Newspaper Page Text
i -:!i
Se*rp i.
$
t\i i
t Ch «
l>\
s?o 0
5b=£t dl, A
a
VOLUME xm— NUMBER FOURTEEN.
Atlanta, Ga. t Week Ending June 4, 1904
50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY5c,
ml®
recalled everj' detail
. i.V- ; wooing, her
CHAPTER ONE.
The Question of Barbara.
iJSK in Dresden. Darkness
flung Itself in pulsing mist
and grnyness on the river's
bosom. The Elbe, gloomy
and black, gurgled along
its course while the Inst
caress of dny yet flamed
and flickered on the lofty
pinnacles of this ancient
Saxon capital.
Leaning over the para
pet of the Augustus bridge
the Chevalier Henri d'Au-
hant. Frenchman, exile,
soldier of fortune, a flaxen-bearded man
in plain civilian garb, bent his eyes in
contemplation on the restless waters. Be
side him crouched two great dogs of
the hairy Scottish breed. The man shiv
ered. for dusk and dampness bring the
early cold to Dresden.
"Well, it must be done some day;
there's iv> help for it.’’ he muttered. “An
other man would not hesitate -why should
I? Poor Daria, she's nothing mure
than a i - ol-lhong child, and I should be
e'inritabh . if I desert her now it will
make an outcast of her. Besides, my own
skirts arc n->t so immaculate that I can
ilbhle at r view of the life I've led
hr into ”
DAuhani's r./kid ran hack for half a
year to a humble home in tba- outskirts
of Moscow, where he hud caught bis iirst
glimpse of this glorious girl, Darla, train
ing the vim s about her window. He
il of their brief anil
consent V> marry
hi.in at once, provided ho first took her
clandestinely to some far country. She
exacted .profound secrecy for reasons
that D'Aubant never understood. Mad
with love, h.e asked few questions. He
sacrificed his brilliant prospects in the
Russian army; they fled together, and ait
Dresden she refused to marry him.
D'Aubant stopped short in his medita
tions as he faced for the thousandeth
time tiie same unanswered riddle,
'Why?*' lie shrugged his shoulders; ver
ily the ways of women are past com
prehension. The Frenchman whistled ab
sently to himself and slowly 'turned to
leave the bridge. His dogs pricked up
their ears and decided that their mas
ter was in no jolly humor. So they
drooped their tails, laid back their oars
and, sedately as two little Gray Brothers
of the Poor, trotted on behind.
The blue-eyed fellow’ towered half a
head above the crowd as he shofildered
himself through it. He did not lift his
eyes, nor did he observe a stranger in the
conspicuous green and gold uniform of
Russia, who sauntered carelessly toward
liim. This man, perhaps a year younger
than D'Aubant, darker and slenderer,
carelessly twirled a cane and ignored the
curious interest he excited among the
strollers on the bridge. D'Aubant passed
on. but his height and soldierly bearing
attracted the stranger's glance—first a
casual survey, then a close inspection.
The officer stopped, wheeled, looked keen
ly at D'Aubant and immediately followed
him. He laid a hand on D’Aubant’s
sleeve and brought him to a halt.
"Hullo, D'Aubant! What under the sun
are you doing here? Of all men in the
world I'm gladdest to see you." The Rus
sian spoke in purest Parisian accents,
with a boyish delight at meeting his old
comrade. • It startled DAubant. to hear
himself called suddenly by - the name
which no one in Dresden knew. He faced
about angrily and glared at the stran
ger.
"De la Mar,” he ejaculated, half un
certainly extending his hand; “I'm glad
to see you. Alphonso When did you
come to Dresden?"
‘‘This noon.’’ responded the other, so
pleased to see the familiar face that he
failed to notice a constraint jn D'An-
banfs manner. "With the tsarevitch and
his party, you know.” added Do la Mar.
D'Auban’t eye roamed uneasily about
him before he asked:
"Where are the others?"
”Ik>ft them at quarters. While they
were making themselves comfortable I
walked out to take a look at. the place.
But I'm devilish glad to see you ” He
wrung D’Aubant's hand a second time,
talking all the while. "Have seen you
but once since you dragged me out of
that ambush near Pultowa. It made my
hair turn gray. Y-ou left Moscow so—”
De la Mar hushed abruptly, for, effer
vescent ne he was, he remembered that
this might be a subject his friend would
not care to discuss.
The two men, walking slowly, had
reached the end of the bridge. Here
they turned west along the south bank
of the river.
"D'Aubant—” De la Mar began.
“In Dresden,” D'Aubant corrected
quietly, “1 am called tho Count do Lou-
ville.”
