New York dispatch. [volume], March 20, 1887, Image 1

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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PUBLISHED BL A. J. wnUANOM M
VOL. XLII.--NO. 2,’?'
Entered at tFe Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
the
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PLAYS ANFpITyERS.
BERNHARDT’S ART.
A Little Man’s Opinion—“A Warmer and
a Corker”—Tlie Nature of Bern liar <lt—
Her Mental and Physical Attri
butes — Fedora — A Psychologic
Study—Cold Art, etc., etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
I met a little dry goods salesman last Thursday
Who was just then trotting back to his counter and
yard stick exercises from his noontime lunch.
He is by no means an ignorant sort, is this same
dapper diminuendo in the human scale.
He is a chance mine—one of the
accidents of acquaintance that befall the theatre
goer during the entre act of a performance—and
generally in some adjoining barroom.
A pick-up acquaintance, one might say, which
, continues itself by the same accidental process
which first gave it existence.
I never met him by appointment; never think of
him when he is out of sight, never anticipate meet
ing him again, and yet as surely as the days come
and go, do meet him.
This time he was as bright and smiling as a May
morning.
“Seen Bernhardt 1” he said, as ho subsided in his
trot and came to a dead halt in front of me on the
pave.
•'Well ?”
“I say I took her in last Monday—had a standee
against the back wall of the orchestra until a fellow
over in a side seat fainted and was carried out by his
friend and the ushers; then I popped into his seat
and was buukidory the rest of the evening. ”
"Well?”
••I say, look here, she’s a great woman—eh ?—but
she is not as warming for a fellow, you know, as
that other Fedora—you know who I mean ?—what's
her name?—ah-Fanny Davenport, But—but good
lord !”
“Well ?”
••But if Sally isn't a warmer, she’s a corker. She
cost me
••A sidewalk SCRATCH—
"a two-dollar admission—you know. I don’t catch
on in French for a cent, but if I'd never hoard Fe
dora in English, this woman’s bye-play would have
pautomimed it into my understanding. But I
dpn’t believe there’s enough sincerity in her entire
eyetom to keep a Sunday-school boy’s eye open.”
And presently my dapper little'accidental trotted
off toward his store and yard-stick exercises.
But I didn’t forget his critical analysis of her
Fedora*
Fur him—it wasn’t a bad one. fie summed up all
hia'impressious of her performance in these words:
•• She isn’t a Warmer, but she’s a Corker.”
Now putting this fellow’s expression into other
and more intelligible phrase—let me say right here,
that he wasn't far out in his estimate of this, the
greatest living artiste of the French stage.
Not only the greatest artiste, but probably the
most erratic, as a woman, the French stage has ever
known.
She is a typo of vitalized Inconsistency—as a wo
man; a materialized example of uncertainty in her
social and business devices. She takes, and makes
not infrequently shrewd use of the most unexpected
methods to keep herself in the foreground of
publicity. She does not propose that the name of
Sarah Bernhardt shall perish from off the face of the
press, or vanish from the daily comment of current
gossip.
To her, imprimis, to be talked of, is the appetizing
sauce of her daily life.
Secundus— not to be talked of—means to her—
torture and oblivion.
THE HISTORY OF THIS EXTRAORDINARY WO
MAN’S CAREER,
professional and social, is in no sense suggestive of
romance. From a childhood of poverty to her
present condition—in the progress from obscurity to
fame—Sarah Bernhardt's history is the record of
hard, clean-cut fact; cold.and unadorned fact.
There is no more romance, sentiment, ideality in
her nature now, than there was when she was a
little Parisian waif.
But there was then latent, there is now active in
her composition, one supreme element—Audacity—
a quickness of comprehension; a contempt for
other formulas of progress than her own.
If all roads lead to Rome—she is the woman who
will have a road of her own —and you may be sure
It is a road in which there will be, nor can there be,
any other traveler—while she lives.
She is distinctively Sarah Bernhardt.
She is not "a Warmer”—and the dapper little
salesman was right.
An artiste ? Yes, surely; and such an artiste as
will not be born unto the American stage until
America shall have become as old in art and litera
ture as France.
Art has no place in the backwoods; Nature is
there in ail her primitive strength, but until she be
comes the wedded brido of Civilization, legitimate
Art can havono birth.
