BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

Waikato Times, Volume XXV, Issue 2078, 31 October 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

By MicmLii S. ILuSt

(From thr German.) \ As I was walking through Boston Common one morning, I met a man in the grand vista of the park. Though on my walks I am generally lost in thought, the countenance of this rrmn at once attracted my attention. His eyes were dim, and hi« grey hair fell carelessly over his shoulders. While his eyes and hair seemed to be those of a man of GO, his whole appearance (showed him to be hardly 30 years old. He was evidently an American — at leaat, to judge from his face, for the physiognomy of an American is unmistakable. He was certainly a man who had seen s great deal of the world. " This man has had an evemful 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 ray side, which I at *onco recognized as that of my friend, Mr. A., "I can tell jou the history of this man, and I should be surprised if 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 his life. I was in Paris at the time when his corpse was buried." " Buried ?" " Well, not strictly speaking, but still something of the kind. If you have a half hour to spare, let us tako a seat on that bencn, and I will tell you the Btory vhich created a great sensation in Paris several years ago." The following is the story, aa related to me by my friend : In "a room in Paris which had but ono 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. Corine family. There was on this afternoon no happier person in all Paris than Philip Wentworth. Life for him was bo full of joy, that he almost feared the next day might bring a change. What more could tbo future bring him ? But what couldjt not rob him of ? The greatest joy is always coupled with sadness, with a certain indescribable presentiment of evil. Wentworth felt this strange feeling come over him, as he pressed tie hand of Jalia 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, yon know, for Sardou's new comedy, whioh is to be played to-morrow eveniDg." The next morning the train brought Philip Wentworth to a ohorming little town in the vicinity of Paris. A beautiful vista half a milo long led to tae 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 itepa to the depot 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 seamed to the young man as if he had been travelling a year. Arrived in the depot he quickly betook himself to his hotel, where hi found several letters on his table. But he hardly looked at the addresses, and quickly changed his travelling costume for an evening toilet. His yearning desire to see Mademoiselle Dorine made the journey Appear long ; at last tho coach baited before the house of Mr. Dorine. The door was opened as Philip mounted the steps, and the servant silently relieved him of bis overcoat and hat. " Is no one at home 1" he asked. " Mr. Dorine oannot see you at this moment," answered the servant, slowly. "He deßires you to wait in the parlor." " la Mademoiselle——" " Yes, sir." "Alone?" "Yes, sir," answered tha servant, with a peouliar look. Philip could hardly repress an exclamation of joy; it was the first time that 6uch a privilege had been allowed him. Hitherto his meetings with Julie had been only in prpeence of Mr. Dorina or some other member of the family. A well-bred Parisian lady makes only a formal acquaintance with her affianoed. Philip did not stop to consider for one moment. He softly opened the door of Julie's room. Under the large ohandelier stood a small blaok 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 only after the lapse of some time that Wentworth learned the full particulars of the immeasurable misfortune which had befallen him. The previous evening Mile. Dorine had betaken herself to her room, apparently in perfect health. She had told her maid to wake her curly the next morning. When tho girl came at the appointed time, Mile. Dorine sat in her arm-chair, where she bud evidently been overtaken by Bleep. At her fret lay a book half-open. The maid was terrified when she saw that the bed was unlouohed, and that her mistress had not yet laid aside her toilet. She tried to awake her ; ?ut in rain. She was not asleep— bat dead 1

