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DUMAS’ LIFE STORY,
As It Was Gleaned by Bab From Victorien
Sard oil.
The F<mon> Frenchman's Early Slrugulc* Asalnal Poverty nnt Fate.
Contemplating Suicide—How Dumaa Viewed the Theater—V limit
Writer Who Touched the Keynote (ailed llnmnnit).
New York, Dee. 14.—There in another
black-bordered card to be pasted in the
day book of 1895. It bears upon it the
name of one of the greatest writers of
the day. but. better still, it bears upon
it these words: "L'ami des femmes the
friend of women —Alexandre Dumas. A
great man, a great writer, a great reader
of the human heart, a great reader, that
most difficult of all things, of the heart
of woman. And more than that, a stu
dent, and a successful one, of the heart,
brain and body of women, for he well
knew the effect that the one had on the
other. He pictured woman as she is, but
always he was pitiful to her. Always he
forgave, and always he recognized that, 1
when she committed the sin which women j
look upon as the sin of all sins, it was be
cause she loved too much, and he main- j
tained that, first of all, the man should
be the one to forgive her. Kvery one of i
his plays teaches that. Always there is
the friend who looks at things clearly,
and who says, in some way or other. “For
give, my friend, forgive this woman.
Pardon is an attribute of God, try to
reach close to God."
And yet, if there ever was a strange
•tory. it was that of Alexandre Dumas.
Until he was a grown man he had no
name except that which had been given
to him In baptism, for he was one among
the thousands of children who cannot say
“My mother" without blushing. The day
came when his father recognized him
and was proud of him; was generous to
him and assisted him; hut always there
hung over him this dark cloud that en
veloped him from his birth. And even
before his birth. Do you believe in he
redity? It seems to me that, if you
think, you must.
Years ago. in Paris, there was a young
man. ambitious, imaginative, magnifi
cently strong physically, and poor. All
his days were spent In the public libra
ries. studying out the histories of France,
finding out each little story connected
with the kings and queens, end building
a romance about it. Full of life, he soon
•pent the small amount of money he had.
Occasionally a few francs were earned
by a story, or an essay sold to one of
the Journals of the day. This young
man grew poorer and poorer. The pub
lishers laughed at his novels and refused
to read them. The day came w*hen there
was nothing left. Beore him there seem
ed only starvation. That he would not
submit to. All of one long day he work
ed In the library, and went home only
because he knew there was a pistol there.
Such a home! A garret room the top
of a miserable house, tenanted by poor
writers like himself, thieves and wretch
ed women. He entered his room, found
a match, the last one; struck it to light
the bit of candle that was to show him
how to aim correctly. The match went
out. It was fate. He laughed long and
loudly. Just then he heard a voice in the
hall, for he had not thought to close
his door. A woman’s voice It was that
■poke. She said: “My neighbor, do you
wish a light? Take one* from my can
dle." A little seamstress, a trim grl
sette, stood before him and pleased his
eyes. He chatter with her; he found he
could laugh, and laugh merrily. He was
still young. She followed him Into his
room. The door was dosed. Alexandre
Dumas, pere, sever forgot that night,
when all the world was reading the “Three
Mousquetalres," but can you blame Alex
andre Dumas) fils, for having In his nat
ure much that was dark, since his father
was thinking of killing himself and his
mother was unhappy and half starved?
But always this child of a great author
and a poor seamstress plead for women;
always his pity went out to those little
children against whom the world's hand
Is raised before they are born; and surely
no better words can be put upon the tomb
stone of Alexandre Dumas than those
Which formed the title of a great play—
“L’ami des Femmes.”
It seems strange that while we are all
thinking and talking of this great writer
his plays should be put upon the stage
and the leading parts played l>y a woman
whose rendition of them would have pleas
ed their creator. Can more than that he
said? She Is an Interesting woman, al
most as much of a girl as was Juliet and
yet with Juliet’s ability to read the human
heart.
You know who I mean—Olga Nethcrsole.
She comes to us from England, and when
you look at her, when you hear her speak
and someone says “English” you smile ■
In disdain. Then there is a hint of the
Spanish blood, but your smile 'otnes just
the same. Once, years ago, I visited In the
north, and with the early springtime went
out to look for arbutus. One In our search
party came to me, awe-stricken, and held
in his hand what was strange to him in
this cold country, but which 1 knew at- (he
bloom of the south—the passion llowcr. i
How did it come there? Who can sa . ? By
chance on the wings of heaven, brought
by a balmy wind. That is Olga Nethcrsole.
She Is the best type of French woman,
and she comes from England. The voice
Is soft and sweet, without any accent.
The eyes are pitiful. They look up to
you and ask for your love and sympa
thy, and never a word is spoken. They
are wonderful eyes, pure eyes; eyes that
tell their own .story of goodness and of
Bteing goodness in other people, which Is
so much better than announcing one’s
own virtue. But “the play’s the thing."
Hast night it W'as Camille. Before that it
was Frou Frou, and before that it was
Denise. Such wonderful women! And
each so unlike the other. 1 sav to this
citizen of the world, for England can no
more claim Olga Nethersole than can
France or America, “How- do vou feel
when you play a part? Are you Denise?"
There was no hesitancy—the answer
came quickly. “Honestly, I could not say
to myself 1 will be Denise. 1 will be Frou
Frou, or I will be Camille, but. when 1
say their words, when I am living her
life, before I know' it I am overcome by
the strong personality and become an
other woman. It seems as if. whether 1
willed it or not, the spirit of the one wo
man came into me, filled my heart, brain
and body, and I speak and move
as if I were her, because, for
the time being. I am that very
■woman. If you said to me. ’Cough,’ I
could not do it. But when 1 am Camille
1 never give it a thought. The cough
comes naturally, because I know lain dy
ing of consumption, and that cough Is
one of my pains and one of its terror*
Then there is Frou Frou. 1 have been
asked why I did not conceal or gloss
over the unlovable side of her nature
I couldn't. I would not be Frou-Frou
That was the woman. Just as she had won
your love and your forbearance bv her
sweetness she did some thing that made
you conscious of the other side of her
nature. What a woman would call the
kink in her. About the stage. Do vou
know I was afraid to come to this coun
try at first? I thought l ought to wait
until I had reached the point I mean to
and was perhaps 40 or even 50, but that
by accident, I did come Is a fortunate
thing for me. There is something in the
very air that exhilerates me, something
that urges me to do my best, and I mean
to.
