Newspaper Page Text
_ .. - ii 11»!■ imii—hrmnrtn**) -—~ ~ ~ - -- - ZIJ,
~ ii in i it-- ■— —— I—BiTiiimiinw-iwwniMwmwnrHiwiiiiiiiiiiirwMiiii1 — BiTiiimiinw-iwwniMwmwnrHiwiiiiiiiiiiirwMiiii ■w—ttw—mm i— nan iiiii imh n—Browu»ut»ns,m»iWiTrrrnwTiii-Tit««wi^»^- ro _ i
VOL. 111.
The Last Mile-Stones.
BY PEARL RIVERS.
Sixty years through shine and shadow—
Sixty years, my gentle wife,
You and I have walked together
Down the rugged road of life.
From the hills of Spring we started,
And through all the Summer land,
And the fruitful Autumn country,
We have journeyed hand in hand.
We have borne the heat and burden,
Toiling painfully and slow;
We have gathered in our harvest,
With rejoicing, long ago.
Leave the uplands for our children—
They are strong to sow and reap ;
Through the quiet Winter lowlands
Our level way to keep.
‘Tis a dreary country, darling,
You and I are passing through;
But the road lies straight before us,
And the miles are short and few;
Xo more dangers to encounter—
Xo more hills to climb, true friend ;
Xothing now but simple walking,
Till we reach our journey’s end.
Wc have had our time of gladness;
Twas a proud and happy day—
Ah ! the proudest of our journey,
When we felt that we could say
Os the children God had given,
Looking fondly on the ten:
“Lovely women are our daughters—
Our sons are noble men !”
We have had our time of sorrow—
Our time of anxious fears,
When we could not see the mile stones
Through the blindness of our tears.
In the sunny Summer country,
Far behind us, little May
And Willie, too, grew weary,
And we left them on the way.
Are you looking backward, mother,
That you stumble in the snow ?
I am still your guide and stall, dear,
Lean your weight upon me, so !
Our road is growing narrow ;
And what is it wife, you say ?
Yes ! I know our eyes are dim, dear.
But we have uot lost the way.
Cheer thee cheer thee ! faithful hearted!
Just a little way before
Lies the great Eternal City
Os the King that we adore.
I can see the shining spires;
And the King, the King, my dear,
We have served him long and humbly;
He will bless us, do not fear.
Ah! the snow falls fast and heavy,
How you shiver with the cold,
Let me wrap your mantle closer,
And my arm around you fold.
We are weak, and faint, and weary,
And the suu low m the West.
Wei mve reached the gates, my darling.
Let us tarry here and rest.
iMtUI Uff
[From Lippincott.J
STORY OF THE SAPPHIRE,
[concluded.]
“Mouths passed on, and DeGonrecourt
and his friends were no longer a theme
of conversation in society, when a fresh
interest in him was excited by the an
nouncement of his betrothal to one of the
reigning belles of the beau monde , the
beautiful, wealthy, and widowed Princess
Olga Yasanoff, a llussian lady, whose
peculiar personal loveliness and fascinat
ing manners added to reports respecting
her vast wealth, had rendered her one
of the greatest social successes of the
season. Her saloon was always crowded
on her reception evenings, and it was
hard to catch even a glimpse of her in
her box at the Opera, so surrounded was
she always by admirers and adorers.
AUGUSTA, GUA-, SEPTEMBER 17, 1870.
She was a frail, delicate looking blonde,
pale, golden-haired, and petite in form,
with great, dreamy blue eyes, and a
voice of singular softness and sweetness.
She always recalled to me the mist-veiled,
shadowy heroines of Ossian. She was in
truth a sort of northern Undine, born of
the snow-drift, and not of the waves —a
Lurlei whose home was the Frozen Ocean,
and not the sunny Ilhine. This weird
and witching being had not only been
won by De Gondrecourt, but, what was
stranger still, she had succeeded in win
ning him. For the first time in his life
the vicomte discovered that he had a
heart, which was not till it had irrecov
erably pass 'd into the possession of the
Princess Olga. lie was madly in love*
and had she scorned him or lured him
into a hopeless and unrequited passion,
even justice itself would have been satis
fied with the retribution which would
then have befallen him. But his good
fortune with the lair sex did not desert
him even in the dangerous moment of his
own surrender, and Madame Yasanoff in
the very flush of her victory was forced to
declare herself vanquished.
