THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 60, 5 October 1907, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

"MADAME LA EUSSE.' (By Kaehel ILiyuard.) When I saw her for tho first time, walking down the straight and particularly uninteresting village streot, I her in my own mind, ".Mad- I ame la Hu^-e." She wore a long, grey fur coat, and a fur rap pulled over her brows, and shadowing haunted eyes. The severity ol her costume, which would have spelt ruin to ninc-tenthi of her sex, was only in her case the right setting for a purity of line and modelling, such as one never sew ill an English face. My imagination travelled to St. Petersburg, the city of contrasts, of luxurious barbarism, side by side with sijualor, drab poverty, gorgeous color, anil clcv-.-r. exotic Russian women. My first thought was, "What is a woman who suggests all that is doing here!" Was she a political exile, perhaps a Nihilist, who had sought the ipiiet of an obscure Sussex village for leisure in which to hatch fresh plots! She glided •long shadow-like through the November mist, on curiously long am! narrow feet in their grey French kid l>cots, tho like of which had never trodilon these country roads before. 1 We passed each other close on the . gravel path, and 1 saw that her skin was magnolia pale, and her h ail carried , in a way which bespoke a professional training of some k'nd. Her e:,pre--,ion j was absolutely impassive, her eyes alone '

seeming to be alive, and they were the j •yes of one who has been tortured.

The next day I occupied myself with judicious inquiry. The post mistress Eve me the benefit of all the detail at r command. "The foreign lady? Oh, yes, she knew her quite well by sight. She had taken the cottage over the way called "Wisteria.' The one that folks said was haunted, though, of course, she didn't believe in any syeli nonsense. The lady was very pleasant spoken, but looked queer, not like the other people about here. They thought she must be French because of Borne of her funny ways, and she gave her orders to her maid in the morning with her hair hanging down her back in a plait, and walked in the garden like that, too; and as for her Setters, there was a sight of 'em always coming." I departed from the interview more interested than ever, and prolonged mv walk in order to pass the cottage in I question.

In the fulness of time I called upon the "foreign lady." To my disappointment she was out, and a week later she was shown in upon me as I sat writing. Her manners were quiet and nonchalantly easy, and to thie charm of her voice I succumbed at once.

It was tow-pitebed, with lovely inflexions, and an occasional hoarseness which was oddly fascinating. The haunted look was not so apparent in her eye* that day. That the was possessed of unusual trains, refinement, and personality, was beyond question. That being so, what was the doing here and whence had she tome?

I entertained successively the ideas t( actress, Bussian exile, grande dame at large, and retired opera-singer. Any one of those parts would have Mdted her equally welL She appeared to take a vivid interest is everything, and, greatly to my surprise, professed herself a lover of the corattry. She liked the quiet of a country life, (he said, and, being alone, and did mot 'can if she never went beyond the sta(faa gates. I listened with incredulity. A woman of this type to enjoy vegetating! My drabU must have expressed themselves ia my face, for she said quickly:

"Yoo don't believe me in the least. I assure you it's true. I love my little cottage, and my pony, and am quite happy here. I hope we shall be friends. Gone up to °Xa Hutte' and see for yourself how I enjoy 'the simple life.'" The first thing that struck me was ike extreme cleanliness and daintiness of the whole menage. In th« drawingroom there were rosebud chintz covers oa the chain, muslin draperies, and . there wis a piano, a few plants, and a luxurious long and deep divan that : took op a great deal of the apace. A portrait of Madame la Russe herself hang over the piano. She wore a Spanish sombrero hat, and looked out of her oval face with eves tint dominated the room. »■ iiuum mu ciyuil'tmn, tilt, to mv mxpriae, did not smoke herself. Again my calculations were upset. All Bussian women smoke incessantly. Alter I had known her for six mouths J waa more than ever bewildered. file ran the whole gamut of moods— Of nationalities.

