Chapter II: Part 2

“Brer Abrum, dis done come on us at las’.” The woman seemed to filter her tones through a mixture of resignation and satisfaction. “I been hat my eye open fer er long time. I ain’t seh nothin’ kase it no business er mine, en I ’low it bes’ ter wait. Ev’y day while you hard at wuk de Baptist preacher is been er buzzin’ in Ca’line’s ear. I don’t see no way out’n it. It sholly is too bad; Asphy is so young; you is sech er big Mephodis’ an’ er deacon, too. I do know how you feel.”

“Marfy,” said the ebon devotee, sternly, as he evoked a dull thud from his knee onto which his broad hand descended; “Marfy, me en Ca’line gwine be divo’ced, ’at’s de end.”

“Too bad she tuk dat way,” sighed Martha Todd, more deeply than she was given to over her own misfortunes.

The truth was that nothing could have pleased the widowed and childless woman more than to have her brother, who was such a prominent Methodist, and a steady laborer, a member of her own household, which would be, she knew, in case of a separation between the couple.

“Women is er caution, sho, brer,” she went on, “I do know Ca’line is haid-strong. Mighty bad fer bofe, dis disagreement. ’Tain’t ’cordin’ ter scriptur’.”

Silence fell upon the pair, save for the sound of Martha’s breath as it contended with the nicotine in her uncleanly pipe-stem. The hours passed until the clock within struck twelve jingling strokes. Abraham rose stiffly, lingered, stretched himself, for he felt that he needed to apologize for going back.

“Yer gwine back ter ’er, brer?” Martha Todd asked significantly. “May de Lo’d be ’long wid you den.”

“I wouldn’t go er step, but I hatter git my clothes frum ’er’,” said he sheepishly. “You reckon I gwine ’low dat gal ter keep my clothes? Huh! Marfy, w’at you rekon I is?”

“Once you git back she gwine ’suade you ter let ’er be ’mersed. Who knows, we may see Deacon Abrum wid wet clothes on, too. Some women is too sly----”

“You go ’long, sister, I tell you too much is done pass twixt me en Ca’line. I des gwine atter my things, den I’ll come live wid you--I’ll be yer in de mornin’.”

Thus speaking, Abraham turned slowly homeward. Late as it was he found Caroline sitting in the door smoking her pipe. She had a sulky mien on her bent, portly form. She drew her feet under her chair as her liege lord passed wordless into the cottage. He turned up the wick of the low-burning lamp, and as its feeble rays struggled through the room his glance fell on the features of sleeping Asphalt, and a lump rose in his throat.

A crude wardrobe stood against the wall. Through its open door he caught a glimpse of his clothing crowded into the piece of furniture with Caroline’s finery. Therein was his long-tailed broadcloth coat, his bell-shaped silk hat, his shining doeskin trousers, and an overcoat.

He had magnanimously made up his mind that he would demand nothing of the domestic wreck except his own clothing. The furniture of the cottage, all other belongings of him and his wife, should remain with her, even little Asphalt.

While he was looking under the child’s bed for his best boots, which he remembered casting off there a few hours previous, Caroline, with a meaning smile playing round her lips, as if she had divined his plans, rose automatically, walked with a well-assumed air of sleepiness to the wardrobe, and locking it, put the key in her pocket. Then, as if unaware that his startled orbs were on her, she went to the clock on the mantelpiece and began to wind it, singing the while a little air which she often sung when wholly at ease with herself and all the rest of the world.

Abraham stood behind her rigid form, boots in hand, in silence. Something in Caroline’s prompt flank movement gave him a thrill of vague pleasure, while it aroused his aggressiveness. She had thwarted him, it was true, but in doing so had of her own will raised a hindrance to his quitting the place. Abraham had a struggle with himself. Somehow the room seemed to be more cozy than ever before, while Martha Todd’s house rose bleak and dreary before his mental sight. How amicably all might be arranged if Caroline would only relinquish her dream of “runnin’ water.”

Then it occurred to him that, in justice to his usual sternness of manner, he must say something hard to her, must force the key of the wardrobe from her, and secure his clothing, but he could not do it; he was softened by her quiet mien as she stood in the door and looked out at the night. But if he did not take his clothing to his sister in the morning what excuse could he offer for having failed so ignominiously? He decided that he would wait until the next day and see what could be done; so he went into the adjoining room, the “guest-room,” and retired.

He lay in bed with his eyes open, reflecting over the ridiculous position Caroline had placed him in before his fellow churchmen, and smarting over the knowledge that the Baptists were enjoying his discomfiture.

After a while the lamp was extinguished in Caroline’s room, and by her snoring he knew that she was sound asleep. He knew that it would be an easy matter for him to steal into her room and take the wardrobe key from her gown pocket and get possession of his guarded property, but he shrank from hastening matters in any such way. After a while he slept and snored in harmony with his estranged wife.

When he awoke in the morning a most tempting breakfast was waiting him on the table, and Caroline and little Asphalt were looking neat and interesting. He took his accustomed seat glumly and ate his breakfast with a good relish. His pride prevented him from speaking to the woman from whom he was to be divorced, though it did not in any wise interfere with his partaking of the food she had cooked before he was awake. By his wounded taciturnity he would have her comprehend that his day in the cottage was over, that he only delayed to get a chance to lessen the overpacked wardrobe.