But when Art does come to the front, how she
brightens, beautifies, develops Nature!
As is the rough diamond in the hands of the lapi
dary, so is Nature in the control of Art.
You see, you have Bernhardt in Fedora, in Ca
mille, in Frou Frou or in Hemani.
Well, what then?
Do you draw your wraps about your dress suit,
over and around the immaculate whiteness of your
domestic-finish shirt front, and go forth into the
night, and for an instant imagine that you have
been for
THE PAST THREE HOURS HELD IN YOUR SEAT
and your being enthralled by the realism of this
woman’s portrayal of character ?
Are you wondering at her marvellous fidelity to
the natural; at the tremendous force of a passion
ate nature, which is the creature of its own will,
and which dominates, directs and vitalizes alike
her utterance and action ?
Notwbit of it. She is not a •' warmer” of that
sort.
But she does arouse you to a pitch of enthusiasm
as you have been aroused by no other actress; she
does hold you in her thrall, and until the curtain
falls on the final act of the play your mental organ
ism is as much under her control as if it were a
pieee of putty.
Well, if she is cold, calculating, is devoid of feel
ing or sympathy in her nature and in her acting,
what is the secret of her marvelous power?
Genius? oh, no 1 Genius is a thing of impulse,
fitful, ingenuous, spasmodic—and accomplishes its
purpose without knowing why. If it succeeds, it
is a thing of elation, unselfish, and is happy in hav
ing done a great work which will benefit some one
else.
Oh, no, not genius in this instance.
Talent, then? Perhaps, partially— it may be
wholly. Genius jumps at a conclusion—dives at it
as a boy desperately clutches at a fly on the wing,
Talent never leaps. It goes slow, and if it stum
bles it is not through any lack of forethought. It
has no emotion, there is nothing of rashness in its
composite and it don't enthuse.
With the Bernhardt, acting is simply Art—that
quality of Art which is born of discipline and ex
perience in the greatest school of acting as a busi
ness, in the world —that of France, that of the The
atre Franoaise.
Than Fedora there is no other character in the
whole range of modern French dramas which in its
conditions is so thoroughly fitted for the exposition
of Bernhardt’s artistic methods.
VICTORIEN BARDOU
can never duplicate it; there is more inherent
strength in the third act of this melo-dramatic
nightmare. Fedora, than there is in the entirety of
the more pretentious and spectacular elaboration of
Theodora.
In both, the sensual is predominant; in one there
is the very reek of lechery—the unsavory taint of
the baser grade of human passion.
So it is with Camille—but in Dumas's apotheosis
of this saint of the Quart er Breda, there is lees of
the rampant lechery of the panther; less of the fickle
whims of desire, than in this Russian Fedora. Yet
not even a Matilda Heron, with all her vulgar
animalism, could have made of Fedora what she
did of Camille—a coarse and untidy commoner of
the bagnio.
Her Camille compared with Modjeska’s—or with
Jean Davenport’s was as musk compared with step
hinotis.
Clara Morris has given in her all-around-the-stage
Camille and Frou Frou an inkling of what her per
formance of Fedora would be—a thing of bad teeth,
unwholesome smiles and sudden and blinding
flashes.
And it would be a draw game between the Morris
and the Bernhardt, which could revel in the longest
waits between acts.
Bernhardt has no sensuous charm of personality
to recommend her sweetly to the sense of enjoy
ment. She is not built that way. No woman with
so small a share of physcal charms has attained
•uch magnificent triumphs and
SWAYED WITH SO IMPERIOUS AND EXACTING
A POWER,
the audience of a theatre, as Bernhardt—excepting
perhaps Charlotte Cushman. But she was tragic—
never melodramatic—and tragedy is by no means
beautiful in feature.
One would never covet the possession of a Cush
man, except for the name of being the chert ami of
an abnormal development; ’no one would be crazed
with an ecstacy of adoration for Bernhardt because
of her beauty.