“Borrowed a new title, eh?” laughed
Alphonse.
"Xo-nn old one that I have rarely
used l prefer it—In Dresden.”
They said nothing for a few steps far
ther. then D'Aubant questioned, with a
revival of interest in the life that he had
abandoned for a woman:
"Who is wjih the tsarawitch?”
“Prince Larion IClikoff. of course. Alexis
cannot (budge ani ijrfch. without <R : ed
Larion; Demidoff. Lubomirska and—but
here they come now, some of them.”
De la Mat broke off in his enumeration
and pointed to a little cluster of green
uniforms moving along the river bank
some distance away
"1 prefer not to he seen,” D'Aubant
remarked, and started away. "Do not
speak of meeting me. but 1 shall come
and talk with you, at leisure, tomorrow."
D'Aubant spoke cordially enough, but
he had an abstracted air about him as ho
took note of De la Alar’s lodgings, and
hurried away before the green uniforms
came closer. De la Alar stood watching
him.
. D’Aubant picked his steps among the
blocks of stone and heavy timbers that
cumbered the Zwingerplatz and disap-
peare-d, his dogs close at his heels.
“its just like D'Aubant.” mused De
la Alar, “not to let me talk of that am
bush—to laugh it off, as tf i>t were noth
ing. Rut for him, there'd have been at
least one more Frenchman on the list of
dead. He's changed mightily—something
must be troubling him. Oh. well,
De la Alar shrugged his shoulders and
took himself off to join the party of
Russians.
D Aubant’s mind instantly reverted to
tiie matter of Daria.
• It's devilish awkward to have a con
science where women are concerned, lie
eontided to his dogs, and walked on ir
resolutely.
He iiad come to no decision when he
lilted the latch at home. lie went
quickly up the stair to ids own sitting
room, where a. stout young Irish serving
man busied himself lighting tho can
dles.
•'Terry, Is your mistress at home?”
"She lias this moment returned, mas
ter,” the Irishman replied. D'Aubant
drew an easy chair in front of the lire,
while Terry regarded him with a curious
solicitude. Terry was no tale-bearer,
though he knew even more of Daria's
doings than did his master, lie moved
around apprehensively, glancing frequent
ly toward an inner door through which
liis mistress must enter.
“Dinner at the usual hour, Terry, 4 ’’ the
master ordered without looking up; and
Terry knew himself dismissed.
D'Aubant's surroundings were those of
a soldier that had fought under many
flags and many suns. Rapiers of Spain,
stilettos of Italy, and long curved swords
of the Cossack, rested side by side with
pipes of peace and barbaric gewgaws
brought from the distant colonies in
America, But the soldier seemed also a
musician and an artist. His queer as
sortment of knickknacks, musical in
struments and sketches was most care
lessly tossed about, yet each seemed to
have caught upon precisely the proper
peg. And the man, like bis belongings,
rested comfortably in the exact niche that
fitted him. He dropped his chin in his
hands and took up the same old thread
again.
"No, tm, I cannot think that," he
protested; "when you start a woman
down the hill she travels faster than a
man—that's all.”
in her travels down the hill Daria had
first flung aside that quality of D'Au-
bant’s love Which trusted her; then .-he
lost the shadow of the love itself. And
the man repeated of his sin with the sin
cere penitence, that follows disillusion
Yet he felt in honor bound to abido the
consequences.
He fell to wondering what the life of
this gloriously endowed girl might have
been if the chances of war had not cast
hint In her way.
And, thinking of it all, he leaned for
ward to gaze intently on her unframed
portrait, which yet rested on an easel.
Beside 4 It hung his brushes and palette.
He saw there a fresh young girlish
face, not more ihan 20, of the most bril
liant Russian type. The wondrous white
transparency of her skin glowed here and
there with just a touch of gorgeous color
ing, as if the. ruddy sun of passion shone
bright, on northern snows. Her hair, half
free, half bound, rioted in coils and curls
and twists of reddish copper, warm as
the full red Ups that smiled back at their
creator. D'Aubant knew of but one ntlvr
human creature who had such glorious
hair—Prince Larion Klikoff. D'Aubant
sat motionless, dreamily contemplating
the canvas whereon he had Idealized his
love before it died.
The d5or opened, and a stately girl, re
gally. attired, swept into the room. She
glanced at the portrait and smiled. It
was as tf she smiled upon her own re
flection In a mirror, .perfect in every line
HARRIS DICKSON.