The wealth of the young lady, her sudden death, and the romantic courtship of the yonng 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 oemetery of Montmartre. Thii vault was surrounded by an iron railing, through which conld be seen a heavy oaken door, which opened into (he vault proper. The vault was about twenty feot square, had a small air-hole in the roof, and contained sarcophagi. One of these inclosed the remains of Mrs. Dorine, who had died ft few years before, and on the other, which was new, were raised the initials " J. D." The funeral prooession halted at the little gate of the garden, which surrounded the vault, and only the nearest friends followed the coffin to its final resting plaoe. A wax candle was burning at the foot of the open sarcophagus, which threw a dim light over the corpse. The ooffin was lowered into its repository of granite, the last prayer was said and the heavy ocken door swung, back 'on its hinges, as the mourners slowly left the vault. Mr. Dorine drew his mantle tightly about 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 from a dream. He stood up and looked into the darkness whioh surrounded him. Where was be? In an instant the truth flashed across his mind : he had been left behind in the vault. Whilst kneeling behind the sarcophagus he had fainted, and during the last solemn rites h>s absence had not been noticed. The first feeling which overpowered him was naturally an indescribable terror, bnt only for a moment. Life had no more charm for him. His burning desire to rest by the side of his Julie; a dcßire which he had expressed a hundred times during tho 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's fine organization was coupled a mind whioh never formed a judgment hastily, but which rushed on with enthusiasm when there was a question of struggling with misfortuno, and the horror which would certainly have taken possession of any other person in a similar situation, bad no hold on his heart. He looked upon himself simply as locked-up, and hoped for % 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. After several useless attempts he succeeded in lighting one, and to bis great delight disoovered that the oandle had been left behind, by the light of which be forthwith examined the vault. He tried to force the heavy door from its hinges, but his labor wis 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 be blew out the light with feverish haste. His life depended on the candle. He had read in an account of a shipwreck how a person had lived several days on a few pieces of wax. By the light of a match he looked at his watch. It was stopping— the hand pointed to 11. Was it 11 o'clock a m., or had he forgotten to wind his watch the evening before ? He knew that the mourners had left the cemetery at 10 o'clook a.m.; but bow many hours his swoon bad lasted be could not tell. Notwithstanding his sanguine temperament he could no longer shako off a oertain fear. He did not doubt that he would be missed and that his disappearance under such ciroumstances would fill hi 3 .friends with terror, but - how could it occur to them that he was in the churobyard of Montmarlre ? What would it help him c /en if tho Prefect of Police sent a hundred detectives on his trail ? Of what use would it be to fish in the Seine or make investigations in the morgue, while he himself was in the family vault of Mr. Dorine ? On the other hand the fact that he bad 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 bush flowers the next day ? What various hopes 1 and still how long would he live in suoh a place? With hisrpooket-knife Wentworth cut the candle into four equal parts. " This evening," he said, " I will eat one piece— to.morrow morning the second — towards evening tho. 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 hia meal aslong as posaible, 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 air-holes in tho roof caused all his limbs to become stiff, co that there was nothing left for him but to constantly walk up and down. The fatigue which soon overcame him had to be conquerpd by all the force of his will, for here sleep and death were ono and the same, and he had made up his mind to live. Wonderful pictmes of long ago orossed his mind as his heavy step resounded on the stone floor ; familiar forms of his childhood days loomed up before him ; the joys and ths sufferings of the past year, his love and his lobs, passed in review before his troubled imagination. Sleep was banished from his eyes and the pangs of hunger again made them■elves felt. According to his calculation it was noMj morning. Perhaps the sun vras just rising behind the towers and cupolas ; perhaps a heavy ram was enveloping Paris in % thick mist. Paris, ha ! what a dream ? By degrees Phillip saw that the dampness was becoming master of him. He Bank in » half-Benseless condition to the ground. Accidentally his hand touched a piece of waxhe grarped it meohanioally and swallowed it. How'curiouc, thought he, that I am not ihiraty 1 Meanwhile the minutes glided by like hours. There was but oue piece of candlo left. Philip had eaten the third piece, not to satisfy hia hunger, but to anticipate it. He had swallowed it aB though it was a disgusting medicine, on the effects of which life depended. Tho momont was approaching nearer and nearer when the last piece would be gone, but in order to protract this moment, he resolved to fast this time. He'still held the last pieoa of wax in his bund ; finally in wild despair he pressed it to his lips, then suddenly cast it fat from him — for the door was opened, and ha saw the form of Mr. Dorine sharply outlined against the blue horizon. When Mr. Dorine led the yoang 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 was Wentworth really in the vault?" I asked Mr. U., when he had finished bis story. " Exaotly one hour and twenty minutei I" said he with I •mile.