“ ‘And what of the fair Inez V I asked
of Leon de Beaugency, one day, when we
were discussing the approaching nuptials
of De Gondrecourt.
“De Beaugeucy shrugged his shoul
ders. ‘Gaston does not take me into his
confidence, 5 he replied. ‘But I have been
told that there was a fearful scene be
tween them when he first informed her
of his proposed marriage. He offered
her anything she might ask in the way
of settlements or ready money, but she
refused his offers with scorn. It is even
said that she forced her way into the
presence of the Princess Yasanoff one
day when Gaston was visiting her.
But the fair Russian knew perfectly well
what manner of man her betrothed was,
and I doubt if any revelation poor Inez
could make would be of much weight or of
great novelty to her.’
“ ‘And what says De Gondrecourt to
all this?’ I asked.
“He declares that he will forget that
such a creature ever existed, so incensed
lias he become at her persistent efforts to
create an esclandre. Someone repeat
ed that speech to her, and she has sworn
to make him remember her all the days
of his life. Mark me, De Sieyeres, we
have not yet seen the end of this afiair.”
“But I thought we certainly had when
some weeks later I was present at the
gorgeous wedding of the Yicemte de
Gondrecourt and the Princess Yasanoff.
The Madeleine was densely crowded, and
I must confess that my eye roved uneasi
ly among the glittering groups in search
of the unhappy Inez, so convinced was I
that she would seek in some way to in
terrupt the ceremony. But she was not
there, and I drew a sigh of relief when
the pale, lovely bride, leaning on her
husband’s arm, passed out of the portals,
unmolested and unhindered.”
Here M. de Sieyeres rose, and going
to his escritoire drew forth a packet of
letters, one of which he selected and re
turned with it to his seat. “Here,” said
he, unfolding it as he spoke, “is a letter
from my sister, the Baroness de Liancay,
written from Yienna a few months after
the marriage of De Gondrecourt.and the
Princess Yasanoff. An extract from it
will give you sone idea of their happi
ness and their mutual devotion. She
writes : ‘Thefseason thus far has been un
usually gay, and \ ienna was never more
crowded with strangers than at present,
I saw, at the christening of the Arch
duchess Gisela, the other da} 7 , your pet
aversion, Gaston de Gondrecourt, with
his beautiful wife. Reports say they are
most insanely and unfashionably in love
with each other; and certainly they are
the most devoted couple I ever saw out
side the pages of a moral story-book. It
is no small triumph even for the Xorth
ern Circe, as Madame Yasanoff used to
be called, to have won the heart of such
a vaurien as Gaston, or rather to have
caused him to find out that lie had a
heart at all. They have just come from
visiting the large estates of the bride in
Russia (she was, as I believe you know,
a wealthy heiress, when the sickly Prince
Yasanoff married her,) and they intend
ed to travel for at least a year, as it will
take that time to finish their , new hotel
on the Rue Bassompierre. I hear it is to
be a perfect miracle of splendor and ar
tistic decoration. Fiagot and Vivaro are
to paint the walls and ceilings, and
Lesueur is to superintend the carved
work both in wood and marble. It is
said that the mantlepieces in the grand
salon are to be of malachite, a wedding
gift frpm the Emperor Alexander, but
I cannot vouch for the truth of the story.
I asked De Gondrecourt why he did not
occupy his hotel on the Champs Elysees
while his new one was being finished, and
his reply pleased me greatly. “I could
not take my wife under that roof,” he
answered in a very significant tone. I
admired the delicacy of (eeling displayed
in that answer, and I think you will join
with me in agreeing that there is some
good still left in the nature of a man who
has shown himself capable of loving a
pure-minded, high-souled woman as ten
derly as De Gondrecourt undoubtedly
loves his wife.’
“Nearly a year later I was in Brussels,
whither I had gone to pass a few weeks,
the festivities attendant on the marriage
of the Princess Charlotte,to the Archduke
Maximilian having rendered the little
capital of Belgium unusually gay and
attractive. One evening, being wearied
of the continued round of balls and fetes,
I decided to visit the opera, being tempt
ed thereto by the announcement of anew
ballet entitled La Heine des Brouillards,
the heroine of which was to be persouated
by anew danseuse, Madame Dolorez by
name, whom rumor declared to be of ex
traordinary excellence.