Yet, as she is seen in Fedora a colder and less
impulsive man than ,Loris Ipanoff would yield and
become the very slave of her beguilement. As Fe
dora, Bernhardt is no longer a being of long arms,
thin face, Hebraic nose and angular form. The touch
of a Wizard Art has tranformed her and thrown over
our eyes avail which we see the materiali
zation of a sensuous, passionate ideal. l«et it is
nothing but
THE PERFECTION OF SIMULATIVE ART,
All these.expressions of motive—the wild grief
over the dead body of her murdered lover, her sav
age thirst for revenge, her hatred for Ipanoff, and
having lured him into confession and declaration of
bis passion—her change to the madness of love, and
with all the atmosphere impregnated with the
swelter of lustful nature longing for the gratifica
tion of its appetite—and the awful ending, the
agony, remorse, despair, with the ghastly death by
poison—all these passions and baser traits of hu
man nature at its worst—are only the simulations
of art by a woman—who when she passes from the
scene is no more fatigued than if she had been her
self an uninterested spectator of a series of stereop.
tican views—and having no more feeling in or idea
of the tremendous reality of the passions or a wo
man like Fedora than a atone fence.
Ido not know that any actress—artiste I should
say—has ever trod the stage of any country and
achieved such splendid success and memorable re
sults in the potrayal of character, who possessed
as little genuinely humanly intent, feeling or sym
pathy in it than Bernhardt.
If there ever was a woman whoso mentality and
entire nature were so thoroughly fitted as the per
manent abiding place, as the workshop—one might
call it—of cold and perfect dramatic art; that art
which seems almost to displace the realism of
nature with its imitations of that realism—that
woman is Bernhardt.
The exactions and strain of a night’s performance
which would bring hysteria to even the most robust
of actresses, are to Bernhardt no more of a strai n
than if she had sat out two or three games of whist,
Ido not mean to imply that Bernhardt's art is
mechanical entirely. It is
A COMBINATION OF THE INTELLECTUAL AND
MECHANICAL,
but an art which has nothing of impulse in it.
Her Fedora is a matter of delicate and careful
study; of a complete and calculative analysis of
all its elements; she has, in her study, as thor
oughly and minutely dissected it, and laid bare all
its nerve centres and sources of vitality—as ever a
physician diagnosed a case or a surgeon performed
an autopsy. She has done this in her way—and
her way, like the quality of her art, is unlike
that of any actress now upon the stage. The mo
tor that drives the mechanism of her acting is
intellect—an engine of which she holds the throttle
lever with a firm hand.
She has temper—but it cannot be called passion;
she has obstinacy, vanity in abundance, the spirit
of greed, great selfishness—but the existence of
these attributes of her nature are never evon sug
gested in her work.
And in her work there is no waste of tissue. She
never wearies herself. Stiois never strident; she
neither seeks nor uses any of the devices of force to
compel your admiration or arouse a deeper interest
—she is too much of an artiste to make resort to any
such tricks. There is no striking of attitudes—the
theatric is ignored—there is nothing stagey in her
action.
This is the Bernhardt. The fires that consumed
the Rachel will never destroy Bernhardt.
The Dame aux Oamelias calculates; Phedre is the
being of tremendous impulse.
My little dapper salesman may think this Fedora
isn’t •• warming.”
But its cold perfection is decidedly pleasant *
Baxter Street’s Custom.
THE MEN ARE WAITED OF BE
FORE THE WOMEN.
Anna Whittaker went into a grocery store in Bax
ter street to make her morning’s purchases. Luigi
Barbaro, an Italian, who was there, created a dis
turbance and fired the scaels at the proprietor of the
store. She was hit on the head.
The clerk of the grocery store said this gentleman
(prisoner), came into the store, of which he had
charge. There were three women in the place when
he came in. After waiting on one, he went to wait
on him. It is the custom in Baxter street to wait
on men before the women. Before waiting on the
other women, he asked him what he wanted. He
said he was in no hurry, and walked around the
store, and didn't seem drunk. He again asked him
what he wanted. Ho said a quarter's worth of eggs.
After he got the eggs, he said he would take a pound
of bacon. Luigi said there wasn't a pound. He
said there was. Luigi wanted his money back. He
wouldn’t give it, because the bacon was cut. Luigi
then began to pepper the grocery man with the
egga, who tried to dodge them. Then he fired the
weights, then the scales, which hit the woman.
