strong till the end of one’s days.”
Much affected, he murmured: “Yes; they are terrible experiences!”
She repeated, like an echo: “Terrible.”
For some moments there had been light movements in the cradle — the all but imperceptible sounds of an infant awakening from sleep. Bretigny could not longer avert his gaze, preyed upon by a melancholy, morbid yearning which gradually grew stronger, tortured by the desire to behold what lived within there.
Then he observed that the curtains of the tiny bed were fastened from top to bottom with the gold pins which Christiane was accustomed to wear in her corsage. Often had he amused himself in bygone days by taking them out and pinning them again on the shoulders of his beloved, those fine pins with crescent-shaped heads. He understood what she meant; and a poignant emotion seized him, made him feel shriveled up before this barrier of golden spikes which forever separated him from this child.
A little cry, a shrill plaint arose in this white prison. Christiane quickly rocked the wherry, and in a rather abrupt tone:
“I must ask your pardon for allowing you so little time; but I must look after my daughter.”
He rose, and once more kissed the hand which she extended toward him; and, as he was on the point of leaving, she said:
“I pray that you may be happy.”
THE END
French
Notre Coeur – A Woman’s Pastime
French
I
ONE day Massival, the celebrated composer of “Rebecca,” who for fifteen years, now, had been known as “the young and illustrious master,” said to his friend André Mariolle:
“Why is it that you have never secured a presentation to Mme. Michèle de Burne? Take my word for it, she is one of the most interesting women in new Paris.”
“Because I do not feel myself at all adapted to her surroundings.”
“You are wrong, my dear fellow. It is a house where there is a great deal of novelty and originality; it is wideawake and very artistic. There is excellent music, and the conversation is as good as in the best salons of the last century. You would be highly appreciated — in the first place because you play so well on the violin, then because you have been very favorably spoken of in the house, and finally because you have the reputation of being select in your choice of friends.”
Flattered, but still maintaining his attitude of resistance, supposing, moreover, that this urgent invitation was not given without the young woman being aware of it, Mariolle ejaculated a “Bah! I shall not bother my head at all about it,” in which, through the disdain that he intended to express, was evident his foregone acceptance.
Massival continued: “Would you like to have me present you some of these days? You are already known to her through all of us who are on terms of intimacy with her, for we talk about you often enough. She is a very pretty woman of twenty-eight abounding in intelligence, who will never take a second husband, for her first venture was a very unfortunate one. She has made her abode a rendezvous for agreeable men. There are not too many clubmen or society-men found there — just enough of them to give the proper effect. She will be delighted to have me introduce you.”
Mariolle was vanquished; he replied: “Very well, then; one of these days.”
At the beginning of the following week the musician came to his house and asked him: “Are you disengaged tomorrow?”
“Why, yes.”
“Very well. I will take you to dine with Mme de Burne; she requested me to invite you. Besides, here is a line from her.”
After a few seconds’ reflection, for form’s sake, Mariolle answered: “That is settled!”
André Mariolle was about thirty-seven years old, a bachelor without a profession, wealthy enough to live in accordance with his likings, to travel, and even to indulge himself in collecting modern paintings and ancient knickknacks. He had the reputation of being a man of intelligence, rather odd and unsociable, a little capricious and disdainful, who affected the hermit through pride rather than through timidity. Very talented and acute, but indolent, quick to grasp the meaning of things, and capable, perhaps, of accomplishing something great, he had contented himself with enjoying life as a spectator, or rather as a dilettante. Had he been poor, he would doubtless have turned out to be a remarkable or celebrated man; born with a good income, he was eternally reproaching himself that he could never be anything better than a nobody.
It is true that he had made more than one attempt in the direction of the arts, but they had lacked vigor. One had been in the direction of literature, by publishing a pleasing book of travels, abounding in incident and correct in style; one toward music by his violin-playing, in which he had gained, even among professional musicians, a respectable reputation; and, finally, one at sculpture, that art in which native aptitude and the faculty of rough-hewing