One day she would be (to use her £ own expression) "more French than the Stanch." Her dress, her hat, her chiffon tcfl all proclaimed aloud their origin, i' There would be French novels in the V drawing-room, French gongs on the piano, and nothing but the language of toolitcwe to be heard (or the day. , I hare seen her, whan in the company of Scotch people, transformed into a •laid being, whose talk was of Edinburgh, of the Melville College, and af Hugh Black, the celebrated preacher, whose orations she had, according to her own account, both attended and - , fmjojed. Once I quoted two lines of "Let IreJaad remember," and as I paused she - took the words, and finished the whole rerse. Her father, she said, was Irish, her nitlwf a Viennese. To herself no one eoald have definitely assigned a country i- or race. One thing she was assuredly ' aot, and that was English. Her good nature and charity were unnrpused. Of strictly feminine fail- ■ * lags, raeh as spite or jealousy, she was - - entirely devoid, and she had a 'marvel - * lottl way of contriving to pass on a •' little of her own charm to all those (*-■ with whom she came in contact. ?■ *1" was content, and more than con"v - tent, with the simplest clothe*, the - Y flaiiest food, the smallest pleasures. - v ko<ne could have demanded less of life.

■» > be quiet and live in peace, this, she i mU. was all she desired. TVwgft slie suffered from terrible fete of depression, 1 never once heard p her complain. !■" Three thing*, she said, were not alZ kwed in her house—gambling, profacity, and dirt. i " •"This is the first time I've had to

■ nanage a house of my own," she told »-4ie one day. "My life up till now has - been perpetual wandering." * Her retinue consisted of a soft-voiced , who looked like a creole, and I ] sfc about the house as if shod with , gL velvet; and a red-haired youth from , IL-*v» fife tillage who attended to the pony, nl whom Madame la Russe called 1 k garcon. i f v Both house and animal were kept with marvellous precision. The owner of "La Hutte" had a curiphysical constitution She did not Eg: understand what it meant to be tired. jS" And her hands were always burning hot jjifc Uke the hands of a person who is fevh ariah. t , , J di.-K.*overe<l that she hail very U bid attacks of heart trouble, and beg- I £' ged her to go up to town and see a i medalist, but she refused, saying: sr. " Tt'a no use, ma chere. No, I won't f gee a doctor. I've seen two or thrc, ithey all say that quiet is the only If. thilg- The life I've had is enough to H* BOOurnt for it all. The Hippodrome par Er I interrupted, "So it was the SL- Hippodrome after all!" K Madame la liusse laughed. "Did you guess, or did you know!" P aslced. "I always meant to tell you &* —«oouer or later." S. "Do you remember," I said, "a few f Weeks ago you passed me in the ro?ul t* "driving in an open carriage! You did I* not see me at first, and you looked as I If you were miles away, or in a trance, L- tat suddenly you appeared to wake up, L-_ «mt you einilwl and did—this! I - I got up from the sofa, and, standing i~~' opposite her made with both^ hands the ■ ' gesture-with which a circus rider or ae--1 jobot signifies the eoneluaion of a tii''tv. i'- "Oh, yes!" she cried. "I rcmeroWr f doing that. And so " She suddenly changed her llij>pant I tones to a retrained vehenien v tiiu I had never beard in her before. "Oh yes. he taught me thing- -Kuril". J was "always nuick at learning. lie took me to" the gambling hells. ne taught me to drink absinthe, and :ie taught me to love music. The !i < Pre given up. fan you imagim- wi«» drinking it in a cottage with Chintz covers to the furniture' IV ■ambling was .1 trait nlway- in my Hood. He only developed it. 1' <lMn' ice any harm in the little cafe-, and the roulette tables. He hadn't any •for me. There wa.« certainly it >\ i.mh Ii fAMhee of it then. No one baw Stood that lift* for many year*.'' "My faith, no!" 1 -aid. "Winn did TOO sleep?* 1 1 didn't A- I often toll you. Waking up my arrears down here.