So far, it was true, he had made little headway, but then Rome was not built in a day, and he could afford to abide his time, especially as the immersion season had not yet arrived. But he remembered, with a chill, that on his way to work that morning he would be obliged to pass Martha Todd’s house. She would be expecting him to bring along an armful of clothing. What could he do to excuse his delay? He bethought himself all at once of his Sunday boots and the blacking and blacking-brush, still under Asphalt’s little bed. With them he could pay an installment on his sister’s hopes and also shield himself from the appearance of defeat.

Rising from the table, he reached under the bed, and securing the articles in question he tucked them under his arm and sailed forth without looking at Caroline or Asphalt.

Martha Todd was on the lookout, pacing up and down her front yard. She vanquished a rather open look of curiosity as he sauntered down the sidewalk, and gave her face an expression of absolute vacancy of thought.

“Good mornin’, Abrum?” said she.

“Good-mornin’, sister,” he replied, in a sigh, as he passed her into the cottage, “kin I ax yer ter save dese yer boots en blackin’-bresh fer me. It’s all my things I kin git my han’s on now. Ca’line is de beatenes’ woman in dis wull I do know. She’s locked um all up in de wa’drobe en hid de key som’rs. But I gwine back ter night en watch my chances. She ’low she mighty sharp, but you gwine see. You gwine hear supin drap; now min’ whut I seh. She hatter git up ’fo’ day to haid me off. De minute I git my han’s on any er my things I gwine fetch um right ter you, en w’en I got um all frum ’er she kin des go, now you min’ whut I seh. She kin des go ’long en wade en swim tell she tek er tail lak er tadpole fer all I keer. All I want is whut b’longs ter me. I gwine hat um, too, en not many words be passed nurr.”

Discerning Martha began to place a small value on her prospect of gaining her point, but in the sweet delight of being a partner in a family disagreement she did not make her fears known, and pretended to think that he was in the right to a final separation from Caroline.

That day Abraham’s companions wondered at his moods. He was very absent-minded, and seemed extremely nervous and ill at ease. As the hour for dinner arrived he remembered that he would be obliged to go home for a small piece of plug tobacco which he had forgotten.

“My lord, Abrum!” exclaimed a dusky companion in surprise, “whyn’t you step er crost ter de sto’ en buy a piece. It’s er mile, en’ll push you lak smoke ter git back.”

“No use,” said Abraham, taking his luncheon in his hands and eating it as he started off. “No use; I des got ter hat it. It’s my sweet navy, en deh ain’t non er dat kin’ in dat sto’. I cay’nt do er lick dis evenin’ less’n I got it.”

He found it necessary to avoid passing in view of Martha Todd’s house, so his distance was a trifle longer than usual.

He stood in the door in surprise. Caroline and Asphalt were seated at the dining table, and on it for that midday repast was only some bread and water. His heart smote him suddenly as he remembered what a delightful luncheon she had always put up in his pail of mornings. But he must not weaken. He remembered that the desired piece of tobacco was in the pocket of a pair of trousers now locked in the wardrobe. Notwithstanding this knowledge, he went to the mantelpiece, looked in the clock, turned over papers, and ran his hands over the covering of Asphalt’s bed.

Then feeling that some explanation was due Caroline, who was regarding him surreptitiously, he said to Asphalt, whose lack of comprehension was as positive as his blackness:

“Asphy, honey, has you seed yo’ papa’s piece er terbaccer? Seem lak I lef’ it in my blue check pants.”

Caroline, however, as if taking the remark to herself, without deigning to look at him, went to the wardrobe, unlocked it, and threw the pair of trousers referred to on the bed, and placidly resumed her work over the fire-place.

With marked eagerness Abraham ran his hand into a pocket of the garment, and finding the tobacco, he forthwith partook of a quid, as if he were unable to stay his desire for another moment. Then he stood and gazed at his wife steadily for a minute with a mingled look of embarrassment and resentment.

But she took not the slightest notice of him. She did not move save to reach over and fan the flies from Asphalt’s face.

Abraham was in hasty argument with himself in regard to the disposal of the trousers lying before him. He did not like to take them away, for he would be obliged to go to Martha Todd’s house to leave them in her care. If the trousers had been his best he might have thought differently, but as fate would have it they were of the very least value of any of his clothes. They were adorned with vari-colored patches, and fringed badly at the knees.

On the other hand, Caroline, he feared, would consider his failing to take them as an evidence that he was weakening from the rigorous course he was pursuing toward a divorce. He decided upon an exhibition of contempt for the trousers, and again brought his child into diplomatic service.

“Asphy,” said he ruefully, holding the trousers out at arm’s length, while the child was most desperately chewing his cheek to dislocate the colony of flies from the Oklahoma below a wildly rolling orb, “Asphy, yo’ papa has certney got all de use out’n dese yer pants. Some tramp kin hat um. ’Sides I mus’ git er lots er new things ter wear in Texas.” With those words, the last of which caused Caroline to start, he threw the trousers into a corner and left the cottage.

As night after night passed the breach seemed to be widening between the couple. Morning after morning Abraham emerged from his house bearing some article of clothing he had managed to secure. He took them to Martha Todd. She smiled, and shed some crocodile tears over the coat, vest, or trousers, as the case might be, cast depreciating looks at certain grease spots or rents, with a sigh that too plainly suggested her opinion of Caroline’s domestic negligence.