Author of "The Black Wolf's Breed,’’ and "She That Hesitates.” Mr. Dickson is a young man, a native of
Mississippi. His novels have proven wonderfully popular.
from the dimpling ripples at her mouth
to the, swelling curves <ff hit? tioarnVi,
D Auliait glanced up and uttered an
exclamation of surprise at the magnifi
cent gown she wore, a .single blue-white
diamond blazing in iter hair.
"Yes, I’m going out,” Daria said de-
civoly, answering his question before he
asked it; "to the opera with Count Fel-
zenhoimer—a supper afterwards.” She
held her head defiantly as if expecting
him to storm.
“Daria,” he reminded her ktndiy, "t
am ready to take you wherever it is well
for us to go. This evening I thought—”
" ‘Wherever it is well for us to go'—1
am sick of hearing that; I want a nov
elty—something new. For six months
I've seen you, nothing but you; it is a
very long time, and a woman grows
wea ry.”
As D'Aubant listened he searched Da
rias face and observed how different was
her expression from that which ho had
given to tlie canvas. Nevertheless he
answered her in a quiet tone.
"You know the reputation of this Count
Felzenlif imer, arid—’’
The woman's lip curled.
“And you fear It. will compromise me
to be seen at the opera with him?"
She sat down and laughed at D’Aubant,
laughed again and again—an audacious
voluptuary- who tore aside the mask. There
was a note of genuine amusement in her
voice as she went on, half meditatively;
“You’re a queer fellow, D’Aubant, to
•prate of proprieties, and to me. Oh well,
perhaps it was your very oddity that at-
tracted me—fer a while. Now”—she
looke.j at him keenly from beneath her
lashes—“1 may as well tell you the truth,
I can play the good little girl no longer,
though iL lias been a very pretty game.”
Hie paused, and wondered why the mar.
sat there so placid; he did not rage nor
threaten; and she began to resent that
he seemed to care so little.
“But sure, Daria, you cannot intend
to return to your father and mother—
what will they think?”
The woman looked at him queerly and
broke Into the merriest, most irritating
lEt'.gll.
“Tell n;e, D'Aubant—I’ve always had
the greatest curiosity—did you really be
lieve that story?”
"What story?’’
“About my being a country girl—daugh
ter to old Paul and Katherine.”
D'Aubant stared at the woman in
amazement. “Yes—why not?”
“You really thought them my parents?”
“Certainly—you told me—’’
“Yes. I told you many things. They
were nothing but niv jailers; that is
why we had to slip away so mysterious
ly I love mysteries. Menchikoff put me
with them.”
"Menchikoff—the minister? You mean
him?”
“Certainly, the minister; did you think
I meant some moujik, or valet? Men-
cUkoff sent me away while the tsar vis
ited liis house so l should have n<> chance
to meet his good frb-nd, Peter Alexete-
vitch. The tsar might take a fancy to
me. you know. and Menchikoff's
a jealous old foul. rt made me very
angry—to be mistrusted; you understand
and when you came 1 liked you—per
haps 1 even loved you—for a while—and
I wanted to show them that I was not
so helpless. 1 persuaded you to run away
with me.”
"You—persuaded me?”
“Yes, you simple fellow, did you not
suspect it? Men are very stupid.”
D'Aubant rose from his chair, and
stood leaning against the mantel strug
gling with his bewilderment.
“Menchikoff sent you to Moscow?”
“Yes.”
\\ ith a whirl the truth rushed upon
him, for the empire had been tilled with
gossip of this very incident, and the
breach it had caused between Peter and
his favorite minister.
“Then,” he said very slowly, gazing
at the woman from head to foot as if
he had never before laid eyes on her,
“then you must be—”
“Barbara Klikoff, at your service.
Monsieur.”
She gave him the elaborate sweeping
bow that tbe Russians were even then
imitating from the French.
D’Aubant stood dumfounded until the
woman’s voice inquired half iu banter,
half pleasantly:
"And so Alonsleur d'Aubant has been
entertaining an angel unawares?”
"Then it was you?” D’Aubant
asked as soon as *his voice returned.
"Then yotf are the woman for whom
Nartoff plundered the treasury?”
“Nartoff was an idiot.”
“And it was you who made the trouble
between Menchikoff and the tsar?’
Sue nodded and smiled serenely, as if
that were a crooning triumph.
"And you,—'* D’Aubant’s face grew
tense and paler, his voice lower as the
new idea came—“and you are the niece
of my colonel. Prince Gregory Klikoff?”
"Yes, and of Prince Larion Klikoff,
liis brother, who is now in Dresden with
Alexis.”
D Aubant’s head dxooped, his words
became almost indistinguishable.
"Prince Gregory Klikoff was my friend
—kind as my father. What a dog you’ve
made of mu!”