: Fmile u-ed to say to me, 'lf you're , tired you ran got a sloop up in the Imt. J \\ "■ ~li.il! bo there two hours at least'" I Sho broke into soft laughter, the j wlml.'snm,. inn ami .-iwculne.-s of h«r |J! e bu, ' bliu i' »P like ripples on a | "That awful hut! If you could onlv I have MVII it! I used to be left plant'e jla tor hours on end. Anil then the I pocession up the mountains to get to it! "lhero never tv;u> anything more entitle! The party "oiht.illv emitted <>t eight or ton of the Brotherhood.and | not one of them eould ride a little liit except I'.niilo, and he eould only sti -'k on. Some had inuli s, ami some old I -crews of horses, and they always went at walking pace, and they were all terrified.

1 was sont on in front with a lantern oil an old mule who was too vicious for anyone ei-o to manage, and when 1 . f, ' n " ir "r got into difficulties the,would shout for me, and I had to go Kick and put things straight Jlv knowledge of horses' was worth a good ileal to them in these excursions. I

! wore, as 1 have told vou, lioy's clothes old and dirty, just as the peasants wear, and a cloak to disguise mv figure. "tfhen we arrived thov proceeded to have their meeting in a'cottage, and i was left in this dreadful little black hut, which was made into a tomporarv stable for the horses and mules. I was not allowed a light, so could not see to read, and after they wore all unsaddled and watered 1 might have gone to sleep, but there wasn't a minute's peace. They were, of course, too closj together, and the mules wore vicious and tried to bite the horses, anil the

horses kicked the mules, and there was a veritable pandemonium of squealing. "Then they all had to be resaddled, and the procession started oIT down the

mountain again, and if we accomplished the descent without someone falling otf, I congratulated myself." "And then?'' I asked. "Then! Oh, I went to bed." "And you were—how old then?"

''Sixteen— seventeen. I never looked young, you know. Not in your English fashion."

A sudden idea occurred to me. "Did you ever refuse to do anything you were asked?" "Xever!" hat would have happened if you had done so?"

"I should have disappeared, tlw'.'s all. People often do in Barcelona. Sometimes there were horrors. Oh, I can't tell you! Onec I fainted and found myself on the ground, and Emile hitting me to make me get up." "Dont!" I said. "You make me feel as if I wanted to murder Emile.' ••Where is Emile now!" I asked. She shuddered. Presently the answer came—a quick whisper. "In Siberia. I thought you had guessed." Then, after a pause, "I—l ihink he is dead." ''Oh, I hope he is!" I said. "I hope he is!"

I understood now why she hated letters and telegrams, why she was afraid to go to London, and wihsed to live quietly always in the same place. When I said good-bye to her she answered:

I "Don't! It's so unlucky. I always say something else instead" And then, as I turned to go, she drew me back and put an ann round my shoulder and a velvety faee against mine. "You'll always remember me," she whispered. "You'll never forget me whatever I do—whatever happens!" Three days afterwards I went up to "I* l Hutte" as usual in the afternoon. The blaek-haired, olive-skinned maid came to the door. Her eyes were dilated and staring, and her "hands shook. "Madame has gone away," she said. "Y'es, for good, and there was no address. She had crossed over to France by the night-boat. The pony had been sold. Madame had seen to that herself. She was so anxious for it to have a good home. There was a music-book in the drawing-room to be given to Mademoiselle if she called. Would she care to take it now?"

Slipped inside the cover was a letter: "Will you keep this as a souvenir? Look through it carefully; it mav help you to understand. You will forgive me that I make this my only farewell, and forgive me that I have been obliged to deceive you in some ways. At first when I came here I imagined myself free, and I Hoped for peace and rest. You will guess with wlioni I am now. In the future I can have no intimate friends. For me there is only till Cause and Emile. Perhaps we mav meet" I turned to the familiar .big musichinl; T *"■ i ■■ nf ' ii ■q-'irTnr the piano. On "E'Adieu of" Schubert's was written in pencil, the words faint, but perfectly readable, "Emile Poleski, 1902." I looked and looked, and the words stared back at me. Emil's writing! Ii made it all so real, hideously real. And tlie date! The date explained everything. So Emile was alive, and she had seen him, at least; within the last four years. At the foot of the page was more writing, weird, irregular markings, evidentlv a cipher of some kind. I twijt-d book this way and that, but could make out nothing, and finally bv a sudden inspiration [ fetched a minor.