One night while Abraham was sedulously searching under the beds, behind trunks, and everywhere for something belonging to him, he was deeply surprised to detect a loud grunt, indicating a burthen of both defiance and disgust, in the bosom of his hitherto wordless wife. He was even more surprised to see her go with a hasty shuffle to the wardrobe and show him that it had not been locked by throwing the door of it wide open.

With another most contemptuous grunt she resumed her seat and began to pat her foot on the floor vigorously, as if to vent her boiling spleen.

Abraham felt cold to his very marrow. She was then willing to remove every hinderance to his leaving, had, indeed, made an opening by which he could hasten his departure.

He approached the wardrobe slowly, casting helpless glances at Caroline’s heaving back. There among her gowns hung naught he could call his own save a soiled linen duster and his overcoat. With trembling fingers he took the duster from its hook, and stalked out into the night. Slowly he glided with bowed head toward his sister’s house. She sat in the doorway behind a cloud of tobacco smoke.

“Well,” said he almost in a whisper, “well, Marfy, dis trouble is mos’ over wid now. ’Twon’t be long ’fo’ I’ll come, now. I think I got de las’ thing ’cep’ er overcoat. Wid good luck I think I kin git dat ter-morrer night. Ter-night I hope you’ll ’low me ter sleep in yo’ company-room. I want ter let Ca’line en Asphy git use’n ter stayin’ in dat house alone.”

Martha rose and moved into the adjoining room to arrange his bed. Her movements betrayed high elation. Things had taken a shape at last that she had hardly hoped for. She lay awake until past midnight listening to Abraham’s creaking bedstead and gloating over the prospective triumph over her heretical sister-in-law.

The next morning Abraham ate his breakfast at Martha’s and went to work without going home. He thought that an additional twelve hours to Caroline’s suspense would do much toward showing her how desirable it was to have a man around the house. The ensuing day, be it said, was a long one to him, and he suffered more than he thought she did.

When he slouched into his cottage at dusk that day, he was shocked to see the inevitable wardrobe open. Indeed the door of that receptacle was frowningly held ajar by means of a stick of stovewood.

Abraham, however, had arranged a grand _coup d’ etat_ for this last visit to his home. It remained to be seen how the enemy would receive the movement.

It was Saturday. He had his entire earnings of the week--twelve silver dollars--in his pocket. He wondered whether twenty-four halves or twelve whole dollars would make the biggest display, and had finally decided on the latter.

Drawing his hand from his pocket to scratch his head he contrived to evoke quite a merry jingle of coin as he stepped across the room to a small table. Caroline’s face flushed and she followed his movements with a mien of deep interest. Not since their marriage had he failed to divide his week’s wages with her. He did not, as she feared, hand it to her on this momentous occasion. Instead, he sat down at the table, after he had dusted and carefully rolled up his overcoat in a newspaper and began to arrange his money in divers piles and positions by the light of a small piece of candle which he had taken from his pocket and lighted to show Caroline that he was not obliged to call for the lamp, which shone on the supper table.

Then he drew forth a soiled piece of writing paper, a small stub of a pencil, and seemed to be engrossed in a deep calculation, as he scratched down some strange hieroglyphics and lines, as if they marked out his course in the future.

“Asphy,” said he, dreamily, the better to assume utter unconsciousness of the fact that the child was asleep on its bed. “Asphy, honey, you ain’t never yer anybody seh how fur ’tis ter Texas, has you? De boss ’low it’s er long way off frum Atlanta, but I reckon I kin git deh--de train starts at twelve ter-night.”

Caroline was so excited that her trembling hands made the dishes in the cupboard rattle as she was putting away the supper, which he had refused to touch, although she had kept it waiting for his arrival. She took a seat in the doorway and turned her dusky face out toward the night in order that he might not see her tear-dimmed eyes.

At the table he sat over his coin chessmen and figures until the far-away strokes of a clock-bell rang the hour of ten out to them from the heart of the sleeping city. As if to answer the bell came a rasping, labored cough from slumbering Asphalt, a disconnected jargon murmured as from a breast of pain, half subdued by sleep.

Two pairs of eyes were raised suddenly; one from the coin-strewn table, the other from the long rows of lights which mark out a street on the blackness far away, between long lines of tall buildings. Two hearts quickened their beatings simultaneously. Two minds were focused on one idea.

The mother rose quickly and with a cat-like tread went to the child and bent over him. Abraham all at once had eyes for aught besides his gains. His mouth relaxed from its drawn sternness and fell open as he watched Caroline’s anxious posture at the bed. He went to her side.

They looked like a pair of ebony statues. The light of the lamp and candle seemed to be struggling to produce shadows of the couple on the wall, but the rays of one lessened the power of the other, so that four dim contortions in shade took the place of two. The mother’s hand was on the brow of the sleeper; her breath was held in suspense.

“Ca’line,” more in a rasping gasp was the name pronounced than in Abraham’s usual tones; “Ca’line, dat child has got ’is feet wet somewhar’. Dis typhoid fever is all roun’ dis settlement en pow’ful bad wid chillun. You look atter him honey; I gwine fur er doctor. I’ll be back ez soon ez I kin git yer.” He left his money on the table, without giving it a thought or glance, and darted hurriedly from the room.

Day after day the troubled pair watched over their sick child, hoping and praying for its life to be spared to them.