Luigi said; •• I came into the store of the previous
witness and asked for eggs, and got them wrapped
in a paper bag. I saw some bacon I thought I
would relish and told him to cut up a pound. He
cut a piece, not a pound, and we had words. It isn’t
(rue I fired the scales, tut I fired the eggs at the
boss, and it was an egg that hit the lady. I have
been locked up three days. I hope the Court will
be merci; ut”
Luigi wae fined S2O lor this indiscriminate egg
NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MARCH 20, 1887.
(IMiLTC A RIGHTFUL HEIR.
The Prisoner In a Paris Ben.
Shipwrecked and Missing for
Years.
A LARGE ESTATE ALMOST LOST.
A Rare Conspiracy Which Sig
nally Failed.
Henri Edouard Satigny, a life convict, has just
died in France, at the age of seventy-six. For close
upon half a century he has been a prisoner, having
been convicted, at the age of twenty-eight, of the
crime of murder. The circumstances surrounding
the act for which he was condemned to life*long
seclusion are of a very remarkable nature.
Monsieur Noizay, a very rich man, died in Paris
on November 3, 1838. Eight years before this, his
only child, Clement, then eighteen years old, quit
ted the paternal roof and went to sea. The vessel
on which-he sailed was lost off the African coast,
and nothing was ever heard of the young man up
to his father’s death. The very day after, however,
a letter arrived addressed to Monsieur Noizay, and
signed by his son, announcing his arrival at Mar
seilles. The letter recounted the shipwreck and
the capture of Clement Noizay and others who sur
vived the wreck, by Arabs, and their detention in
bondage for years, and describing the means by
which Clement had escaped and reached Alexandria
and obtained a passage to Marseilles. The writer
stated that he had taken passage in a vessel for Le
Havre and expected to arrive in Paris about a cer
tain date. The vessel was the brig •' Stanislas.”
As already said. Monsieur Noizay was wealthy
and his only known relatives were tour nephews—
August Vernou, and Charles, George and Henri Ed*
ouard Satigny, the children of Monsieur Noizay’s
two sisters.
The letter came into the hands of Henry Satigny,
who, ior two years, had attended to his uncle s
business affairs. He immediately called a council
of his brothers and Vernou, for the appearance of
Clement on the scene upset all their expectations of
wealth. In bis absence—and the law. after so long
a silence, presumed him dead—all the vast estate of
Monsieur Noizay would be divided among his
nephews, and Henry Satigny well knew, from his
familiarity with his uncle's affairs, that be had left
between two and three millions of francs.
THE CONSPIRACY.
To see the anticipated fortune snatched so unex
pectedly from their grip, drove these four young mon
almost crazy, and it was not surprising that they
should attempt some desperate scheme to get pos
session of the property. Some of them went so far
as to suggest assassination, though, if nothing else
had been left, it can hardly bo doubted that even at
that crime they would not long have hesitated.
But another plan suggested itself that would an
swer equally well and prevent the conspirators from
being stained with the blood oi their cousin. Henry
Satigny was the one who originated the idea and
propounded the scheme by which it was to be
effected. The suggestion was, that Clement Noizay.
on his arrival in Paris, should be decoyed to some
secret place and kept there until his father’s estate
was settled and the nephews had acquired their
shares. After that, having no family ties to bind
them, they would quit Paris with all they could
realize and go somewhere to live where they would
not be known and were not likely to be found.
After they had thus sa'ely decamped, the young
man was to be set at liberty.
DOMRON’S DEN.
The four nephews had had to work for a living
aud they had not moved in refined society. Their
fate had cast them among people of a low grade
and they had not infrequently been associated with
mon and women whose methods of life would not
have borne scrutiny. It was by no means difficult,
therefore, for them to find persons who, for a prop
er consideration, would undertake the work in
view, namely, the decoying away of Clement Noi
zay, and his secure incarceration somewhere until
the time came when he might be released with safe
ty to the conspirators.
Between the Rue Monge and the Rue Monffetard
was an alleyoccupied by several old dwellings. In one
of these dwelt Jacques Domron and his wife. Their
bouse was large and comparatively comfortable for
the locality, and their customers, or rather tenants,
were men of a doubtful character, George Satigny
had been to the place to visit a fellow clerk who Was
in hiding, having abstracted certain moneys from
his employer's safe, This snot snggested itself to
GeorgA Saligny when it was aecided to get Clement
out of the way. Henry and George, suitably dis
guised, visited the spot aud saw Domron and his
wife.