At once the mysterious message stoo.l revealed: Jc t'alme (lc tout uiun coeur, ange, adoree! Ton limile. And on the margin of the last verse: Sana toi la mort! So this was what she had wished in ■ to understand. That Emile had escaped from Siberia, and that she was sworn to the Cause and to him. He it was who still influenced her life, and was the correspondent whose letters she dreaded to open, the man whom she met in London, when she went there "on business/' I sat with the book on my knees, fascinated, staring at the Nihilist's lovemessages.

She did not love him, at least, so she had said. I could only hope that Einile loved her. she in whom all graces were centred, who could turn from one mood to another with such bewildering swiftness. Witch-woman. laughing sehool-girl, circus-rider, Russian princess, tragedy queen, and bonne caniarade always. Her passing had been as her coming, meteor-like. To me there remained three things—her music-book, the memory of her abiding charm, and a faint hope that I hardly dared to entertain. "You'll love me when I'm with you, and weary for me when I'm away,' she had once said.

You spoke truly, Madame la Kusse! "Well,' I said. sitting down again. "There are only two places whore one .sees that gesture—one is a circus, the other a Millie hall. Vou certainly do not the Latter. Also people in ordinary life do not walk a* you do, and "

"And so you made me a little hUtoire," she finished. ''Vou are perfectly right. 1 wa.' the leading lady «*: the Barcelona llippfjilrome. I did th<» haute Kcnle and triek-ridinjr. and offa>ionally I took the dancer s' place. Poor ven* not always in a condition to ajipoar. In fine, she drank —" with a little shrug. "Jfais «jue. voulez-ToUa. It's a hard life! J >»ften wonder wliat these good peoplj down here think about me. They look at me when I walk through the village as if I were some very weird kind of creature. Perhaps it was the big fur coat that frightened them. I cannot dresi like your English-women in the country. It's not n>y type!*' ' It wa« because of the grey furs," I said, "that 1 christened vou 'Madame la Kusse.'"

"No," she said, "I ain not a Russian. So many people hive thought tint. I wa-* niixcd up with a Polish exile i 0 Spain, and was arrested on suspicion a y»ar afterwards in Paris. They could not prove anything. Did you think by j any chanc- that I looked like political j plot- and bombs and secret meetings?" ' "Thiit i- exactly what I did think," I. an-v.ercd drily. "Tiensf cried Madame. "Are you clairvoyant, then? ('an you read one'; fale? Fir-t. you know all about the Hippodrome, and now M ''The Ilippodrmne theory was based on observation.*' I said. "The other was merely an idea born of mv own imagiii ition." "But what made you think of it at

ill?" -lie pcr^tpd. I bad never seen her more excited or future hinwdf. and he didn't see one more natural. She actually had a tiny fl;»mc of color under her pale skin. "1 hardly know," I *aid slowly. -When J -aw you walking down the v...id in the winter no one could have mi-taken you for a pure bred EnglUhut»tnuit. ' Possibly the fur.-s suggested Ku--ian idea. Then you looked—li So my mind travelled by ea-y - t>> Nihilism and Sik'ria." .Mad.une l.i Hu-se pulled up one of tht* pink (ii-hions of tin- divan with a mo\«-nu'»> that almost di-guisrd a .-.udrt -n. -;ni k -lover. "You <>W»-rve well." -lie -;iid. with a return to her f<rm<T nonchalant manner. S«. the mv-tery wa« at least half »Aved. Vet the more I thought it over.

tile more imjiossible her whole slorv an pearnl. ' ' Obviously, her birth and breeding were beyond reproach or suspicion. .She three l.i ii^uages— I reueli, Herman and_ Spanish. Her English had always a slight accent, and was the Knglish of a foreigner. She had something interesting to say on every subject, whether it was dress, the occult, •judaism, cosmetics, 01' electricity, and her intellect iipiHNired doubly charming in that it hail j

not the edge like sharpness that spoils the talk ot so many clever women. hwrything about her was the essenc" of refinement—her long and beautiful hands and feet, her voice, her little head.