“Ef it had en’ er been fur dis yer divo’ce we hat up ’twix us, Ca’line, it wouldn’t er come, I know,” said Abraham, in sackcloth and ashes one night. “It’s mighty bad ter tamper wid whut de Lo’d have done jined tergerr, en all ’bout His Own Son, too; better not hat no chu’ches en dat. Sister done gwine sen’ me my things back.”

Caroline was husky of voice when she replied, dampening a towel to cool Asphalt’s hot brow: “Abrum, I’m willin’, en only too willin’ ter go wid you in yo’ chu’ch. I don’t know no diffunce ’twix de two; I des hat my min’ sot on foolish showin’ off. En if God will only spar dis one child, I’ll never open my mouf ergin. Who knows but er gwine in der water wid wet clothes might er been my regular death? Mebby dis spell er Asphy’s is er warnin’ ergin it.”

Slowly Asphalt passed the dread climax, and began to grow better, and to-day Crippletown does not contain a more happy couple than Abraham and Caroline.

ETCHINGS: AFTERWARD

(Annie Reeve Aldrich: For Short Stories.)

It is deep winter. A fierce storm shakes the windows in their casement. Melting flakes were in his beard when he entered.

Within is no light save from the fire; a dull, steady glow that bathes the room in soft rose. There are lordly furnishings; about the floor great cushions; skins of the leopard and lion.

There is a screen.

_My God, do not let me look behind that screen!_

Hush! Where was I? Yes, on the furs before the fire, my head, with loosened hair, pillowed on the rug at his feet.

It was pleasant to listen to the raging of the wind.

He had come to tell me of his approaching marriage--a marriage of love, he said, and laughed.

It was then all the room seemed to burst into a firelight of blood; all the sounds of hell rang in my ears; and my wrist had the sudden strength of ten men to drive the blade in his breast. His great muscles and firm flesh gave momentary resistance to the point, and then, what joy to feel them yield, and the steel slip deftly in!

The wet crimson poured over my fingers into the creases of the palms he had kissed, and the dimples he had counted.

He rolled, so much clay, onto the white furs, and see, I have drawn the screen in front of him ... for he is still laughing ... the happy bridegroom.

I wish the bride might see that smile!

There is a dark stream crawling through the fur, meandering and choosing its crooked way like a little brook in the summer grasses, and it creeps on and on lazily toward the polished hearth. It will run on until the flames drink it ... and when it reaches them I must get some snow at the window and wash my hands ... but just now I can think of nothing but how long it will be by the tick of the carved clock against the wall before it reaches its goal ... of nothing but that, and how, when the fire sinks and crumbles to ashes the waiting shadows will steal from the corners where they hide and gather closer around me ... and I shall have to sit motionless until the dawn, lest by chance I should set my foot in that black little brook ... it is quiet ... but those shadows are only waiting ... waiting in the corners!

THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS FOUND

(Edmond Spencer: Parisian Police Archives.)

M. Scipion Desruelles kept a small shop in the Rue de Seine, Paris. He had a wife, but no children.

He was a small tradesman, and his wife a large, coarse-looking woman, quite capable of taking care of shop and Scipion.

Scipion’s past life had been singularly uneventful.

One single circumstance had ruffled it, and that he used often to relate to his gossips, in proof that a hero was spoiled in the making when Scipion became a shopkeeper.

One night, ten years before the time of his introduction to the reader, Scipion had gone to the theatre, and after the performance had taken Madame to a restaurant and treated her to a little supper. Returning home, after he was in bed Scipion heard a noise in the shop. He armed himself with a bootjack, went down, and, with the assistance of the hastily summoned police, captured a burglar.

The man, who said he was an Italian, named Vedova, disclaimed earnestly all felonious intentions, but could give no good account of himself. Scipion prosecuted him vigorously, and he was convicted and sent to Brest.

Two years later Scipion met Vedova in a café and had him arrested as an escaped convict.

In the early part of 1852 Scipion received official notification from Martinique that a bachelor cousin of his on the island, whose name was Pache, was dead and had left him heir to all his property which was large, and included a valuable sugar plantation. Desruelles was further informed by the notary at St. Jean, that it would be necessary for him to come out in person and administer on the estate in order to save himself great loss and inconvenience and many delays.

The bourgeois of Paris is not a traveling character, but neither is he willing to lose money if he can help it. Scipion bought himself a trunk, committed the little boutique in the Rue de Seine to Madame’s charge--she was quite as competent to take care of it as he--made a deed of all his property in Paris to Madame as a preventive of accidents, and then bidding her the most tender adieu, sailed for Martinique, via Bourdeaux, in a brig which took out a cargo of claret and oil for the French islands and New Orleans.

When Desruelles reached Martinique and went to St. Jean, he was simply struck dumb to find his cousin alive and well, and all the notarial papers he had received forgeries!

There was nothing for him to do but go back again.

The brig was to sail in a day for New Orleans, and Scipion determined to go thither in her, take the cars to New York and the steamer thence to Havre, in order to get home again as speedily as possible. He was burning to send the police in search of the rascals who had hoaxed him and made him spend his money and suffer sea-sickness in a wild-goose chase. He was armed with all the preliminary depositions and statements necessary to open the case, duplicates of which were to be forwarded by the authorities from Martinique.

Arrived in New Orleans, Scipion determined to spend a day or two in the city before taking the cars for New York. He put up at a boarding house in the French quarter, and devoted himself to sight-seeing with great assiduity.