"I had an odd experience in Boston with
"f great scholars. I had played
Juliet—w-hlch 1 have never seen played—
and I did something which was not in the
s*°k of the play, hut which it seemed to
me Juliet would have done. The critics
ail noted it. I spoke of it to this grout
em^ n, U. a e Bo , sto, l ,n . an ’ “ n, l reaching
among his books-for I was supping in his
took . do ? n Haxlitt. He found
ln ? l, 5 rln -' “ certain part.
a!fLf£J n r had been
derided by the critics because of it Tin n
he turned over several pages, and cam"
of ,l “ acting of another
E££L , “* r ' w *° wa * reprimanded by the
which ?■ 1,,r "Willing to do that
rii dona *1“ looked at me
. Some people make roads f„r
, *® < ' , 'le to walk over -you k. ep on
SSSSSJS#? >•**• * beautiful
H wasn’t Frou-Frou, U wasn't Denise,
it wasn't Camille who looked Joyful and
happy over this; it was the woman with
a throat and neck like Langtry's; with
beautiful hair like Mrs. Kendal's; with a
grace like Sarah Bernhardt's, but with
clear eyes, and with an individuality that
w as Olga Xethersole's and her’s only. In
terested? I am. We women make the
success of the woman actress. We have
been looking for many years for a suc
cessor to Mary Anderson, whom we loved,
because she was beautiful, because she
was good, and- because she looked the
parts she played. I think the successor
is found. Of her, it must be said, that
having the beauty, the youth and the
goodness of Mary Anderson, she has in
addition the ability not only to look the
part she plays, but to lie it.
But to return to Dumas—alas! he never
can return to us-dast night after the
play was over I picked up a book and
caught a phrase here and there—phrases
that you and I might think, but which it
took a master mind to put in words.
That’s the art of writing—when the read
er says “That’s what you think and I
flunk nothing more”—yes, but we didn’t
take the trouble to say it to the world,
whereas the great writer touched the
keynote called humanity, and his audi
ence was large. Talking about the the
ater, he said “Men and women go to the
theater only to hear of love; and to take
part in the pains and Joys that it has
caused. All the other interests of human
ity remain at the door.” True? What
Hre the plays that live? The love stories.
Borneo and Juliet, Camille, and all that
long list which tell the history of a love,
which means, of a heart. Again, and oh.
how well this Is known to be true by wo
men, he says, "Celibacy, marriage and
adultery—this is the tragic trilogy in
which the life of women struggles. It is
in this that poets may find eternal dra
matic subjects. Of the three phases of
the tragedy, the most painful Is evidently
>hc last named." 1 turn over the page
and I read, “Wherever there are assem
blages of tnen and women, there are
souls to he won.”
You think this isn’t true, and yet before
me there arises the story of a play, the
story of a tragedy in a tragedy. A great
actress was playing Frou-Frou. In her
audience was a group of people who rep
resented what is called fashion, ami
among them was a woman and a man
who had once loved each other dearly, so
ring on her linger he believed that It
ring on her finger that he believed that it
encircled all happiness for him. As the
years went on these two people grew
apart. The rifts in the lute were many,
“ n /J the song of love was hushed, or had
drifted into a harsh discordance. Before
the world these two people were simplv
like many others, but when they were
alone they scarcely spoke. That night, as
the play went on, the woman’s heart was
touched as it had not been for years and
coming out of the theater she asked her
husband to come home with her Instead
of to the gay supper where they were ex
pected. He did, and when they were to
gether she asked him pardon, for all that
she had done that was wrong, and she
begged of him to give her another chance
to prove that she loved him. That night
for the first time In ten years, he kissed
her—this beautiful woman—and bidding
her good-by at the door of her room, he
said: ’To-morrow we will be married
afresh; we II start on our honeymoon,
learn to love each other again for alwavs
and away from all the rest of the world ”
That was good-night.
The smile on her face was one of ec
stacy. To his good morning, she gave
no answering word, for death had claim
ed her in the night. In her cold hand
was the bunch of violets that she had
taken from him Just before she left him
because they were like those that Frou-
Frou pinned among her laces She slept
with the violets, covering her, for four
years, and then beside her was laid the
body of the man who, during that time
had been alone always, and who had never
ceased to grieve, because he had had no
opportunity to make her happy ln life.
And the reconciliation came because a
master In the art of playwriting and
of reading hearts had learned to tell the
story of a woman who was never bed,
but only weak. Do you remember when
Frou-Frou asks her husband to take her
away? Think how different her life would
have been if he had done as she asked
him! How different all life would be
if each of us could realize when the other
Is reaching out for help!
Somebody says: "Y'ou are enthusias
tic.” Perhaps.
Enthusiasm is a good thing—lt keeps
people young—for it always furnishes
them with Illusions. If I am enthusias
tic, my friend, I am truthful. There
is not enough money ln the whole wide
world to buy my opinion. Years ago,
when I knew, oh. so well! how much a
little money meant, I took for my motto
these three words. “Litera sertpta ma
net.” I translate it, “What I write. I
mean," and I have never written what
I did not think to be true, and I can
stand before man and God and sav that
no opinion was ever bought that was
signed Bab.
Postscript—Once in a while I write one.
It Is usually meant, as it is now, for that
hard-hearted person—the editor. Some
times. in some forms, he objects to per
sonalities, but I beg of him, as a special
courtesy, to put in the end of this letter
as it is (he can leave out the postscript
if he likes). It Is my way of answering a
request made to me to say an unkind
word about a woman. Will you do this to
oblige Bab?
A BOG’S DIARY.
Evidently Authentic and Throwing
Eight In Several Canine Mysteries.
From London Punch.