Suddenly he
about, and P'
demanded :
“And you nr-
that caused t
comrade, Bori?
Barbara cow
bad struck
covered h • r
"God's rn>
that—do no' say
atenod up, whirled
his finger at her,
same Barbara Klikoff
ide of my gallant
Pmitrl ?”
„d In her chair as if he
with the knout, ani
, with h”th her hands.
D’Aubant. do not say
that: it was not m v
I did
fault, believe me, believe me.
not know.”
D’Aubnrd turned away and s-id no
more. After a short period of silence
the woman recovered that-wonderful as
surance f„r which Barbara Klikoff was
■ ■is.
' She
hack
spoke regretfully. "T
to Russia in a few
Dara: I shall not stand in
sensible man. D'Au-
“D'A ul,ant.
mean to go
days.”
"So he it,
your way.”
“Now there’s
bant.”
His quescent attitude disconcerted B.ir-
hara and hurt her vanity. She had nerved
herself for a stormy scene. No other
man had ever willingly seen tier leave
him. The woman’s voice dropped lower
and lower. She held to her lips a blond-
red blossom, already drooping atr her
corsasr®*
"Love does not last -forever—nor do
roses; yet we grieve to see them die.
do we not. D'Aubant? T'ntil other roses
come."
Barbara, came over and stood beside
his chair. She laid her hand upon his
shoulder heseechingly
"Now, D'Aubant. the truth Is out."
Rapidly, passionately she spoke of the
Inevitable. “My life is there, hack in
Russia; like a gambler, 1 crave the ex-
cUKemerlt, and who knows what rich
fortune may await ms? Peter has al-•
ready discarded one wife to make an-
otilbi of a.'Finnisti washerwoman. But
’tis a pex-jfqfcS-o-^'l beside the tsar—who
can guess when he*rhey-i-:’—. down
and elevate one more worthy? Lol'* a ‘
me, D’Aubant—should I not make a fitter--
empress than she?” Barbara raised her
self to full height before a mirror, glori
fying it with her perfeetions. "Stranger
things have happened, D’Aubant.”
"Near the tsar, near to death." He
quoted the familiar proverb.
"I am a fatalist,” the woman .laughed,
"but death is not yet for Barbara Klikoff.
Triumphs first, then death.” She bent
down to kiss D’Aubant's brow, and her
bruised vanity rebelled trfnt he should
let her go so easily.
D'Aubant touched the hell.
"Terry, my cloak. Darla, you are an
hour late; where do you meet Count
Felzenhelmer?"
The woman did not reply.
• * m * «
"Oh. you need have no fear; I shall
escort you to him.”
Barbara searched his face—composed.
Inscrutable, couifr* mis—she knew not
what to make of the man.
“I believe,” she began unsteadily, "T
shall not go out. It Is late, and my
mood has passed.”
"Yes. you shall go,” lie answered with
quiet decision; “do you Want Felzen-
heimer to sneer and say I forced you
to stay at home?"
The woman rose obediently.
In a retired corner of the reception
room to which D'Aubant conducted Bar
bara, sat. the young Princess Charlotte
of Brunswick and her Aunt Frederica.
They traveled incognito through'-.Dresden
on their way horns from the baths. Aunt
Frederica seemed greatly vexed as she
conversed resignedly with a middle-aged
lady of the Saxon court. An old officer
In plain dress leaned over Charlotte’s
chair. They had dispatched a mes
senger for their carriage, and were leav
ing before the opera had well begun.
“it Is a shame for these wretched Rus
sians to come in and spoil our evening,”
grumbled Aunt Frederica; "you know
how headstrong Charlotte is—I can do
nothing with her. She says she is going,
and go she will.” Aunt Frederica fold
ed her hands helplessly.
“Has It really been arranged that her
Highness marries the Russian prince?”
inquired the lady, womanly curiiosity
getting tie t>e«cr of discretion.
“I’d rather see her dead!” the old wo
man snapped with such energy that the
other closed her lips. Charlotte rose
from hut sea'cand catne over to her aunt.
"Aunty, the colonel say<-t we can slip
into that empty stall and loJk at fh>
Russians without being se.-n. T shall
be back before the carriage comes.”
Aunt Frederica's hands fell limply in
her lap: it was iter way of chaperoning
the self-willed girl.
There was only one other occupant
of the reception room—Von Felzenheim-
er _pacing up and down, and he did not
glance their way more than once. He
awaited Barbara most impatiently, and
such plain folk as these possessed no
interest for him.
At his next turn he caught sight
of Barbara coming up the broad stair-
in company with D'Aubant. Von Fel-
zenheimer looked about him ns If seek
ing a. place for retreat. Barbara noted
lbs gesture, and hated the man for it.