While at breakfast the second morning after his arrival he was warmly greeted by a stranger, who took his hand and said: “I am truly delighted to see you, Monsieur Quentineau! When did you arrive?”

Scipion gently informed the man that he was not Quentineau, but Scipion Desruelles.

The stranger with great violence said that the dodge wouldn’t go down there! Next thing he’d want to repudiate that bill of $725 he owed Marais & Hughes.

Scipion said he had only been in the city a day, had never seen the stranger before, nor knew he who or what Marais & Hughes were--consequently could not possibly owe them or anybody else anything.

An hour later Scipion was arrested on a warrant taken out by Marais & Hughes, liquor dealers in Canal street, against Pierre Quentineau, an absconding debtor.

Scipion Desruelles, alias Quentineau, was cast into prison. He found a lawyer, and with great difficulty, and at the cost of half his money, proved that he was not Quentineau, but Scipion Desruelles, a passenger aboard the brig Braganza, of Bordeaux. But for the captain he would have been convicted, for several witnesses swore that he was Quentineau.

As soon as Scipion was released he went to the levee and embarked on a steamer for Memphis, intending to make his way thence by rail to New York.

At Memphis he was misdirected, enticed into a low groggery under the bluffs and robbed of every cent he had left. Scipion found his way to the mayor of the city, who promised to write to the French Consul at New Orleans about it and to send the police in search of the thieves.

Scipion meantime wrote to Paris to Madame for a remittance, and went about in search of a situation. A cotton broker gave him some correspondence with Louisiana Creole planters to look after, and he was thus enabled to earn enough to eat. But no answer nor remittance came from Madame, and our poor exile could not make money enough to take him home. At last he wrote to his cousin in Martinique, stating his circumstances, and received shortly after in reply a draft for 2,500 francs.

Scipion immediately bought himself some clothes and necessaries, took the cars and started for New York.

Here, while waiting for the sailing of the Havre steamer, he was again arrested as being Pierre Quentineau a fugitive from justice and a bond-forger.

By the merest good luck the cotton-broker in whose employ he had been in Memphis happened to be in the city, and Scipion was able to establish an alibi. His passport was stolen from him on the Memphis steamer, and he had to get another one in New York, being thus delayed a week.

Finally, to his intense joy, he was outside Sandy Hook on his return voyage.

Arrived at Havre, he was accosted on the quay by a customs officer with, “Eh bien! Monsieur Quentineau! What have you to declare at _this_ time?”

“Sacre bete de Quentineau!” cried the exasperated boutiquier; “I am Scipion Desruelles, marchand, numero 79 _bis_ rue de Seine.”

“Then, sir, you must be detained,” said the officer.

While he was waiting in the customs office a man came behind him, slipped something in his hand, and whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Quentineau! They have nothing whatever against you! Here’s what I owe you!”

Desruelles turned quickly, but the man who had spoken to him was already lost in the crowd, and Scipion found eight gold Napoleons in his hand. Mechanically he put the money in his pocket, cursing this Quentineau whom everybody persisted in mistaking him for.

His baggage proving all right, and his passport not objectionable, Scipion was after some delay permitted to start for Paris, but still under the suspicion of the authorities that he was not Desruelles, but Quentineau. At Rouen, in the railroad restaurant, he changed a Napoleon to buy a bottle of wine and half a chicken. As soon as he reached Paris he took a fiacre and drove to numero 79 Rue de Seine. His modest sign was no longer there, but instead of it one of:

“Lamballe, coiffeur et parfumeur.”

Astounded, he rushed into the little shop; “Madame Desruelles,” he said, “where is she?”

The attendant answered, “In America. It is four months since she went--at the summons of her husband!”

“At the summons of me!” cried Scipion, sitting down abruptly. “This is all a dream!”

Before he could say another word, a sergeant de ville entered the shop and laid hands upon him. “You are wanted, Quentineau.”

“I am not Quentineau--I am Desruelles!” shouted the unhappy man, but the officer of the law was incredulous, and bore Scipion off to prison.

He was examined on a charge of coining and of passing counterfeit Napoleons upon the _dame du comptoir_ of the railroad restaurant at Rouen, and fully committed for trial as Quentineau, alias Desruelles, _faussaire_.

Desruelles employed an able advocate, and laid all the facts before him. “It is a mere question of mistaken identity,” said the lawyer, “and of course there will be no difficulty in proving who you really are--a boutiquier of the Rue de Seine, of twenty years’ standing.”

But the advocate reckoned rather too hastily. One of the most interesting trials that ever came off in Paris, now ensued. The advocate employed by Desruelles was thoroughly persuaded of his client’s innocence and good character, but the _Procureur Imperial_ was of a different opinion. The case was sent before the Court d’Assises, and was tried by the president. A great number of witnesses were called, and the whole question turned upon the identity of the prisoner, by the mutual agreement of parties, for the reason that if the accused were Desruelles his account of how he received the gold Napoleons (admitted to be counterfeit) was probable; but if he were Quentineau, no defense was possible. Quentineau was established to be a desperate character, who had been several times convicted of minor offenses, such as smuggling, and was more than suspected of being a criminal of much deeper dye--a counterfeiter and forger.