Monday. Nov. 11, 10 a. m.-Am unchain
ed. Large party with guns. Sport, Hur
rah! Smell out master, dance round him,
and place forepaws on his knickerbock
ers. Am reproved. Why? There are two
more black dogs, strangers to me, and a
brown spaniel whom I have never met
before. The spaniel is a fool. His ears
are ridiculously long and flap in the most
absurd manner. His nose is broad, his
eyes bulge, and his legs are bandy. A dog
like this is only fit for hedgerows. Ex
change tiptoe courtesies with the two
black strangers. Growl at them. They
growl back. We are all reproved. Why?
10:20—Corner of a covert. Heardkeepcr
say, “There was a hundred pheasants
drawed into that ’ere covert.” This is
ripping. Master applies whip twice, but
not very hard. Tells me he does it to
•’Steady'' me. Such rot! forgive him.
Five pheasants come out my way. I kill
two with a right and left and miss an
other with my second gun. Sun must
have got into my eyes. Shall 1 go after
the dead birds now or wait? Better wait.
Got thrashed last time tor running after
birds before beat was over. Guns going
off to the right and left. Brown dog so
far has killed nothing. One of the black
dogs, named Sailor, has killed four. Ridic
ulously conceited dog tnat. Eight more
pheasants come to me one by one Kill
five. Miss three. Brown dog smiles audi
bly. Shall cut the brown dog, or bite him
in the back. Shout from beaters. "Hare
forward.” I'll have his fur or die in the
attempt. Comes galloping out on mv
right. J miss him twice. I'll show him
who can gallop. Off after him. Distant
shouts from master. Who cares? Into
a ditch. Out again. Across plowed field
Hare still in front. Am gaining. No am
losing. Hare is a silly animal; shall give
it up and go back. By the bye. got thrasn
ed last time for doing this. Wonder if f
shall be thrashed again. Better assume
contrite expression. Do so. • • • x’o
good. Am thrashed. Howl. Never was a
PParian dog. Beat over. Pick up birds
Mouth full of bathers. Ain sent to
look for a bird wounded by brown dog
who lias shot disgracefully and made a
|M*rf<vt fool of himself. Trace bird to
ditch. Faint sent to right. Follow up
fifty yards, then through hedge, liack
again. Got him. IP turn covered with
burrs, Willi bird in mouth. Am tattled
Brown dog. who lias lieen thrashed hints
that he doesn t think much of ths per
formance Offer* to carry’ bird for me
" * 1 *m >lr*d " dhowa like to see him
dare to touch it.
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, DECEMBER IS, 189d.
THE WOMAN OF FASHION.
New York, Dec. 14.—What to wear is a
question that is agitating the feminine
world far less than how to fill the list of
Christmas presents, which is longer this
year than It ever was before, because it
Is older and has taken on at least one
more name each year. Nevertheless, ‘no
sooner will Christmas be over than there
will be another grand rush to the modiste
and dressmaker similar to the swoop that
the summer girl made upon her return
to city civilization in October.
Those Louis XVI waists did not get
fairly started in that first onslaught, and
have only been coming on piece meal dur
ing the autumn months. This is more to
their advantage than otherwise, for so
long as a style remains fashionable with
out becoming common it is the thing most
to be desired. It will be very difficult for
the ordinary dressmaker to imitate these
waists, for the ordinary customer; be
cause unless they are made of the finest
of velvet they do not look like Eouis XVI
waists at all, and the ordinary mortal
cannot afford velvet at $4-50 or $6.00 per
yard for any kind of waist. But there are
so many extraordinary mortals these days
that it is safe to predict that enough of
those waists will be worn that were fash
ionable at the end of last century to in
sure their negulating the gowns that
grace the going out of our own century—
perhaps until the new one is ushered in.
Who knows but the twentieth century
girl will make her debut In a Marie An
toinette waist?
But this Is too far off to consider now
and If we must look to the future, there is
our ’ast leap year of the century to be
considered. We must certainly look our
best then, for It would be far more hu
miliating to be refused than never to be
asked, which is the worst fate that can
overtake us on other years. And If a
l.ouls waist would ensure us against such
a calamity there are plenty of girls who
would buy velvet at any price and make
up halt a dozen of tne alluring garments.
An exquisite gown for the evening be
longing lo a young woman whose pro
posals of marriage need not come from
her side, has a crimson velvet Eouis
waist. There is a vest of beaded net
The neck is very low in front and on the
shoulder strands of dull beads only par
tially veil the beautiful white skin. The
skirt is trimmed around the bottom with
velvet and beading. Of course, lace en
ters Into the composition of this gown
as it does into nearly every feminine gar
ment worn. It is white.
Black lace is almost unknown in the
gowns worn this year. There is Just one
kind that Is admissible—that is indeed
very fashionable—and that is black with
white lace appliqued on. Tills comes in
both wide and narrow widths and is used
; or .„ w . alst ’‘' or beeves—never for both. It
l.s a y;.rd Then there is an insr.
tlon about four inches wide which is
used for the strap or pleat down the
front of a blouse or for the bretellee that
are fashionable now.
In the trimming line everything is fash
ionable except possibly Jet. Jet is on
the bargain counter and that always looks
suspicious. Nevertheless there is a great
deal of It worn. But the colored sparklers
are more ln favor, perhaps because they
are newer. 1
So much for the grown folks’ clothes,
and now to see what the little folks arc
wearing, for, after all, this Jolly Christ
mas month really belongs to them
The smallest ones wear white, regard
less of the season, for plenty of warm
flannels take the place of the ugly woolen
frocks which used to be considered nec
essary. They are made with a tucked
yoke or gulmpe that Is separate, so it
can he replaced with a fresh one when
It is soiled. Some of the little dresses
are gathered full around the yoke and
fall loose from there. But most of them
are made with rather short waists and
a little skirt. White mull or nainsook
aprons are very pretty for children who
wear colored dresses. They have a little
tucked front reaching to the waist, and
wide ruffles over the shoulders. It looks
like a white dress with colored gulmpe
and sleeves and is a useful kindergarten
frock for a 4-year-old.