D'Aubant brought the woman forward,
and with Htat<-1;> politeness resign'd I .
charge to tk, • -r.ant German. Bar
bara smiled, brilliant as the aurora.
Felzenhelmer stammered—li< knew not
what to say or do.
D'Aubant wish (si tk in i very pleasant
evening, and bowed himself away. At
the door u<> stood aside to permit the
entrap- t -if th Princess Charlotte, who
hi,; witnessed the scene with consid-
- ruble urlosity, her attenti >n b ing first
attracted by the magnificent woman.
D'Aubant looked full into the el-arc.-t
of cool gray eyes that neither drooped
nor wavered. There was something in
thosft- eyes for a man to remember,
s- mething for a man to think about,
and. drspit'- has sorb humor, D’Aueunt
found himself thinking of them as he
passed down the stair again.
Von F izenheimer hurried Barbara to
her box.
"Who is that woman?” Aunt Fred
erica asked of the Saxon lady. “Did
you ever see such a glorious smile?”
the younger woman supplemented'. The
colonel, to whom Charlotte addressed
lvr question, did not reply, so she hail
to overhear what the Saxon lady was
telling her aunt.
"That woman,” the lady explained,
confidentially,'' has been quite a puzzie
11 > Dresden for several months. The
man who brought her here tonight is
known as the Count De Louviile: where
he comes from, no one can tell. With-
ti the past few days It has been whis
pered round that, she is thaf notorious
Barbara Klikoff who ran away from
Russia—you remember h-arir.g of it’’”
Aunt Frederica remembered—she kept in
formed of all the gossip.
Charlotte co-u.d not betray further cu
riosity concerning such a woman, and
she left Aunt Frederica to discuss the
details, whil'j she gave attention to the
old colonel.•»
“Here is Vour carriage.” the colonel
remarked, glancing through the door, and
their, party .left the theater.
- t'lMAPTER.TWO,
• f - ,,i
( The Naked .L'a'-urt.
D'Aubant walked rapidly horse i'roa>
the theater. When he entered the sit
ting room his glance fell on the por
trait of Daria. He drew it out beside
his ma.-uc table .where the fullest glare
of light streamed across the face.
Then ho sat. in front of it, elbows rest
ing on his knees, eyes close fo the can
vas.
"Yes. yes," he mused, taking it fea
ture by feature. “I made a goddess
of her. So does every fool glorify the
woman he loves.” Between himself and
the canvas there came a pair of steady
gray eyes—eyes that lacked the flash
and the mad temptation of those before
him. The man leaned for back in his
chair—one arm rested wearily on the
table. IBs lips moved; -Inaudible words
came—meaningless words of bitter disil
lusion. His groping fingers so softly
touched a violin lying on the tsibie that
it sighed as if a complaining wind had
swept the strings. D’Aubant listened
and smiled. Then he drew closer to
him this good comrade whose soul
throbbed in perfect unison with his own.
He laid liis cheek against its sympathetic,
heart, drew the bow and waked the nun-
velous voice that slumbered there. A
soft melody that Daria had sujig to
him in Russia crept faltering and fright
ened from the violin's inner conscious
ness, Tremulous and indistinct, it whis
pered of new-born longings, of faint
heart’s fears—clung caressingly to the
tender notes and paused to win an an
swer from the lips it wooed. Then a
wild, fierce cry of triumph gose in sud
den strength—it soared and surged and
clamored in mad crescendo through tlie
room; a full-throated scream of passion
climbed np and up, frenzied with excite
ment, quivering and shivering in false
delights. The mad delirium tottered on
the crest of curses, wavered and broke,
as the tempest breaks upon the shore.
.1 hen tho music died away, humming
and murmuring, rising and falling as a
sound of distant weeping. Lower and
slower the penitent recessional sobbed
itself to silence and to sleep.
The bow fell from D'Aubant’s fingers.
He shielded his eyes listlessly and look
ed again on the pictured face.
“I believed her—fool! fool: fool! And
they're all like her. They lie and sigh
themselves Into your heart—then rend
it.”
He sprang up and walked about the
room, turning fiercely again and again
toward the picture.
“What a lie—what a damnable infernal
lie that picture is—”
A sudden determination seized the man.
He hurriedly spread brushes and palette
upon a chair.
With inspiration strong on him, the
artist worked. He aded touches here
and there, hardened the lines about her
mouth, lighted a newer fire in the
scorching eyes, reddened a subtiler
poison into the lips, until,
after two hours of steady toll, he stopped
• CONTINUED ON PAGE FOUR.
iM
M -
m
I