The testimony of the customs officers at Havre and of the _dame du comptoir_ at Rouen was first taken, and then a mass of police testimony to prove that Desruelles was unquestionably Quentineau. This was chiefly from the provinces, Quentineau having apparently operated very little in the capital. At the outset the defense experienced an unexpected difficulty. There were some hundreds of witnesses willing to swear that they knew Desruelles perfectly well, but not nearly so many who were satisfied that the prisoner was that person. His hardships, his voyages, his poverty had told upon Desruelles. He was deeply sunburnt, his hair was grizzled, his hand was hard, his manner nervous and excited--as little like as possible to the placid shopkeeper of the Rue de Seine. Unquestionably the accused resembled Desruelles remarkably, and knew as much about that person’s antecedents as if he were really himself, but then--. In short, Desruelles’ neighbors were exceedingly conscientious, and the police exceedingly positive, and the unfortunate shop keeper was convicted of being not himself at all, but Pierre Quentineau, _faussaire et faux monnayeur_.

The rebutting testimony adduced by the advocate general not only convinced the jury but overwhelmed Desruelles. It was a letter which one of his neighbors, a woman, testified she had received from Desruelles’ wife, from New York, that she and her Scipion were happily accommodated with a shop and a thriving custom in Broadway in that great city! Desruelles admitted that the handwriting was his wife’s, but the statement impossible, for the reason that he was in the Palais de Justice, and consequently could not be in New York.

Pierre Quentineau, calling himself Scipion Desruelles was sentenced to ten years’ close imprisonment.

The unhappy convict was moved by his sense of injustice to carry himself with unexpected dignity. He shed no tears, but said he felt certain that time would remove the evils that now bore upon him so heavily. He was sent to Brest, and set to learn the trade of shoe-making. He was one of the most tractable prisoners ever confined at the _bagnes_.

When Scipion had served out three years of his sentence, an unexpected episode occurred in his history. Visitors were announced to Quentineau. He went to the office of the prison and found his Martinique cousin, Pache, and--his wife! He attempted to throw himself into the arms of the latter, but was repulsed with severe dignity.

“We know you are not Quentineau, but Desruelles,” she said; “but there are crimes charged against Desruelles.”

Scipion demanded an explanation and his release, but Madame was inexorable.

M. Pache then told him to wait. Through influence, and the facts presented by the Martinique cousin, the Court of Cassation had consented to re-examine the question as to his identity. “Of course you are Desruelles,” said M. Pache, confidently, “and I mean to prove it, if it costs me a million.” After you are shown to be not Quentineau but Desruelles, it will be time enough to go into Madame’s grievances.

Desruelles was now brought back to Paris, and M. Pache set to work to establish his cousin’s identity.

The notary he employed suggested that M. Jules Favre be retained as advocate and that eminent lawyer consented to take the case, but two days later sent a note declining to serve on account of the pressure of uncontrollable circumstances. M. Plongoulm, was consequently retained.

After various delays, the case of Desruelles or Quentineau was again called up, this time not before a jury, but before the first President of the Court of Cassation. The array of witnesses was formidable, and the testimony of the most conflicting character. For the Procureur’s side a great number of witnesses were brought who positively identified Desruelles as Quentineau. In addition to this, substantial proof was brought to the fact that Desruelles himself was dead. One of the sailors of the brig Braganza was produced, who had made the Martinique voyage with Desruelles. This man testified that after cargo was discharged at New Orleans the brig took on cotton and was towed down the river on her return voyage. Off Chandeleur Bay the brig was boarded by a tug from Lake Bargne, and Desruelles came aboard from her. Three days out Desruelles was taken with yellow fever, and died just as the brig dropped anchor in the harbor of Basse Terre, Gaudeloupe. He was buried on the extreme eastern point of the island after a considerable difficulty with the authorities, who deeply resented the brig’s anchoring at the island with such a fatal disease aboard. The log of the Braganza and the burial record from Guadeloupe were presented in court in corroboration of the sailor’s testimony, which made a deep impression.

For the side of the defense Mme. Desruelles positively identified her husband, naming marks and peculiarities upon his person which were found to be singularly identical with those on the prisoner’s person. An amusing colloquy between her and the prisoner was permitted, in which both were seen to be mutually so intimate with all the details of a domestic life together of twenty year’s standing that nothing short of a miracle could suppose the privity of a third party. The books of the shop were produced and the two went over them together, witnesses being called to corroborate these minutiæ whenever they concerned a third party, and it was thus shown by a mass of particulars that if the prisoner were really Quentineau, he must likewise be Desruelles. Having gone so far, the ingenious advocate proved, by an accumulation of circumstances that Desruelles could not be Quentineau.

The President of the Court, who seemed to take a great interest in the problem on trial before him, questioned Mme. Desruelles as to the cause of her sudden trip to New York.

She pointed to Desruelles with a scornful finger. “_Ca!_” she cried, “he had a mistress; he wished to abandon me; he called me Cosaque! He appointed to meet her in New York after settling up his cousin’s estate. I determined to make his amours uncomfortable. I pursued the woman to New York. I pulled her hair; I boxed her ears; I made her flee in dismay to California; then, my mission performed, I returned to Paris.”

The unhappy Scipion, in utter prostration of astonished protest, lifted his helpless hands and denied the mistress, the assignation--everything.

His wife turned away with an incredulous, scornful shrug.

“I have your letters, Monsieur. I compelled the creature to surrender them to me.”

The President ordered Mme. Desruelles to produce the letters, and while the huissier was gone examined M. Pache.