Very soft white India mull trimmed with
thread lace Is the daintiest material for
“her best dress.”
Children under 4 years of age may wear
the pretty Kate Greenaway lengths, but
after they have attained the age of 4 they
must have their frocks shortened to the
knee.
Time was when the Idea of making an
evening dress for a girl under 15 would
have been ridiculed. But nowadays the
young lady of 4 finds her “party dress’’
almost as necessary as her play frock, and
watchful mamma, thinking of future pos
sibilities of titles and social positions
provides her with the gowns and other
accessories which may lead to such a
culmination.
A Dresden silk frock for a girl of seven
might have served her mamma if It had
only been made larger. It had a roll
of green velvet at the waist, and green
velvet leaf-shaped enaulets over the
sleeves, which were mere puffs. Under
the epaulets, and over the sleeves was a
flounce of lace.
Children's coats are long, reaching to
the bottom of the dress. The collars are
quite wide, and are made In sections, be
ing slashed at the shoulder and usually
edged with fur. Boucle or cheviot makes
the prettiest coats for ordinary wear
The fur used is either stone marten or 1
ermine. Swan’s down and narrow edges'
of mink are also used.
Lace, both applique and flounced Is
much used on coats for children of all
ages.
Their bonnets are stiff In the Quaker
style, with very broad brims, especial
ly right at the top. A little blonde prin
cess. whose coat was green bengaline
had a bonnet with a brim that stood up
seven or eight inches above her golden
hair, but narrowed down to almost noth
ing when it reached her bonnet strings It
was faced with pink silk that was pleat
ed up and down. A couple of pink tips
peeped over the brim, and the strings
were pink, but the bonnet was green to
match her coat.
Some of the bonnets are faced with
lace like that worn by the wee tot In the
picture. Others have a bow of ribbon
in a pale shade; and one of the sweetest
1 have seen was pure white with a bunch
of tiny rose buds resting on the sunny
curls. Altogether, the wee tot’s clothes
are more fascinating than those of their
elders, and perhaps we take all the more
pleasure in them because we have men
tal pictures of the unattractive frocks
which our puritan grandmothers
ered proper for ehidren. Alice Amory.
A GIRL TRIED GLASS EATING.
Thought She Conld do the Trick Like
a Fakir.
From the Philadelphia Record.
Washington. Dec. 6.—Blanche Evans,
the young colored girl who ate a large
quantity of glass and then drar.it lauda
num to relieve the pain, last night, is now
lying at Freedman’s hospital in a very
critical condition.
The physicians have been able to coun
teract the effect of the laudanum poison
ing, but she is suffering intensely from
the action of the glass in her stomach,
and it is probable that that organ -vili
have to be cut open in order to remove
the articles.
The girl lived at No. 1306 Fifth street
northwest, and yesterday visited a chureh
entertainment, at which she saw an ex
hibition of glass eating. When she got
home she thought she would lry the
scheme, and forthwith she bit o*f a h-'nk
of lamp chimney, chewed it up and washed
it down witti a glass of water.
She immediately felt excruciating pains
in her stomach, and promptly swal’uwed
a big dose of laudanum. By the lime she
got through she was almost dead and
when taken to the hospital tier Ute was
despaired of.
—Mrs. Bllu* had detected the kitchen
girl In the act of pilfering ami had given
her a permanent vacation, to take effect
immediately, On entering the kitchen half
an riour later found the young woman
sitting In a chair with her bundle in her
la t 'v.'" 11 “ r * >" >u wet'lng here for, Ro
salieila? She inquired ”1 am waiting,
mum, sillily answered Rosabella "for
BM ret vuiinvndkllon.”—Chi< ago Tribune
Yes, I have seen changes. When I
first served at court, whither I went
In the year ISlS—seven year after the
St. Bartholomew'—the king received all
in his bedchamber, and there every even
ing played prlinero with his intimates,
until it was time to retire; Rosny and
Blron, and the great men of the day,
standing or sitting on chests round the
chamber. If he would be more private lie
had his cabinet; or, if the matter were
of prime importance, he would take his
confidantes to an open space in the gar
den-such as the white mulberry grove,
encircled by the canal at Fontainebleau;
where, posting a Swiss guard who did not
understand French, at the only bridge
that gave access to the place, he could
talk without reserve.
In those days the court rode, or if
sick, went in litters. Coaches were only
coming Into fashion. Henry, who fear
ed nothing else, having so Invincible a
distaste for them that he was wont to
turn pale if the coach in which he trav
eled swayed more than usual. Ladies
rode sideways on pads, their feet sup
ported by a little board; and side saddles
were rare. At great banquets the fairest
and noblest served rtie tables. We dined
at 10 in the country and 11 In Paris; in
stead of at noon, as is the custom now.
When the king lay alone his favorite
pages took it by turns to sleep at his
feet; the page on duty using a low' truckle
bed that in daytime fitted under the king’s
bed, and at night was drawn out. Not
seldom, however, and more often if the
Bines were troublous, he would invite one
of his councilors to share his couch, and
talk the night through with him; a course
which in these days might seem
undignifii and. Frequently he and the
queen received favored courtiers be
fore rising; particularly on New
Year’s morning it was the duty
of the finance minister to wait on them,
and awaken them with a present of med
als struck for the purpose.
And 1 recall ma>V other changes. But
one thing which some young sparks, with
a forwardness neither becoming in them
nor respectful to me, have ventured to sly
ly suggest, even in my presence—that we
who lived in the old war time were a
rougher bred and a less dainty and chival
rous than the Buckinghams and Bassom
pierres of to-day—l roundly deny. On the
contrary, I would have these to know that
he who rode in the wars w'ith Henry of
Guise—or against him—had for his ex
ample not only the handsomest but the
most courtly man of all times; and has
nothing to learn from a set of poor fel
lows who, unable to acquire the stately
courtesy that becomes a gentleman, are
fain to air themselves !n a dandified sim
pering trim of their own.
That such are stouter than the men of
my day, no one dare maintain. I have
seen Crillon whom veterans called the
brave; and I have talked with La None
of the Iron Arm; for the rest, 1 can tell
you of one, and he a boy fourteen years
old .known to me in my youth, who had
it not in him to fear.