“I reached the opera house rather
late, but as a stupid little operetta had
been played as lever de rideau , I arrived
before the commencement of the ballet.
I had one of the orchestra stalls on the
first row, directly fronting the stage. The
house was crowded, and I recognized
many acquaintances, among the audience,
all Paris seemingly having taken wing
to Brussels to be present at the bridal
fetes of the future Empress of Mexico.
One of the proscenium boxes was occupied
by M. and Madame De Gonrecourt, the
latter perfectly dazzling to behold from
the splendor of the diamond and opal
paruae with which she was adorned, and
looking as Gretchen might have done when
decked with the jewel gifts wherewith
Mephistopheles first tempted her. She
was undoubtedly the most beautiful wo
man present, and every opera-glass in
the house was leveled at her and her
handsome husband, who never left her
side. I watched De Gondecourt narrow
ly, and as his every look and movement
revealed how real and intense was his
love for his wife—a love apparently
heightened, not impaired, by twelve
months of matrimony—a strange, sad
feeling of foreboding stole over my spirit,
and 1 looked almost pityingly upon the
gay, handsome couple who seemed so
enviable in their youth, their beauty, their
prosperity and their evident devotion to
each other.
“The curtain rose, a few preliminary
scenes passed off without anything to re
mark, and at last the Queen of the Mist,
heralded by a brief expressive strain
from the orchestra, bounded upon the
stage, and was received by the audience
with a stormy burst of applause. Her
face and form were almost entirely con
cealed by a flowing veil of pale, gray
gauze, but before she had half finished
her first passeul, I was convinced that
Madame Dolores was not unknown to me.
With almost breathless anxiety I awaited
the moment when she should uncover
her face. At last it came—the shrouding
veil was cast aside, and I saw that my
suspicions were correct, and that Madame
Do’ores was no other than Inez Castro
jon.
“I cast an involuntary glance toward
the box occupied by the *De Gondrecourts.
No trace of emotion was visible on the
fair features of the vicomtess as she leaned
back in her chair, calmly drawing her
point lace shawl a little closer over her
white shoulders, while Gaston leveled
his opera glass at the dancer as coolly as
though she had been a total stranger.
Yet the changes that were visible in
the face and form of the once peerless
beauty, might have moved even his cal
lous soul to pity and remorse. She was
thin almost to emaciation; and though
her features preserved their perfect out
line and her limbs their faultless sym
metry, the brightness, roundness and
freshness of youth had departed forever.
Her danciDg, too, had lost all the bound
ing animation which hud formerly distin
guished it, and though her every motion
was still graceful and mrial, in her art
as well as in her beauty, she was but a
shadow of her former self. I saw at
once that she was aware cf the presence
of De Gondrecourt and his wife. There
was something fearful in the expression
that crossed her face, something deadly
in the fire that blazed in her burning
eyes—and a premonition of some terrible
tragedv which was about to be enacted,
caused my heart to sink within me.
Yet after the first glance at the prosce
nium box—a glance wherein I read re
cognition and desperate determination—
she looked no more in that direction.
But through all the changes of her role
her face never lost that look of fatal, ter
rible resolution—such a look as I have seen
Rachel wear in Phedre when the guilty
queen comes to denounce Iloppolyte.
“I could not divest myself of the idea
that some awful event was about to take
place. I strove to shake off the impres
sion. I tried to direct my attention to
the other actors, the audience, the piece
itself, but in vain. I could see nothing
but that white, set face, those burning
eyes; I could think of nothing but the
ghastly energy, the desperate resolu
tion which were painted on that pallid
countenance. The showy scenery, the
spangled and silk-garbed actors, the
brilliant audience, all seemed to me a
mockery, and I sat as a spectator at the
Coliseum might have done in the awful
hush which preceded the entrance
of the wild beasts and the Christian
captives.
“Yet the ballet progressed smoothly,
though languidly, the evident pre-occupa
tion of the principal danseuse having
tended to mar the protection of the rep
resentation. It was with a feeling of relief
that 1 saw the last scene disclosed, and I
began to hope that my fear and forebod
ings had been without auy foundation.
