LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1886, 10 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HOW GEORGETTE KEPT TRYST, {Concluded.) Etienne read it through twice and mechanically refolded it, then took up his father’s letter—a pitiless letter, every word of which must have gone like a knife to her heart. He did not wonder that In the first anguish of wounded pride and outraged affection she had fled from him, bnt he determined that he would not accept the separation. He would find her and bring her back. He went out at once, and spent the remainder of the day in searching for her, inquiring in every quarter where she was known. But all his efforts were in vain. Her lonely little figure had drifted out of sight, and was lost in the great labyrinth of Paris. Two long years must pass before he saw it again. A chill September afternoon. The sky was covered with low hanging clouds, the wind had a wistful sigh in it which promised rain. It was nnpropitious weather for a fete at Versailles, nevertheless there was no lack of visitors, and to one of them who was slowly pacing the Verte Alice, this quiet, cool, grey day, full of soft mist and moisture, had a pensive charm of its own, like a picture in neutral tints, or an air in a minor key. Etienne was at the trysting place, that quaint green avenue where Georgette and he sat to watch the fountains two years ago. Two years ; what a gulf of time it had seemed before he crossed it, and how short it appeared now, looking back 1 He could have fancied it was only yesterday that he was loitering under the trees, with that bright, tender face at his side—the face which had guided him like a star through the lonely years to this day. Those years had been eventful ones to him. Fame had come to him, and he was on the road to fortune, too. He had left the * pleasant land of Bohemia,’ and the old nomadic life far far behind him. And Georgette, how had she fared ? what story would she have to tell him, he wondered. His heart sank strangely as he asked himself the question. Not for a moment did she doubt that she would come. He knew —he felt that she would keep her word, He longed impatiently for the moment, yet, mingled with that feeling there was a vague dread which he could not shake off. He stood near the statue of the waternymph in its marble basin, looking toward the upper end of the walk, from which he expected her to appear. He had it to himself at present, though figures passed and repassed at each end of the long vista, and the usual crowds were gathering round the basins. ‘She said, “when the fountains play, he muttered, consulting his watch. ‘ It is after four o’clock now, will they never begin !' Even as he spoke, rhe waters re. leased, and he heard once more the familiar musical sound the rushing, splashing, rippling, falling, all around him. Still the walk was solitary. To right or left there was no approaching figure. A dream-like feeling stole over him as ho stood thus watching, every sense and faculty strained in expectation. The present and the past seemed confused, and both wore an aspect of unreality. At length, at the upper end of the glade, a woman’s figure appeared. He could not yet distinguish the features, bnt he knew the shape, the walk, the dress. It was Georgette. His first impulse was to rush to meet her, but he restrained himself that he might enjoy the exquisite pleasure of seeing her corns to him. His heart swelled with a joy so keen that it bordered upon pain, and tears rushed to his eyes. She came slowly on down tho walk, nearer and nearer, so that he could distinguish every feature; nearer still, till she paused opposite to him, with one hand resting on the marble basin. |{ Still, he did not stir The look of lapturous expectation had faded from his face. He stood as if he were turned to stone. Was this Georgette, with the wan, white cheeks, the hollow eyes, that looked at him with such a forlorn appeal; the pale lips, that seemed to have forgotten how to smile ? There was a moment cf silence. She gazed at him as if she were trying to read his heart through his eyes; her face expressed more than he could understand. Was it joy or pain, or a strange mingling of both, that yearning, wistful look ? He oonld not tell. Before he recovered himself sufficiently to speak, before be could even put out hla hand to detain her —to his astonishment, aho abruptly turned from him, and passed swiftly on down the walk. He hastened after her, called her to stop, but she only quickened her pace, and before he could overtake her, she bad reached the

terrace round “Neptune’s Basin,’’and was lost in the crowd. He hurried to and-fro, looking for her eagerly among the groups who were loitering round the fountains or sitting under the trees. Nowhere was she to be seen. He went over the same ground half-a-dozen times, always returning to the walk in the hope of finding her there, till at length he pansed in bewilderment and consternation, and realised that be had lost Ilsr. What did it mean ? 'Why had she fled from him ? Could it be that she had misinterpreted his manner whan they met? At the first moment he had been too shocked and startled to speak; had she Imagined that his love died a sudden death when ha found her so piteously changed ? The thought gave him a pang of self-re-proach. He longed to fold her in his arms and tell her that never before had she been so dear to him. Ho pursued his search with feverish anxiety, but she had melted into the crowd like a rainbow into the sea, leaving no traoe behind. As it grew dusk, a fine penetrating rain began to fall, and the throng of visitors gradually dispersed, streaming out at the gates, and along the broad, quiet streets to the station. Etienne went with the rest. He felt a conviction, for which he could hardly account, that he should find her in Paris. But where was he to look for her! That was the question he asked himself as, after leaving the St. Lazare terminus, ha stood hesitating in the B,ue d’ Amsterdam. Then it occurred to him that she might possibly be lodging in her old quarters in the Eue dea Ecoles once more, or at any rate he might hear of her there. Ho hailed a fiacre and drove across the water to the familiar street. The old concierge, with the Holland apron and tasseled cap of yore, was smoking a post-prandial pipe at the door of his lodge. ‘Good evening, M. Podevin,’ Etienne began : ‘ you don’t remember me, I see, bnt I was a lodger of yours two years ago.’ The old man peered at him through the dusk, and then nodded. ‘I recollect you now, though I did not see at first. So many lodgers come and go, yon see, like the swallows, in the course of two years, apologetically. * And it is bnt seldom, I suppose, that they come back to the old nest ?’ ‘ Well, it happens sometimes,’ the other returned knocking the ashes of his pipe against the door post. ‘ For example, there is Georgette Treville —you remember her ? the little onvriere on the sixth ; we used to caliber “Ma’amselle Rcssignol”— ’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he assented, eagerly; ‘is she here now, ’ ‘ She came back to her old rooms a few weeks ago. There was some excuse for my not recognizing her. She was so altered, I thought it was her ghost.’ * Was she ill V

* That was what I asked he r * No,’ she said, * she had not been ill—she had only been starving.” ’ The yonng man uttered an exclamation that was like a cry of pain. ‘ Good heavens ? It can not be .’ The other nodded at him grimly, as he pressed the tobacco down in his pipe. * You would not have doubted it. if yon had seen her. She had been short of work for several weeks, she told me ; and to bo short of work meant to be short of food, you see. It is a common case enough, Monsieur.’ Etienne was silent; there was a choking sensation in his throat and a mist before his eyes. The old man watched him curiously. * You were good friends, you and she, in the old times. She will be glad to see you again very soon. She has been ill the last few days with a sort of low fever, and has not been down stairs.’ ‘But she was at Versailles this afternoon V His companion stared at him. ‘ Not likely. She was in bed this morning, and my wife said she seemed worse.’ * She was at Versailles this afternoon, for I saw her 1’ Etienne persisted. -- M. Podevin pushed his cap aside, and rubbed his head with a puzzled look, * that is odd, 1 have not stirred from this loge, and I can swear I never saw her pass. However, if she did go she has certainly returned by this time, for she was never ou c after dusk, and If you would like to see her —’ ‘Yes, I will goat once,’ Etienne interrupted, and he turned away. A host of tender recollections rushed upon him as he mounted the familiar stairs to Georgette’s door. It was half-open, and he paused a moment on the threshhold looking in. The room was in shadow except near the window, where the rays of the rising moon ‘ made a dim silver twilight,’ and showed him—Georgette, seated with her back toward him at the work-table. She still wore her hat and jacket, and was leaning with her forehead on her folded hands, in an attitude of weariness or dejection. His heart beat painfully as he crossed the room to her side, and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. She did not stir or speak. * Georgette ?’ he whispered, then gently raised her head, and drawing it back against his breast, bent and kissed her. Marble was not colder than the lips which met his. A shudder ran through him from head to foot. His heart thrilled with a sudden awful fear. 1 Georgette !’ he cried aloud. There was no answer. ‘ She has fainted,’ he grasped ; * she has only—fainted. She will be better presently." He lifted the nerveless figure in his arms, and laid it on the bed ; he then went to the stair head and called loudly for assistance. When the concierge, and those of the lodgers who had heard the summons, came hurrying in, he was on his knees at the bedside, chafing one of the little cold hands, and trying to warm it in his breast. ‘ Bring the light here,’ he said, abruptly, to M. Podevin, who carried a small handlamp. The latter complied, holding it so that the light fell upon the figure on the bed. The face was waxen white, and awfully still; the eyes were closed, the lips parted in a smile of unearthly serenity. ‘ Oh, God—my darling !’ The cry broke hoarsely from his white lips as he sank on his knees at the bedside. «Georgette, my love, my little dove I Have I found you only to lose you forever ? Speak to me—look at mo!’ But the ‘shy blue eyes ’ would never meet his again; the sweet lips were sealed forever. * All was ended now, the hope and the fear and the sorrow ; All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. ’ For her all was ended, but for him there were the desolate years to come ; the loneliness, the weariness, the aching sense of loss which would never pass away. Ten minutes later a doctor had been summoned, and the little room was full of horror-struck and compassionate faces. ‘ Syncope —inanition; defective action of the heart—humph !’ muttered the surgeon, as he raised himself after a brief examination. ‘ When did this happen! Who saw her last ?’ * I saw her this afternoon, Monsieur,’ a woman’s voice replied, and the speaker came forward. ‘ I lodge in the next room, and when I passed her door about two o’clock she was getting ready to go out. I was surprised, as she seemed so ill, but she told roe she had promised to meet a friend at Versailles. However, she did not go, for when I returned she was sitting at the table there, as if she had fallen asleep.’ * It was the sleep that knows no waking,’ spoke the doctor gravely. Etienne, who had not yet moved or spoken, rose slowly to his feet. ‘ What time —was that!’ he asked in a voice not his own. * Three o’clock. Monsieur, as near as I can guess.’ The young man’s figure swayed as it ne were falling. He put his hands to hla eyes. Awe and wonder too deep for words overpowered him. The angel of death had summoned Georgette before the hour appointed for their meeting. Who was it, then —what was it ho had seen at the tryating-place? We are told that ‘ love is stronger than death.’ Is it irreverent to believe that its magnetic power might be permitted for a moment to draw back a spirit from the shadowy borders of the Silent Land ?