THE PRISON CHAMBER.
They readily consented to receive the person
whom the visitors wanted to keep out of the way
a time, .and showed an apartment, the eu
trance to which was through a secret door hidden
by the bed occupied by the virtuous couple. This
apartment had evidently been used as a prison more
than once.
The windows were in the roof, the walls were
massive, and a double door of great strength, well
provided with bolts, was the only means of reach
ing it. In the centre of the floor was a massive
beam, firmly bound around which was a band of
iron. To this iron was attached a ring, and from
the cupboard Domron produced leg-irons, hand
cuffs, a girdle and several lengths of chain.
"You see,” said he, ••here is everything ready, so
that, as soon as we have our man, all we have to do
is to make him fast. He can shriek or hammer as
long and hard as he likes. Still, if he gets too bad,
we have at hand a straight jacket and a gag and I
dare say a switch or two, with which we can tone
him down.”
For a sum of money Domron and his wife en
gaged to receive their prisoner whenever he should
be ready. Further than that, among the frequent
ers of their house were men ready to undertake the
job of decoying him thither. The services of three
of them, named Guinette, Momrenny and Lalando,
wore secured. The arrival of the "Stanislas” was
awaited by Guinette at Le Havre, and Clement was
at once accosted by him.
Guinette represented himaelf as a friend of his
father, come to welcome him. On reaching Paris,
Guinette introduced him to Momrenny and La
lande, and led him straight to Domron’s den, as
suring him that his father had become very miserly
and taken up his abode in an old dwelling which he
had long owned. Once inside Domron’s abode, the
mask was thrown aside, and by force Clement was
conducted to the prison chamber and secured.
INSANE.
Owing to the delays almost insepurate from
winding up a large estate, many months pass d and
Clement was still a captive. Towards the close of
the fifth month he became insane and Domron and
his wife grew alarmed.
Among ’he social outcasts who often sought
refuge in Domron’s dwelling,} was a JDr. Vougeot.
At one time be had been a prosperous physician
but becoming involved in a criminal conspiracy
had been convicted and sent to prison. After his
release, he found his associates among ths criminal
and debased, and was able to make a living out of
their necessities and his superior knowledge.
One day Clement was unusally violent. His
howling was so terrific aud unearthly that bis
jailers feared that the attention of the neigh,
bors would be attracted and the public called
on to inquire into the circumstances. In this
strait, Domron bethought him of Dr. Vougeot, who
happened to be in the house.
"For twenty francs,” said the doctor, "I will quiet
him in five minutes.”
The money was promised and, securing the aid
of Guinette and Lalande, the doctor administered
to Clement a drug which in a lew minutes threw
him into a stuper. Having got his fee. the doctor
went off to spend it among congenial associates,
COLD, STIFF AND PULSELESS.
When Domron and his wife went in the evening
to look at their prisoner, their horror was great to
find him. as they supposed, dead. He lay cold,
stiff and pulseless.
Here was a dreadful predicament for them to be
in, with the corpse of a murdered man upon their
hands. After parsing an hour or two in a dreadful
state of mind, they called to their council Guinette.
"The man,” said he, is dead beyond a doubt, and
all you have to do is to get rid of him.”
“Ah, that is the difficulty,” said Domron.
"There can be no trouble about it,” replied
Guinette, "provided you are ready to pay to get the
corpse out of the way.”
Domron and his wife, after some higgling, agreed
to pay Guinette, Lalande and Momrenny ten francs
each to remove the body, and an additional ten
francs for the means of conveyance. In the
dead of night the body was removed to a carriage
which was driven to the residence of Audolot,
an eminent surgeon in the suburbs, to whom Guin.
ette had frequently furnished subjects for the dis
secting table. The ’‘subject” was safely delivered,
and Dr. Audelot paid fifty francs for the body.
DR. AUDELOT’S SURPRISE.
When Dr. Audelot visited his dissecting room
early next morning he was astounded to find that
his subject was alive. He used restoratives, and in
an hour or two Clement Noizay was able to sit up.