He was page, with me, to the King: of
Navarre; a year my Junior, and my rival.
At riding:, shooting: and fencing: he was
the better; at pavmo und tennis he al
ways won. But naturally, being the elder
I had the greater strength and when the
sharp sting of his wit provoked me, could
drub him, and did so more than once. No
extremity of defeat, however, no, nor any
severity of punishment could wring from
Antoine a word of submission; prostmte,
with bleeding face, he was as ready to fly
at my throat as ever. And more, 'though
1 was the senior, he was the life and soul
of the ante-chamber, the first In mischief,
the last In retreat; the. first to try a nick
name after a burly priest who chanced
to pass us as we lounged at the gates—
and the first to be whipped when It turn
ed out that the king had a mind to please
Father Cotton. •
It followed that from the first I viewed
him with a strange mixture of rivalry and
afTectlon; ready one moment to quarrel
with him and beat him for a misword, and
the next to let him beat me If it pleased
him. At this time the King of Navarre
had his court sometimes at Montauban,
sometimes at Nerae: and there were ru
mors of a war between him and the King
of France; to be clear, It was this year,
that in the hope of maintaining the peace,
the latter's mother, the Queen Catherine,
came with a glittering train of ladies to
Nerac, and here were balls and pageants
and gay doings by day and night. But the
Huguenots were not easily moved, and
under this fair mask suspected treachery,
and not without reason; one night, during
a ball, Catherine's friends selzefi a strong
town, and but for Henry’s readiness—who
took horse that moment and before day
light had surprised a town of France to
set against it—would have gained the ad
vantage. So in the event of Catherine did
little, no one trusting her, and in the end
she returned to Paris; but for a time the
court gayeties continued, and there were
masques and dances, and the thought of
war was seemingly abandoned.
Now' in the room which was then the
king's chamber at Montauban, are two
windows at a great hlght from the
ground, a ravine lying below them. Be
tween the two is a projecting buttress,
and outside the sill of each is a atone
ledge a foot wide which runs round the
buttress. I do not know who first thought
of it, but one day when the king was
absent and we pages were lounging in
the room—which was against the rules,
since we should have been in the ante
ehamber—some one challenged Antoine
to walk on the ledge round the buttress,
going out by one window and returning
by the other. I have said that the ledge
was but a foot wide, the depth below
infinite. It turned me sick only to look
down and see the hawks hang and cir
cle in the gulf. Nevertheless, before
any one could speak, Antoine was out
side the casement poising himself on the
airy ledge; a moment, and with his face
turned inwards to the wall, his slight
figure outlined against the sky. he began
to edge his way round the buttress.
I called to him to come back; I ex
pected each moment to see him reel and
fall; the others, too, stood staring with
pale faces; but he did not bred. An in
stant, and lie vanished round the but
tress, and still we stood and no one moved
no one moved, until with a shout lie
showed himself at the other window and
sprang down into the room. His eves
were bright with the triumph of it; his
hatr waved back from his brow as if the
breeze from the gulf still stirred it. He
cried to me to do the feat in my turn, he
pointed his finger at me, dared me, and
before them all called me "Coward, Cow
ard!”
But I am not ashamed to confess a
weakness I share with many brave men
—I could never face a great hight; and
though I burned with wrath and sha'me
and raged under his taunts, I could have
confronted any other form of death—or
thought so—though I even went so far
as to leap on the seat within the window
and stand—and stand irresolute—l stopped
there. I could not do it. The victory was
with Antoine; he whom I had thrashed
for some Impertinence only the night be
fore. now held me up to scorn and drove
me from the room with jeers and laugh
ter.
None of the others had greater cour
uge; but I was the eldest and the big
gest, and the iron entered into my heart.
Day after day for a week, whenever the
chamber was empty, I crept to the w.i -
dow and looked down and watched the
kites hover and drop, and plumbed the
depth with my eyes, but onlv to turn
away. I could not do it. Resolve as 1
might at night. In the morning, on the
window ledge, I was a coward.
One evening, however, when the king
was supping with M. de Rouuelaure, and
the chamber was deserted, I chanced to
go to that window after nightfall. 1
Stepped on the xeatythat I had done often
before; but this tftne, looking down, I
found that Ino longer quailed. The dark
ness veiled the ravine; to my astonish
ment I felt no qualms. Moreover, 1 had
had HUp|x*r. my heart was high; and
in a moment It occurred to me that now
—now in the dark 1 could do it, and re.
gain my pride.
I did not site myself time to think, but
went straight out to the gallery, where J
found Antoine and two or throe others
teasing Mathurlne (lie fool. My rnlranee
was the signal for a taunt, "Ho, Miss
THE TWO PAGES.
Sy STANLEY J. WEYMAft.
Copyright, 1895, by the Author.
White Face!" Antoine cried, standing out
and confronting me. “It is you. is it? ’
“Yes,” I answered sharply, meeting his
eyes and speaking in a tone I had not used
for a week. "And if you do not mend your
manners. Master Antoine ”
“Go round the buttress!” he retorted
with a grimace.
“I will!” I answered. “I will! And
then ”
"You dare not!”
"Come!” I said; “come, and see! And
when I have done It, my friend ”
I did not finish the sentence, but led the
way back to the chamber, assuming a
courage which, as a faot, was fast oozing
from me. The cold air that met me as I
approached the open window sobered me
still more; but Antoine's jeers and my com
panions' incredulity stung me to the ne
cessary point, and 1 stepped on the ledge,
and without giving myself time to think,
turned my face to the wall and began to
edge slowly along it, my heart in my
mouth, my tlesh creeping, as I gradually
realized where I was; every nerve in my
body strung to quivering point.
Certainly in tne dayiignt I could not
have done It. Even now. when the depth
over which I balanced myself was hidden
by darkness, and I had only my fancy to
conquer, 1 trembled, my knees shook, a
bat skimming by my ear almost caused
me to fail; I was bathed in perspiration.