And her history "I was the leading lady in the Bare; lona Hippodrome." Occasionally sho went up to f.otidm for tho day, and sometimes [ wouh meet her at the nto.tion on lior return and drive back to "U llutte" with hoi to spend the night. After these visits to town she always looked more ill and haggard, and I concluded that sho was probably still mixed up with political plots anil obliged to attend Anarchist meetings. I was wild with curiosity to hear more about the man with'whom sho had been associated with in At times she had tho look of a sleep-wal-ker, which supported the theory that -he was under the inlluenee of someone. By degrees she told me more details. 'I he name of tho mnn was ICinile Poleski. lie was of good family and well educated,.anil, like so many of his countrymen, doomed from birth to offer up life, money, and intellect in a hopeless cause.

Ho had drifted to Barcelona, the citv of intrigue, and spent his davs anil nights among plots and futile' scheming. He had encountered Madame la Kusso at the station on. tho day of her arrival. Her Spanish hail been seanty, anil there was an extortionate porter. Count Poleski, like all his race, was a good linguist, and he had come to the rescue, and there had followed a Bohemian friendship. Through all her narrative she gave no hint of love-making. "Eniile must have been a saint!" 1 told her. '"I don't think you appreciate his virtues sufficiently. Any other man would have, made love to you." "He never did that," she answered indilTerently. "At the same time, he made good use of me." ' The last words lmd a bitter ring in them. *

The next time we discussed liim I was staying with her again. I had demanded a personal description of Emile. "What was he like?" she said. fi TTe had those queer Mephistnpheles eyebrows—the same as I have—haul, clever eyes, and a nut-cracker face with a long chin." She spread out l>oth hands. "Et voila Count Poleski! Is the picture to you liking? He worked me fairly luird in the interests of his beloved country. I ran errands and carried message-:. That was my role. " "He could be horribly cynical sometimes. " 'You've lost that message? You can't remember it? I'm not surprised! Ma foi! These women!' Then he would curl up his moustache and look at me with eyes like flints. Forid of him? I don't know. He was just part of my life there. I knew no one else inlimately. If I were not with Emile I drove, rode, and walked alone—always alone."

With my pity grew niv admiration of her pluck, which was of 1 lie finely-tem-pered kind, resultant alone from generations of good breeding. She had the dignity of endurance, the fatalism, and the indifference that are of the East. In her company 1 spent some of the most charming hours of my life. In the evenings we played and sang. Such things as Emile hail taught her shi' interpreted perfectly. There was a certain "Chant de Fileuses," she particularly adored. '•Emile was always playing it," she said. "He used to say when he came to the discordant part, 'That's like life.' " "It's only one side of life," T answered. "TWre is also another side. Emile had depressing ideas t" "lie liad," she answered. "That is why we understood each other. 1 have a morbid strain, and he encouraged it. When I was ill once, he was quite disappointed that I recovered, and told me that he had hoped to see me in my coltin."

Her voice changed into mockery. • "He would have had some difficulty in finding another .tool .so. ready to l>l-> "Minn T Was "too desperate to care. I had no ties. (Did I tell you that 1 had run away from home?) I had a good education and quick wits, and a most unwomanly capacity for holding mv tongue." _ "Hut, moil enfant,' I protested. "What is this you are making me think?" Surely, surely, Emile at least was good to you?" She answered with a little shrug. "(!ood to me? Oh, yes. ilia chore! He only made a cat's-paw of me, that's all—a tool to further the Anarchist cause. Oh. I don't complain! hi other ways he looked after nie well." "You haven't (old me much about Emile yet," I said. "What did lie do to you?" "He didn't 'do' anything to nip, darling. I tell you he only made an errand boy of me—literally, too, for f wore boy's clothes by way of a disguise."