LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1885, 9 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HOW GEORGETTE KEPT TRYST, ( Continued .) ‘Perhaps it was an order for flowers,’ she remarked. ‘ For orange-blossoms, hein ?’ suggested the old man, with a sly glance at Etienne. l lf so, I shall not accept it, ’ was Georgette’s answer,’ ‘ Why ?’ her lover demanded, aa he followed her up stairs ; * surely it would be a good omen.’ ‘No; if you make them for others you will never wear them yourself, they say.’ ‘ Superstitious child ! You will let me see that letter, won’t you ? I shall not sleep till I know who is your mysterious correspondent.’ ‘ls Monsieur jealous, for example?’ she asked, throwing a laughing glance at [him over her shoulder.

‘ Not the least in the world,’ he protested. ‘ I am only curious.’ ‘ Well, come up to my landing, and I will satisfy ycur curiosity as soon as I have lighted the lamp. Where is my key ? ah, there it is!’ She unlocked her door and entered, while her companion stood outside, looking in at the humble little room whose threshhold he had never crossed. The moonlight filled it, giving it a dreamy, unreal look, showing the little white bed in an alcove, the work-table with its pretty litter of half-finished flowers, the bird-cage and plants in the window, and his own protograph on the wall, with a print of our Lady of l.ourdes above it. Everything was as daintily neat and trim as Georgette herself, and the room was sweet with the scent of mignonette. ‘Bon soir, Jannet! and thou too, Mignon,’ said the girl, as she entered, greeting her feather and furred companions. The canary responded with a shrill chirp, while the cat jumped on to her shoulder, and purred a welcome. When the lamp was lighted the came toward her lover, who was watching her with all his heart in his eyes. Her hair, damp with the night-dews, lay in loosed curled rings on her forehead ; fat : gue had made her paler than usual, but her eyes shone like twin stars. ‘ You look at me as If you had never seen me before,’ she said smiling. ‘ I have never seen you look so sweet ’ ‘Thank you ; but you say that every time we meet, do you know ?’ * Because at every meeting I discover a fresh beauty.’ ‘ And never any defects?’ He took her face between his hands, and looked at it critically. ‘Yes; yon are too pale, but that is soon remedied One—two,’ he kissed her on each cheek ; ‘ there, that is better. Now look at me; let roe see if your eyes are laughing as well as yonr lips.’ They were laughing when she raised them to his face, but the look of passiona’e tenderness then encountered made them droop with sudden gravity, and brought a still warmer tide of colour in her face.

1 My sweet! ’ he whispered, bending till his bearded cheek touched hers; ‘ it is a joy to love you, and to be loved by you is heaven itself, _ la there another “man in

Paris, 1 wonder, so happy as I am at this moment! ’ . ‘ Hush! ’ ahe interposed, patting her hand to hia lips ; don’t boast of happiness, that is the way to lose it,’ He laughed. ‘ Another superstition ! How many more have you in stock ? And now for the letter. Let me hold the lamp while yon open it.’ 1 Yon will let me read it to myself first, I suppose ? No, you are not to look over my shoulder, ’ she added, laughing and drawing back; * have patience.’ Smiling still, she unfolded it, but she had hardly glanced at the first lines when her face changed. The color faded out of it suddenly; the light from her Ups. She glanced rapidly down the page, then hastily refolded it, and thrust it into her pocket. * Georgette ! ’ Etienne exclaimed, ‘ yon promised to show it to me.’ ‘ Not now—to-morrow,’ she faltered. ‘ To-night; at once, if you plea»e,’ he persisted, his face darkening ; ‘it is no ordinary letter to cause such agitation. I have a right to see it; give it to me,’ and he laid his hand on hors.

She looked up at him piteously. ‘ Not now—to-morrow,’ she repeated, hardly above a whisper. He let go her hand, and turned from her, his face dark with jealous anger. She clasped her hands upon his arm, and detained him.

‘Do not part from me in anger to-night-do not, my darling! trust me till tomorrow.’

He looked at her a moment with troubled eyes, but there was no resisting the pleading of that sweet, tearful face.

‘ So be it,’ ha said gravely; ‘you shall tell me your secret at your own time. Good night. Georgette.’ As he bent toward her, with a-sadden, impulsive movement, the girl put her arms round his neck, and drew his bead down, kissing him again and again with quivering lips, then took the lamp from his hand; and turned away. Touched and surprised by her unwonted effusion, he went slowly down stairs> pausing, when he reached his own landing, to look np. Georgette was leaning over the banisters, with the lamp in her hand, looking down at him. There was an expression on her face he had never seen before ; a rapt, far-away gaze that gave it a spiritual look. The moment he glanced up at her she vanished in her own room, and all was dark.

Many a time in after years Etienne saw her in dreams, bending tdward him with that rapt look in her eyes, with the shadows around her and the light upon her face. Etienne passed a restless night and woke late next morning, feeling unrefreahed, and with a strange sense of oppression and uneasiness.

It was a gloomy day, with a leaden sky and a chill wind.

‘ The weather is breaking !’ the concierge remarked when he brought up the roll and cup of cafe an lait for his lodger’s ‘first breakfast.’ ‘ Yesterday was the last of the summer.’

‘The last of the summer.’ The young man found himself repeating the words thoughtfully, as if they contained some hidden meaning. It was after eleven o’clock by the time he had finished. Ha went up to Georgette’s room and tapped at the door. It was not latched, and as his summons met with no reply he gently pushed it open and looked in.

The expression of pleasurable anticipation faded suddenly from his face, giving place to one of blank perplexity and astonish* meat.

One glance showed him that Georgette was not there, and it showed him something else. All her belongings bad vanished. The room was stripped and bare. He stared round stupidly, trying in vain to understand it. Georgette gone! It seemed like a bad dream, from which he would wake presently to find her before him.

At length, rousing himself from his stupefaction, he hurried downstairs to question the concierge. *oh, yes, Ma’amselle Georgette is gone, sure enough, ’ the old man told him oooly. ‘ She came down shortly after nine o’clock, and told me that she was obliged to leave immediately. She paid her term and fetched a fiacre herself. The driver carried her box down stairs, and—paf ! she was gone ; all in a breath, as one may say. But she left a note for you, Monsieur ; that will explain it no doubt.’ * Why could you not tell me that at first ?’ Etienne asked, impatiently, snatching it from his hand. Inclosed was the letter which she had received on the previous evening, together with a few lines in her own writing. He put the former aside without a glance, and took up her hurried note. ‘ Dear love, I write with a breaking heart to bid you farewell,’ it began. ‘ The letter I received last night was from your father. When yon have read it you will know why I have left you. ’ Etienne uttered a passionate exclamation, “My father ! ah—l understand. He knew that I should never give her up, so he has taken the surest means of driving her from me.’

‘ If a marriage with me,’ Georgette wrote, ‘would ruin all your prospects, and spoil your life at the outset, as ha says, I must never be your wife. I love you too well to injure you so cruelly, and, therefore, though it tears my heart, I must say—adieu ! Forgive me, my beloved—and forget me.’ The letter ended there, but overleaf there was a postscript, which had evidently been added on a sudden impulse at the last moment.

*My courage fails me. I can not, can not write that cruel word ‘farewell.’ I must have a hope, however slight, to keep me from despair. Dearest, in two years’ time you will be your own master ; then, if your love is unchanged, we may meet again. On the first Sunday in September, two years hence, go to Versailles, and in the afternoon, when the fountains play, wait for me in the “VerteAllee” where we sat yesterday. If I live I will come to you. Till, then, my best-beloved, adieu!’ (To be continued.")