Yet I turned the corner of the buttress
in safety and edged my way along its
front, glueing myself to the wall; and
came at last, breathing hard, to the sec
ond corner, and saw with a gasp of re
lief the lights in the room. A moment—a
moment more, and I should be safe.
At that Instant 1 heard something, and
cast a w ary eye backwards the way I had
come. I saw a shadowy form at my el
bow. and I guessed that Antoine was fol
lowing me. With a shudder I hastened my
steps to avoid him, and I was already in'
the angle formed by the wall and buttress
—whence I could leap down into the room
—when he called to me.
“Hist!” he cried softly. “Stop man! the
king is there!”
I thought It only too likely, for I could
see none of our comrades at the window;
and 1 heard voices. To go on. therefore,
was to be punished; and I paused and
crouched down in the angle. I reoognized
the king's voice and M. Gourdon’s, and
St. Martin’s, the captain of the guard; I
caught even their words, and in less than
a minute I had surprised a secret—so
great a secret that I trembled almost as
much as I had trembled at the outmost
angle of the buttress, hanging between
earth and sky. For they were planing
the great assault on Cahors; for the first
time I heard named the walnut grove, and
the three gates, and the bridge, that
fame and France will never forget. I
heard all—the night, the hour, the num
bers to be engaged; and turned quaking
to learn what Antoine thought of it. Turn
ed, but neither saw nor addressed him.
for my eye, incautiously cast down, saw'
far, far beneath me a torch and a little
group of men, and turning giddy at the
sudden view of the abyss. I wavered an
instant, and then with a cry of fear chose
the less pressing danger, and tumbled
forward into the room.
M. de Roquelaure had his point at my
throat before I could rise; and I had a
vision of half a dozen startled faces glar
ing at me. Fortunately, however, M de
Rosny knew me and held the other’s arm.
I was plucked up and set on my feet be
fore the king,, who alone had kept his
seat; and amid a shower of threats I was
bidden to explain my presence.
“Vou knave! I wish I had spitted youjif
Roquelaure cried, with an oath, when*
had done so. “You heard all?”
"Yes, Monsieur.”
They scowled at me between wrath and
chagrin. "Friend Rosny,' you were a
fool,” M. de Roquelaure said grimly.
“I think I was,” the other answered.
But a flogging, a gag, and the black hole
will keep his tongue still until it is over.”
Henry laughed. “I think we can do bet
ter than that!” he said, -with a glance of
good nature. “Hark you, my lad; vou are
big enough to fight. We will trust you, and
you shall wear a sword for the first time.
But if the surprises fail we know whom
to blame and you wHJ have to reckon with
M. de Rosny.
1 011 my knees and thanked him
with tears; while Rosny and M. St
Martin remonstrated. "Take my word for
it, he will blurt it out!” said the one; and
the other, “You had better deliver him to
me, sire.’”
“No," Henry said, kindly. “I will trust
him He comes of a good stock; if the oak
bends, what tree shall we trust?”
“The oak bends fast enough, sire, when
lt is a sapling,” Rosny retorted,
i, ' , c , ttKe you shall apply your sap
ling. the king answered laughing.
And with that, and a mind full of amaze
ment, I was dismissed, and left the pres
ence, a grown man; overjoyed that the
greatest scrape of my life had turned out
the happleßt; foreseeing honor and re
wards, and already scorning the other
pages as Immeasurable beneath me. It
was a full minute before I thought of
Antoine, and the chance that he, too. had
overheard the king’s plan. Then I stood
in the passage horrified—my first impulse
to return and tell the king. It came too
la, i’„ ho , we r r - to S ln ,he meantime he
and M. de Rosny had repaired to the clos
et, and the others had left: and while I
stood hesitating. Antoine slipped out of
the chamber unseen, and came to me on
the stairs.
His first words went far to relieve me
for they told me that he had overheard
something bur not all, enough to know
that the king intended to surprise a place
of strength, and some details; but not
the name of the place. As soon as I un
derstood this, and that I had nothing to
fear from him, I could not hide my tri
umph. When he declared his intention
of going with me, I laughed at him.
" y 9 u! ” * said. “You don’t understand,
this is not child s play!”
"And you will not tell where it is?” he
asked, raging.
. “No! your nurse and your pap
boat, child.” * v
He flew at me at that like a mad cat,
and I had to beat him until the blood
ran down his face before I could shake
him off. Even then, and Avhile I thrust
him out sobbing, he begged me to tell
him—only to tell him. Nor was that all
lhrough all the next day he haunted me
and persecuted, now with prayers and
now with threats; following me every
where with eyes of such hot longing that
I marveled at the irrepressible spirit that
shone in the lad.
Ot course I told him nothing. Yet I
was glad when evening came, and with
it an announcement that Henry would
visit M. de Gourdon and lie that night at
his house, four miles from Montauban
Only eight gentlemen were invited to be
of the party, W'ixh as many ladies; the
troop, with a handful of servants riding
out of the city about 6 o’clock, and no
one the wiser. No one saw anything odd
in he visit, nor in my being chosen to at
tend Hie king. But 1 knew; and I was not
surprised when we stopped at M de
Bourdon's only to sup, and then getting
to horse, rode through the night and the
dusky oak woods, by sleeping farms and
hamlets, and under rustling poplars—
rode many leagues, until we saw the
lights of Cahors below us, and the glim
mer of the wi/iding Dot, and heard the
bells of the city tolling midnight.
By this time, every road adding to our
numbers, we were a great company; and
how we lay hidden through the early night
in the walnut grove that looks down on
the river all men know; but not the qualms
and eagerness that by turns possessed me
as l peered through the leaves at the dis
tant lights, nor the prayer I said that I
might not shame my race, nor how my
heart beat when Henry, who was that day
twenty-seven years old, gave the order to
advance in the voice of one going to a
ball. Two men with a petard—then a
strange invention—led the wav through the
gloom, attended by ten picked soldiers. 1
After them came fifty of the king's guards i
and the king with two hundred foot; then '
the main body of a thousand. We hail
the long bridge with its three gates to pass |
and beyond these obstacles, a city bitterly I
hostile, ami occupied by a garrison far I
outnumbering ua. Never, indeed, did men
enter on a more forlorn or perilous enter
prise.