This last scene represented a wild 'Moun
tain landscape. A lofty rock towered
in the foreground at the side of the
stage directly opposite the box occupied
by the De Gondrecourts, and I learned
from the play-bill, that it was upon this
peak that La Reine des Broudillards
was to make her appearance to denounce
her faithless lover, and to summon up
the mists which were to surround his
path and cause his destruction, by con
cealing from him the abyss into which he
was consequently to fall. The hero and
his followers made their appearance,
went through the usual pantomime ex
pression of distress and dread, a wild
wailing strain sounded from the or
chestra, and the Queen of the Mist rose
up, a splendid, but threatening vision,
before them.
Inez was enveloped in a flowing robe
and veil of pale gray gauze interwoven
with silver—a light but voluminous garb
adapted to be worn above the usual
ballet costume, and to be easily and quickly
cast aside. She wore no rouge, and her
pale face and large, dilated eyes looked
even more strangely than before, when
seen under the shadow ot that vaporous
drapery. Before the hurried, expressive
movement played by the orchestra was
ended, a sudden crash startled the au
dience. Inez had pushed away the lad
der by which she had reached her lofty
elevation, and it had fallen heavily to
the floor. Before the last echoes of this
sound had died away, another and still
more startling one rang through the
crowded theatre; it was these words
shrieked rather than spoken:
“ ‘Gaston de Gondrecourt ! do you
think now that you will ever forget
me?’
“And then I say Inezgafheiel teg t er
the folds of her silvery drapery with one
hand and thrust them deliberately into
the blaze of one of the gas burners that
illumined the side scenes. In an in
stant the unhappy girl was enveloped in
flames. The uproar that ensued was
something indescribable. Screams,
shrieks, cries of ‘Fire! save her !’ were
intermingled in a wild commotion; many
gentlemen (one of whom was myself)
sprang upon the stage; ladies fainted or
went into violent hysterics; while in the
nr'dst of that awful blazing a figure stood
out upon its lofty pedestal, erect, silent
and perfectly motionless.
“In less time than I have taken to
relate the incident the ladder was raid
ed, and one of the actors rushed up it,
tearing loose one of the stage carpets,
with which he enveloped Inez and suc
ceeded in subdueing the flames. But
during those few instants the fire, fed by
her light and combustible raiment, had
done its work effectually.
“She was borne to the green-room,
and a physician was instantly summoned.
But there was nothiug to be done—
nothing but to cover the poor, scar
red body tenderly and wait for the
end.
“She lived scarcely half an hour after
the flames were extinguished. When
the brief medical examination was ended
she requested that I should be summon
ed, having apparently recognized me
during the performance. I came at
once, and she whispered to me with a
failing |voice to take her sapphire ring
(which the physician had already remov
ed from her finger) to Gaston d*e Gond
recourt- ‘He gave it to me to recall the
hue of his eyes; let him keep it iu re
membrance of this night.’ she murmured.
I promised to do her bidding, and she
added, T think now I have stamped my
image on his soul. I have burnt . ii in
II ne m'oubliera jamais ’
“Those were her last words. A few
minutes latter the sobbing breathing
ceased, the moaning lips were still, and
Inez Castrejou, slain by her own desperate
hand, had ceased to exist.
“And now, my friend, I fear that you
will think that I committed a doubly dis
honorable action. I never delivered her
message to De Gondrecourt, and I kept
the ring.
“I set out in search of him the follow
ing day. I found that he had taken
apartments at the Hotel de l’Europe,
and I pioeeedcd thither at ones. But on
reachiug the hotel I fouud myself face
to face with anew horror—another
terrible calamity. Madame de Gondre
court was, as I have before said, of an ex
tremely delicate and sensitive organiza
tion, and the fearful scene she had wit
nessed at the theatre had proved her
death blow. She was taken home iu a
state of total insensibility; a premature
confinement ensued, followed by an at
tack of prostration from which she never
rallied; and twelve hours after the death
of Inez Castrejon, the beautiful, brilliant,
idolized Yicomtesse de Gondrecourt by
a corpse in the arms of her hr If frantic
husband. Thus terribly, though un
wittingly, had Gaston’s victim avenged
herself
“I could not bring myself to plant
i another thorn in the already lacerated
heart of the wretched De Gondrecourt,
by delivering to him the ring and the
last message from Inez. I sought out
her only Mtrviving relative, a little actress
No. 27.