V ‘ Yes—poison,’ ‘Ami dying—past a 1! remedy ?’ ‘Past all remedy,’ echoes the doctor. ‘ Have you any idea who gave it to yon ? Canyon tell me anything that will bring the evildoer to justice? Have you any suspicions ? Did yon poison yourself ? How did it happen ? ‘ Yes—l know how it happened—Listen —I bought—oh —Mon Dun —for my—wife —end 1 put it Into —Madame’s basin—of soup—bat—oh—was I mad ?—did I mistake ?—no—no —and— yet—she is well—and I am—Ah ! mercy —mercy —not dying—?’ ‘Yes —dying,’ says the doctor. ‘ Shall 1 send for a confessor V ‘No no—Listen, I was weary of Madame —Life was insupportable—and— Mon Dieu— there was Marie —Ten thousand devi's urged me on—l was road!-Ah — this pa ! n—ease me—ease me !’ The confession is made amid groans of pain and horror, from which let ns tum away. Rage, remorse, and anguish strive for some few hours with the unhappy man’s soul, tearing him mentally and boddy to pieces. The doctor remains applying what remedies he can until the ,combat is ended and the wretched man is a corpse. When a l l is over, the doctor, who has not suffered the women to enter the dying man’s room, now goes to them and te’ls them he is dead, and orders the body not to be touched until his return. Madame weeps on healing of her husband’s death. She is solaced, remembering that she has alw-ays been a good wife rnd done her duty. ‘ And now he is dead ! poisoned ! It is terrible—frightful! But the will of God be done ! Monsieur must have lost h’s head to take poison. He studied too much. He was not in Us nund, poor man. Fifteen years they had boon mauled—and he was a good husband!’ cries Madame to the concierge’s wife, who sits near condo’ing with her. The authorities take possession of the corpse next day. There is an inquest at which the doctor gives (evidence of the confession made by the dying man. Madame is present as a witness and hears this evidence. It is a torible moment, but she can explain it all ‘ Ah, Messieurs—it was the spider!’ And then she narrates bow it a’l happened, and her life by changing basins with her husband, who thus swallowed the poison he had intended for her, but she adds, ‘ Boor man ? He was off his head—for he was always a good husband, always!’ ‘ Tisns !’ exclaims one of the officers as he leaves the house after the inquest, ‘ M hat a dioll affair ! Madame had a near escape. Ma foi —Saved by a spider.’