I remember to this day how I felt as we
advanced through the durknetsjtt'. I how
long It seemed while >• waited^huddled
and silent, at the head of the bridge ex
pecting the petard, which had hern fixed
to the first gate, to explode. At h-ngth It
burst, filling the heavens with flame, he
fere the night closed down again, the 1
leaders w.re through Hie breach and past
that gste and charging over the bridge
the leading companies ail mingled togeth- j
I hud no fear now, Jf a friendly hand I
had not pulled me back I should have run
on to the petard which drove In the second
gate. As It was I passed through the sec
ond obstacle side by side with the king—
but went no further. The garrison was
awake now, and a withering fire from
fifty arquebuses swept the narrow bridge;
those who were not struck fell over the
dying; the air was filled with screams
and cries; a moment and the very bravest
recoiled and sought safety behind the
second gate, where we stood in shelter.
The moment Was critical, for now the
whole city was aroused. Shouts of tri
umph rose above the crackle of the guns;
In every tower bells jangled noisely, and
on the summit of the third gateway, which
from every loophole and window poured
on us a deadly hall of slugs, a beacon-fire
blazed up. turning the black water below
us to blood.
I have said the moment was critical—
for France and for us. For a few sec
onds all hung back. Then St. Martin
sprang forward, and by his side Capt.
Robert, who had fixed the first petard.
They darted along the bridge, but only
to fall and He groaning half way over.
Henry made a movement as If to fol
low. but young M. de Rosny held him
back, while half a dozen soldiers made the
attempt. Of these, however, four fell un
der the pitiless fire, and two crawled back
wounded. It seemd that a man must be
more than mortal to pass that place; at
any rate, while one might count twenty
no one moved.
Capt. Robert lay scarcely fifteen paces
from us, and by his side the hammer,
spike and petard, which he had
carried with him, all visible in
the glow of ruddy light that poured on
the bridge. Suddenly, while I stood pant
ing and irresolute. longing, yet not daring
—since I saw older men hang back—sud
denly a hand twitched my sleeve, and I
turned to find at my elbow, his hair
streaming back from his brow, Antoine!
The lad’s face and eyes flashed scorn at
me. He waved his hand toward the
bridge.
“Coward!” he cried, and he struck me
lightly on the cheek with his hand.
“Coward! Now follow me!”
And, before any one could stay him. he
darted from the shelter of the gatewav
in which we stood, and raced across the
bridge. I heard a great shout on our side,
and the roar of a volley; but dull only,
for. enraged by the blow and the chal
lenge, I followed him—l and a dozen
others. Some fell, but he ran on and I
after him. He snatched up the petard and
the hammer, I the spike. In a moment,
as it seemed lo me, we were at the farther
gate attaching the engine to it. I held the
spike, he hammered It, the smoke and
the frowning archway to some extent
protecting us from those above.
I often think of those few seconds with
pride. While they lasted we stood alone,
separated by the whole length of the
bridge from our friends. For a few sec
onds only; then, with a yell of triumph,
the remains of Henry’s “forlorn” rushed
forward, and though many fell, enough
came on. In a trice eager hands took
the engine from us, and secured the fuse
and lit it, and bore us back—l was going
to say out of danger, but alas! as a deaf
ening crash and a blaze of blinding light
proclaimed the way open and the gate
down, he who had done the deed, and
opened the way, fell across me, shot
from a loophole! As the rain of frag
ments from the gate fell hissing and
splashing ln the stream that flowed below,
and the foot streamed over the bridge
and pressed through the breach, Antoine
gave a little gasp and died on my knee.
The rest all men know; how through
five davs and nights we fought the great
street fight of Cahors; how we took no
rest, save against walls and doorways;
how we ate and drank with hands smirch
ed with blood, and then to it again; how
we won the city house by house and foot
by foot until at last the white flag waved
from the great tower, and France hwoke
with a start to know that In the young
prince of pleasure, whom she had deemed
a trifler, was born the shrewdest states
man and the boldest soldier of all her roy
al line.
And Antoine! When I went, after many
hours, to seek him, the horse had crossed
the bridge, even his body was gone. How
he had traced us, how he managed to come
to the front so opportunely, whether with
out him the star of Navarre would have
risen so gloriously on that night of ’BO, I
cannot say. But when I hear men talk of
Crillon and courage—above all, when I
hear them talk of the fops and popinjays
of to-day, I think of my comrade and rival
who won Cahors for the king. And I smile
—I smile.
THE BOSS CHICKEN THIEF.
A Young Man Who Has Stolen Ten
Thousand of Them,
Boston Correspondence New York Sun.
Prisoners in the Middlesex county Jail
at Cambridge have one among them whom
they thoroughly despise. He is a new
comer, a chicken thief, hails from Ver
mont, is not a negro, and for years has
adroitly plied his vocation in the coun
try towns handy to Boston with boun
toous returns. The other prisoners cluck
at him. In the evening when all are
locked In their cells, a barnyard chorus
is started, combining a series of motherly
calls, gladsome cackles, contented croons
raspy squawks, wing flappings and de
fiant crowings.
To this chaotic language of the barn
yard Frank Pike, the new prisoner, lis
tens without protest. He is 4 years old,
invented his own line of work, and has
never consorted with other thieves. Peo
ple think he has stolen over 10,000 chick
ens, but neither by word nor by ex
pression will he give confirmation to this
belief. Detectives have tried to compile
his life history, but have failed. No
tongue was ever muter than Pike s, but
while carrying on his business of roost
robbing he kept an account of his suc
cesses, the money derived therefrom, and
the places visited. These entries ran
back over two years. They told of the
number of chickens sold, and it was from
this source that the police worked up
their estimate of the 10,000 kidnapped
pullets. Two weeks ago, when Pike was
first arrested, the Pemberton Square po
lice thought they had an ordinary roost
robber, but when the books turned up
they changed their minds. Pike was
then photographed, and his was the first
portrait of a chicken thief to get space
in the Boston gallery of rogues.
