BETWEEN LIFE AMD DEATH.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 111, 18 July 1885, Page 5

BETWEEN LIFE AMD DEATH.

As I was walking through Boston Common one morning I met a man in the grand vista of the park. Though on my walks 1 am generally lost in thought, the countenance of this man at once attracted my attention. His eyes were dim, and his grey hair fell carelessly over his shoulders. While his eyes and hair seemed to be those of a man of sixty, his whole appearance showed him to be hardly thirty years old. He was evidently an American— at jeast to judge from his face, for the physiognomy of an American is unmistakable. He was certainly a man who had seen a great deal of the world. "This man has had an eventful life," said I, in a scarcely audible tone ; " how I should like to know the history of it." "If that is so," said a voice at my side, which I at once recognised as that of my friend, Mr A., "I can tell you the history of this man ; and I should be surprised ii you knew a man whose history can compare with his." '* Do you know him, then ? " I do not know him personally, but I am acquainted with a very peculiar event in hie life. I was in Paris at the time when his corpse was buried." "Buried?" „ . r iMI " Well, not strictly speaking, but still something of the kind. If you have a half-hour to spare, let us take a seat on that bench, and I will tell you the story which created a great sensation in Paris several years ago." The following is the story as related to me by my friend :— In a room in Paris which had but one window sat three persons. Monsieur Dorine was reading the Journal dcs Debats, his back turned to the sofa, on which sat Mademoiselle Dorine and a young American gentleman. The joyful countenance of the latter showed plainly in what relationship he was to the Dorine family. There was ou this afternoon no happier person in all Paris than Philip Wentworth. Life for him was so full of joy that he almost feared the next day might bring a change. What more could the future bring him? The greatest joy is always coupled with sadness with a certain indescribable presentiment of evil. W entworth felt this strange feeling come over him, as he pressed the hand of Julia Dorine to his lips and took his leave. Monsieur Dorine laid aside the paper and approached him. "If the house answers to Mr Cherbonneau's description," said he, ** I advise you to buy it -without delay. I would like to accompany you, Philip, but I must confess I am too much grieved at the . loss of my little bird to help you in choosing a cage. Meanwhile do not forget that the | last train returns at 5 o'clock. We have tickets, you know, for Sardon's new comedy, which is to be played to-morrow evening." The next morning the train brought Philip Wentworth to a charming little town in the vicinity of Paria A beautiful vista half a mile long led to the villa of Mr Cherbonneau. The young man walked from one room to the other, then visited the stable, the beautiful lawn in front of the house, the lovely little wood, and after he had dined with Mr Cherbonneau, settled the purchase, and wended his steps to the depdt, in order to be in time for the express train. When the evening twilight began to set in, and Paris appeared in the distance, it seemed to the young man as if he had been travelling a year. Arrived in the dep6t, he quickly betook himself to his hotel, where he found several letters on his table. But he hardly looked at the addresses, and qurckly changed his travelling costume for an evening toilet. His yearning desire to see Mademoiselle Dorine made the journey appear long ; at last the coach halted before the house of Mr Dorine. The door was opened as Philip mounted the step 3, and the servant silently relieved him of his overcoat and hat, " Is no one at home ?" he asked. "Mr Dorine cannot see you at this moment," answered the servant slowly. " He desires you to wait in the parlour." "Is Mademoiselle " "Yes, sir." " Alone." " Yes, sir," answered the servant, with a peculiar look. Philip could hardly repress an exclamation of joy ,* it was the first time that such a privilege had been allowed him. Hitherto his meetings with Julie had been only in presence of Mr Dorine or some other member of the family. A well-bred Parisian lady makes only a formal acquaintance with her affianced. Philip did not stop to consider for one moment. He softly opened the door of Julie's room. Under the large chandelier stood a small black coffin. # A burning candle, a crucifix, and a few white flowers stood on a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead. When Mr Dorine heard the shriek " of anguish which broke the solemn stillness of the hour, he hastened to the room, and found Philip standing like a statue in the centre of the room. It was only after the lapse of some time that Wentworth learned the full particulars of the immeasurable misfortune which had befallen him. The previous evening Mademoiselle Dorine had betaken herself to her room, apparently in perfect health. She had told her maid to wake her early next morning. When the girl came at the appointed time, Mademoisell e Dorine sat in her arm-chair where, she had evidently been overtaken by sleep. At her feet lay a book half-open. The maid was terrified when she saw that the bed was untouched, and her miatress had not yet laid aside her toilet. She tried to wake her ; but in vain. She was not asleep -but dead ! Two letters were immediately sent to Philip, one to the depot in G., and the other to his hotel. The former had reached its place of destination too late ; the latter had not been opened by Philip. The wealth of the young lady, her sudden death, and the romantic courtship of the young American caused a large multitude of persons to be present at the funeral. The corpse was to be placed in the family vault of Mr Dorine, in the cemetery of Montmartre. This vault was surrounded by an iron railing, through which could be seen a heavy oaken door, which opened into the vault proper. The vault was about twenty feet square, had a small air-hole in the roof, and contained two sarcophagi. One of these enclosed the remains of Mrs Dorine, who had died a few years before, and on the other, which was new, were raised the initials "J.D." . 1A , A . L „«, The funeral procession halted at the little gate of the garden which surrounded the vault, and only the nearest friends followed the coffin to its final resting place. A wax candle was burning at the foot of the open sarcophagus, which threw a dim light over the corpse. The ccflin was lowered into its repository of granite, the last prayer was said, and the heavy oaken door swung back on its hinges as the mourners Blowly left Mr Dorine drew his mantle tightly around him and stepped into the carriage. He was so overcome with grief that he had not noticed the absence of Philip. Long after the noise of the receding wheels had ceased to be heard Philip opened his eyes, as if awakening worn a dream. He stood up and looked into the darkness which surrounded him. Where was he? In an instant the truth flashed across