The latter gentleman testified as to the facts of Desruelles’ visit to Martinique, the false will, etc., and positively identified Desruelles.

“Have you ever seen that will?” asked the President.

“No,” said Pache.

“I have it here,” said the President. “It is duly authenticated, signed and sealed--look at it!”

“Mon Dieu! that is my own signature, and that notarial signature I would swear to as Alphonse Domairon’s!”

At this moment the huissier came into court with the package of letters, which he handed to the president. That officer looked over them, with Pache still upon the stand.

“M. Pache,” said the president, handing a letter to the witness, “do you identify that handwriting?”

“I do; it is undoubtedly Desruelles’.”

“Be kind enough to read that letter aloud to the Court.”

M. Pache, adjusting his eye glasses, read, “Ma Mignon: The will is all perfect. The Cosaque totally deceived. I sail for Martinique to-morrow, and _ma poudre de succession_ will make short work of my stumbling-block of a cousin!”

He turned severely upon Desruelles: “Atrocious wretch! You plotted to poison me, then! I abandon the case.”

Desruelles fell back fainting. Mme. Desruelles eagerly came forward. “I swear, Judge, that letter was not in the parcel I received from Mlle. Tolly! I never saw it before!”

The president turned from her coldly. “The handwriting is precisely the same.”

The prisoner, reviving, stared around him with a ghastly face, and the president looked down upon him gloomily.

“The Court,” he said, “is not able to determine with satisfaction whether the prisoner is Desruelles or Quentineau. The evidence preponderates in favor of Desruelles. But, so far as the ends of justice are concerned, it does not matter. Quentineau was a bad man, but Desruelles is evidently a man much worse. The prisoner is remanded to serve out his sentence, and at the expiration of his full term is doomed to transportation to New Caledonia for fifteen years.”

Desruelles fainted once more and was removed. That afternoon, waiting wearily in the _salle des gardes_, a man came and stood before him, looking at him fixedly, then turning away. Everybody paid him the utmost respect. Desruelles asked the sergeant by his side who that personage was.

“It is M. M----, chief of the secret police.”

“Good God!” cried Desruelles--“Vedova!”

He fell in an apoplectic fit, and before morning brought the question of his identity to the tribunal of a higher court.

ETCHINGS: THE OLD VIOLINIST

(Emma Churchman Hewitt: For Short Stories.)

The chorus has just ended and the conductor has acknowledged the plaudits of an enthusiastic audience.

Waiting in the side wings is a little bent old man, his silvery hair lying across his violin as he murmurs to it loving words.

At last! at last he will be heard in solo!

What matter all the weary years without recognition? He will be heard! What matter that it is only a charity concert and he has proffered his services? He will be heard! and the appreciation of the audience will testify to his genius.

But hark!

There has been some mistake!

That should have been _his_ number, not the tenor solo!

Never mind, it is all right! What matters a few moments more or less, when one is about to reach one’s soul’s desire?

So he sits and listens, his heart beating loudly with suppressed but consuming excitement.

At last! At last!

But what is that?

The audience is leaving!

_Why he hasn’t played yet!_

He looks around in a dazed way. Moritz will explain it, he tells himself wearily, Moritz always understands everything, and he lays his head down on the table beside him.

* * * * *

A young man hastens from among the orchestra players, his face pale and his teeth set, as he thinks of the disappointed old man behind the scenes. He thinks his father is weeping over his disappointment. “Father,” he cries, a sob in his voice, “it is all right, it _shall_ be all right! There were so many encores, you see there was not time for all. The manager didn’t know and he left out the wrong thing. But you are to play to-morrow night, father, so it will be all right, you see,” and he smiles as he raises the dear old face, as he would have done that of a child. Upon the furrowed cheeks there are no tears, but on the face, chiseled by the stern hand of death ... a look of pained surprise ... bewildered disappointment ... the old man’s heart is broken.

THE DEVILS IN HEAVEN

(A legend of the Origin of the Daisy: German of Rudolf Baumbach: Translated for Short Stories by Albert Gleaves.)

It is usually thought that when good children die they go to heaven and become angels. But if anyone imagines that they live there with nothing to do but fly around, and play hide-and-seek in the clouds, he is very much mistaken.

The angel children have to go to school every day like the boys and girls on earth, three hours in the forenoon and two hours in the afternoon. They write with gold pencils on silver slates, and instead of the A B C books, they have story books with all sorts of gay-colored pictures. They do not study geography, for a knowledge of the earth would be of no use in heaven, neither do they learn the long and terrible multiplication table, because they live in Eternity.

The school teacher is Doctor Faust. He was a magistrate on earth, but on account of certain affairs that caused him a good deal of trouble and were very much talked about, he was required to teach school for three thousand years before he can have a vacation. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoon there is no school, and the children are permitted to play by themselves in the Milky Way; but on Sunday, which is the grand holiday, they can go outside of heaven and play in the big meadow. There they enjoy themselves more than all the rest of the week put together.

The meadow is not green but blue, and thousands and tens of thousands of silver and golden flowers are all aglow with light and men call them stars.

In the afternoon of the great holiday, St. Peter takes care of the children, while Dr. Faust rests and recuperates from his labors during school-hours. St. Peter, who is always on guard at the gate of heaven, sees that there is no boisterous playing, and no running away or flying off too far; if he discovers any straying or wandering, he at once blows on his golden whistle the call to “come back.”