Two weeks ago, after taking an order
to deliver thirty chickens at ten cents a
pound, Pike left Boston about twilight
one evening on what proved to be his last
ld - Shortly after midnight he entered
the Donald N. Houston estate at Wake
field, tried for the watch dog, and, learn
ing that none was kept, broke into the
nen house. Mr. Houston had a choice
lot of spring chickens, which Pike had
evidently marked down some time before
But that night he was a trifle nervous
and just a bit clumsy. Asa consequence
one of the chickens squawked. Mr. Hous
ton heard the alarm, and ran out with a
shotgun. Pike heard him coming There
was a race. Mr. Houston fired, and Pike
fell, but he was up in a second turning
the corner of a building just in time to
evade a possible second barrel.
When Pike fell he lost hold of the bag
he usaually carried on his nocturnal vis
its. In this bag were tools such as house
breakers use for forcing doors and win
dows, the note books, and a menu printed
by a restaurant in Causeway street. The
bill of fare led to his arrest, for, on ask
ing the proprietor of the restaurant about
liis chicken purchases, the police were
told that real prime birds were sold to him
for 10 cents a pound by a farmer who took
his meals there. About noon Pike came
in to say that an uncle had died, and that
the chickens couldn't be delivered that
day. He was taken to station 3, in Jav
street, and some people in Wakefield, who
had caught glimpses of a hen-house prowl
er at various times during the past six
months were sent for. They Identified
him He was arraigned and held for the
grand Jury. While waiting for trial del
* c <ive wIH try to trace out the hundreds
of thefts In the towns of Medford Sau
gus. Somerville. Eynnfleld, Winchester
Mtlrose. Woburn and Wakefield '
In Pike's note book were the names of
customers whom he supplied. Among them
was a woman living at 43 Keverrtt street
who knew Pike. She said he came to her
house about a year ago and told of his
vast chicken larm and his desire to heln
poor people by selling at a low price Riga
the ( hlnese he believed that chickens to
be at their best, should be kept alive un
til Just before preparations /or cooking
I hat a why he brought them to town with
their feathers on. Tills woman did not
suspect wrongdoing on the part of Ptie
and later when he asked permission to
I. U. k his Stolen goods on her premises '
Ills request was readily granted CjtUer
poor people in ievereti street lis lied ldm
s the farmer philanthropist and bastow
ed on him tqgir broadest smiles Once tn I
aw hile he made e. |, of |^. v , r „7
street l uelomers a preterit of g *2, '
low-sktr . i bird, telling iiUm 10 Mr l
nothing, as he didn’t want his kindc
known to too many.
In the Leverett street house a -zx .
feather beds, three bolsters,
pillows made from the feathers of
fowl. He used the kitchen fo? his
Ing quarters, and always gave
that no one should be allowed to
on him while so engaged Th e ° e la
who lives ln this house says St“
came every day up to two month* = lk *
bringing with him from ten t a ,h* gO
- each day. t 0 th ‘rty
Something occurred one dav to
his suspicions, and he changed his m ' i!a
of plucking to a house in Lowrii 1
from which place he supplied his niif o*l, 0 * 1,
ers as before. The reason of hf !5?5 om '
the Leverett street woman dldn’*u nge
but thought perhaps he might
bothered by the numerous question. b
piled him with. There are sever ll * h ®
ln the Lowell street housenewlv £ ,l i ,vs
with the feathers of his 111-gotten 1 ?*'! 1
The Lowell street woman savs he
one day with 22. another with *>t ' n
with 15, and again with 17. He
rived very early In the morning ’ ar '
About ten days before his arrest pm,
began to drum up a turkey trade tt„ - ?
a big farm up in Vermont whi“ a
looked after, and on this farm hSifriV’
of fine turkeys were being
Thanksgiving. The prices of i„ lcr
brought In orders by the dozen ir.i V'j
not his arrest occurred when It’ .lll Pit
would by this time be casting about
the abodes of likely turkeys. 1 for
Where Pike lived was a myscerv T>
police believe he had no permanent im™
but slept in cheap lodging house, 'Sf!
in Boston, and in haymows wh“n
town. They find that two years ago he !,° f
ed at 8 Decatur street, Charlestown' Ti,'
people there remember him, and aa v £2
wus a dealer in chickens. According to
his books, his income from the sa c nr
chickens must have been consld.-rnhu
He worked the freight conductors ‘ ard
brakemen by keeping them sunni
When arrested he had *4O in his pooi..*ti
and a good gold watch. * a,CKot *
The Indian Chief and the Tooth-Pick
Shoes.
His eastern friends a Christmas box
Send out to Man-who-climbs-the-rocks,
The brave Sioux Chief who has reformed
Since Gen. Miles his Jacket warmed.
- S r Ak, * J
Inside the box, red man views
A pair of yellow tooth-pick shoes,
“Ugh” grunts the chief, ”1 am afraid
I cannot tell for what they’re made.”
j _
ADd then a smile from ear to ear
Told that discovery was near.
“Wahoo” he yelled, “you hear me talk,
It is the white man's tomahawk.’’
He waved the handles, sinew bound.
He leaped ten feet from off the ground,
And In the warriors deadly gust
Two hundred Bannocks bit the dust.
Horn lu the Toner of Londoo.
From the Chicago Tlmes-HerrM
Virginia. 111., Nov. 30.—Mrs. John iba
ton. historical personage of the old worst,
and a highly respected and canv setter
of this seel ion of Illinois, died this m<>r: -
•tig. aged 76 years. Her maiden nam • *
Mery J. Fullerton, and she was born m
In- tower of l/jndon, England. K- '<
llt'Ji, when her father. Mu) Jane* " ‘ ' '
ton. was In command of the tower. Ad '
Itors to this famous prison of the old a ’’ 1
were shown the room and Isje-Mii ' l ''
Boil was called to the fact Ijy h
-that Mary J. Fullerton llegton #* * '*
only female ever born In the 1 'et r
leaves a husband. i’*t John
Mgeq i and ntnv <•’. ’ • ,