i his mind ; lie had been left behind in the vault, While kneeling behind the sarcop- | hagus he had fainted, and during the lost | solemn rites his absence had not been noticed. The first feeling which overpowered him waß naturally an indescribable terror, but only for a moment. Life had no more charm for him. his burning desire to ' rest by the side of his Julie— a desire which he had expressed a hundred times during I the course of the night— could now be realised. The few years which he had yet to live had no more worth for him. With Philip Wentworth'a fine organisation was coupled a mind which never formed a judgmenthastily, but which rushed on with enthusiasm when there was a quesI tion of struggling with misfortune, and the ! horror which would certainly have taken possession of any other person in a similar situation had no hold on his heart. He looked upon himself simply as locked-up, and hoped for a speedy delivery. The circumstance that he was in the same enclosure with the body of his beloved bride filled him with consolation rather than with terror. Her pure soul already dwelt in the region of eternal light, and could she do otherwise than protect him by her prayers at the foot of God's throne ? As Philip was passionately fond of smoking, he happened to have a box of matches in his pocket. Af terseveral useless attempts he succeeded in lighting one, and to his great delight discovered that the candle had been left behind, by the light of which he j forthwith examined the vault. He tried to force the heavy door from its hinges, but his labour was all in vain. Philip now saw that all hopes of freeing , himself were useless. He placed the candle on the ground and contemplated the small, flickering flame. Suddenly he blew out the J light with feverish haste. His life depended on the candle. He had read in an account of a shipwreck J how a person had lived several days on a few pieces of wax. I By the light of a match he looked at his watch. It was stopping— the hand pointed ! to eleven. Was it eleven o'clock a.m., or had he forgotten to wind his watch the j evening before ? He knew that the mourners had left the cemetery at ten o'clock a.m.; but how many hours bis swoon had lasted he could not tell. , Notwithstanding his sanguine temperament, he could no longer shake off a certain fear. He did not doubt that he would be missed, and that his disappearance under such circumstances would till his friends with terror, but— how could it occur to them that he was in the churchyard of Montmartre ? What would it help him ! even if the Prefect of Police sent a hundred detectives on his trail ? Of what use would it be to fish in the Seine or make investiga- , tions in the morgue, while he himself was in the family vault of Mr Dorine? On the other hand, the fact that he had been seen here last would undoubtedly be an important consideration to an experienced , detective. The sexton might, perhaps, return in order to get the candle, which might accidentally have been forgotten. And might not Mr Dorine send some fresh flowers the next day ? What various hopes J and still how long would he live in such a place ? With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the candle into four equal parts. " This evening," he said, "I will eat one piece—tomorrow morning the second — towards even ing the third— the next day the fourth— and then— then help must come." That morning he had taken nothing but a cup of coffee, and the pangs of hunger now began to assail him. Still he postponed his meal as long as possible, and only when midnight was passed, according to his calculation, he ate the first piece of wax. Although it was insipid, it fulfilled its end. He now became sensible of another evil. The dampness of the walls and the wind which penetrated through the airholes in the roof caused all his limbs to become stiff, so that there was nothing left for him but constantly to walk up and down. The fatigue which soon ovetcauae him had to be conquered by all the force of his will, for heie sleep and death were one and the same, and he had made up his mind to live. Wonderful pictures of long ago crossed bis mind as hie heavy steps resounded on the stone floor ; familiar forms of his childhood days loomed up before him ; the joys and the sufferings of the past year, his love and his loss, passed in review before his troubled imagination. Sleep was banished from his eyes, and the pangs of hunger; again made themselves felt. According to hia calculation it was now morning. Perhaps the sun was just rising behind the towerß and cupolas ; perhaps a heavy rain was enveloping Paris in a thick mist. Paris, ha ! what a dream ? By degrees Philip saw that the dampness was becoming master of him. He sank in a half -senseless condition to the ground. Accidentally his hand touched a piece of wax - he grasped it mechanically and swallowed it. How curious, thought he, that I am not thirsty. Meanwhile the minutes glided like hours. There was but one piece of candle left. Philip had eaten the third piece, not to satisfy his hunger, but to anticipate it. He had swallowed it as though it were a disgusting medicine, on the effects of which life depended. The moment was approaching nearer and nearer when the last piece would be gone, but in order to'protractthis moment, he resolved to fast this time. He still held the last piece of wax in his hand ; finally in wild despair he pressed it to his lips, then suddenly cast it far from him— for the door was opened, and he saw the form of Mr Dorine sharply outlined against the blue horizon. When Mr Dorine led the young man into the open air, he saw that his hair, which had been raven black, was now grey, and his eye was dim. " And how long vvas Wentworth really in the vault?" I asked Mr H., when he had finished his story. " Exactly one hour and twenty minutes," said he, with a smile.— M. S. Hous, iv the II Detroit Free Press."