* * * * *

One Wednesday afternoon it was very warm in heaven and St. Peter fell asleep, tired out with watching. The children noticed this and took advantage of it to steal by the old man and spread themselves over the entire meadow. The most enterprising ventured out to explore the extent of their play-ground, and discovered that it was abruptly ended by a high board fence. This they examined carefully for cracks to look through, but finding none flew to the top of the fence and commenced shouting across the space beyond.

Now hell was on the other side of the fence, and a multitude of little devils had just been driven out of the door. They were coal-black, with horns on their heads and long tails behind. Soon they looked up and saw the angels above them fluttering around the top of the fence, and at once they began to beg that they might be allowed to come up into heaven, promising faithfully to behave, if only the angels could let them in for “just a little while.”

Moved with pity, the innocent angels decided to get the Jacobs’ ladder out of the garret and let the little imps come up. Fortunately St. Peter was still asleep and they managed to drag the ladder out without disturbing him. After a good many efforts they succeeded in raising it up against the fence and then lowering it into hell. It scarcely touched the ground before the long-tailed little varlets were swarming up the rounds like monkeys.

When they got near the top the angels took them by the hand and helped them over the fence.

This is how the devils got into heaven.

At first they behaved very well, tiptoeing here and there, and carrying their tails under their arms like a lady’s trail, as they had often seen the big devil grandmothers do. But this didn’t last long, and in a few minutes they began to let themselves out and give full vent to their feelings. They turned hand-springs and somersaults, and growled and yelled like veritable imps. They mocked the good and happy people who were dreamily looking out of the windows of heaven; they stuck out their tongues and made faces at them.

Finally they began to tear up the flowers and throw them down on the earth.

In the meantime the little angels had become very much frightened and bitterly they repented their rashness in letting such unmannerly guests into heaven. In vain they pleaded with the rascals to be quiet and go back to hell, but the devils only laughed at them.

At last, in despair, they awakened St. Peter and tearfully told him what they had done.

He clasped his hands over his head, as he always did when angry, and thundered, “Come in.”

And the little angels went sneaking through the gates, very crestfallen, with wings drooping and trailing on the floor. Then St. Peter called for the sleeping angel policemen, and when all the devils were caught, they were hand-cuffed and taken back where they belonged.

But this was not the end of the matter. For two consecutive Sundays the angels were not allowed to leave heaven, and when they were permitted to play they had to take off their wings and halo; this was the severest of all punishments for it is considered a great shame for an angel to be seen without his wings or his nimbus.

* * * * *

It is an ill-wind that blows no good. The flowers that the devils threw out of heaven, took root in the earth and grew from year to year. To be sure these star-flowers have lost much of their heavenly brightness, but they are still lovely to look at with their great hearts of gold and silver glory.

And because of this heavenly birth they do indeed possess a hidden power of their own.

When a maiden with doubt in her soul plucks off the white petals of the flower one by one, singing at the same time a certain song, she knows by the token of the last little petal the answer to the question of her heart.

THE RACES ON THE NEVA

(French of Iola Dorian: Nita Fitch: New York Saturday Review.)

It is the morning of the Epiphany.

The intense cold of the night has moderated, but the barometer still marks fifteen degrees below zero. From the tall steeples of innumerable churches the bells of St. Petersburg ring in the sacred feast. In an exquisitely appointed room of a palace, where tender lights filter through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sits a woman. Her attitude is one of repose, deep, unruffled. From the crown of her little flame colored head, to the tip of her dainty shoe, she is a perfect bit of dame Nature’s art. If she were standing we should call her tall, but she sits crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. She gives a little yawn.

“Ah! late as usual,” she says aloud.

As she speaks the door opens and a servant enters.

“Captain Repine,” he announces.

He follows quickly on the man’s heels, short, thickset, with a dull Cossack face and kindly smile, wearing the uniform of an officer of the Imperial body-guard.

“Pardon, my dear Elisaveta. Have I made you wait?”

She gives her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watches him with contemplative eyes as he rattles on.

“Imagine, my beloved, I thought that I should not be able to take you to the races. I was so rushed at the last moment. Oh! but they will be superb! Never has the track been more perfect; hard as a rock and not a flake of snow.”

“Indeed,” says the lady languidly. Putting out a lazy, be-ringed hand she draws back the curtain that hides her window. “It is superb,” she assents.

“You know how difficult it is to accomplish that,” continues the young officer, “with this cursed wind drifting the Ladoga snow. Still I must tell you that five hundred men have worked all night at it. Brave fellows!

“The journals say something of a three-horse-race.”

“Yes; the event of the day. But come--”

“We have still an hour,” she answers, and motions him to a seat beside her.

“No, no, at your feet, always at your feet, Princess Veta,” says the young man gayly, flinging his head back to better look into the opal-tinted eyes above him. Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sings in a not unmusical baritone, two lines from a French love song:

“Quand tu seras ma femme
M’obeiras--tu mieux?”

But the fair Elisaveta is oblivious to the importance of his melody’s burthen. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm she sits lost in a world of reverie.

“Do you remember Sergius Hotzka?” she asks suddenly.

He shrugs his shoulders, accustomed to the willful wanderings of the great city’s petted belle.

“How could I ever forget him,” he says in turn. “Was there ever a man who left more ineffaceable traces behind him? He was an original madman.”