The doctor soon discovered that the man was in
sane.
Here was a very unpleasant dilemma to be in.
What was he to do ? The man was utterly irrational
and unknown. The doctor followed the dictates of
humanity, and resolved to take care, for a time at
least, of the unfortunate being who bad coma into
h s hands in such an extraordinary manner. He
gave him nourishing food, provided him with suit
able clothing, furnished him with a comfortable
'apartment, and placed an attendant in charge of
him. Later he was removed to an insane asylum.
Vernou, one of the late Monsieur Noizay’s neph
ews. as the reader may remember, had among bis
acquaintances several medical students, who, at
th it time, were remarkable neither for their dili
gf nee nor moralily. One morning he happened to
, meet two oi them when they were on their way to
fearless anlr
visit tho very asylum in which Clement was con
fined; and, with very little persuasion, Vernou was
induced to accompany them. Among the patients
there he
RECOGNIZED HIS COUSIN, CLEMENT!
Greatly surprised and alarmed, he resolved to
ascertain whether he might not have been mistaken.
In the evening he found a man, named Gevray,
famous for his courage and strength, and induced
‘him to accompany him to Domron’s houee. When
they reached the place, Vernou said to Domron and
his wife, into whose small parlor he and Gevray
were admitted:
" I have come to see the man whom you have in
carcerated here. You remember; I have been here
before with Mons. Satigny.”
Domron and his wife protested that it was too
late, for the man was asleep, and that Mons. Satigny
would not have any one see him.
"I am going to see him,” said Vernou, •* before I
quit this place.”
Domron and his wife began to show fight and to
use threats, but they were soon quelled when Ver
nou and his companion showed that they were
armed.
••Unless you will allow us to see the man we
speak of,” said Vernou, " we will immediately give
information to the police.”
This threat had the desired effect upon Domron
and his wife, and they admitted that Clement was
not in the bouse.
•• Lead us to the room and let us see for our
selves,” said Vernou.
Domron and bls wife protested, but at length they
yielded and, with Vernou and Gevray as a body
guard, they led the way to the prison chamber.
Then Vernou was satisfied that Clement was indeed
gone. ..
A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.
The next day Vernou visited Monsieur Montbard,
a lawyer.and made a clean breast of the facts con
nected with the conspiracy. The lawyer caused
Clement’s removal from the asylum and placed him
under private treatment, and in a month’s time his
faculties were restored. Then Henri Satigny was
notified that his cousin Clement was alive and
well, and at the same time a proposition was sub
mitted to him and his brothers and Vernou—to tho
latter for the sake of form—to retire from their po
sitions as claimants to the estate of Mons. Noizay.
This they acceded to with an ill grace, glad, how
ever, to escape prosecution for the abominable
crime of which they had been guilty.
And so Clement Noizay came into full possession
of his father’s property. Learning the facts from
Lawyer Montbard that it was through Vernou he
had been discovered and returned to his rights, he
freely forgave his cousin and bestowed upon him a
handsome sum of money.
REVENGE.
Henry Satigny’e soul burned with envy and re
venge. Vernou was living in affluence, while he
and his brothers were outcasts and in poverty—Ver
nou, the traitor.
On November 15th, 1839, a Henri Satigny went to
the residence of Vernou, in disguise, and asked to
see him. He declined to go in, and Vernou came to
the door. Henri, in an instant, plunged a dagger
into Vernon’s breast, aiming at his heart, and then
fled. As he rushed round the corner into another
street, he was stopped by a gensd’arme and ar
rested. He attempted to throw away the dagger,
which he still grasped, and this led to his detention.
Ono hour later the assassination of Vernou was
made known, and do doubt existed in the minds of
the authorities that the captured man was the as
sassin. He sought to mislead the police as to his
name, but the truth speedily came out, and finally
the facts as now recorded were disclosed.
Henri Edouard Satigny was convicted of the mur
der of Alfred Vernou at the assizes of the Seine,
in December, 1839, and sentenced to hard labor for
life. As already announced at the outset, he paid
the full penalty imposed. His brothers fled, as did
also Guinette and bis associates, but Domron and
his wife were.sent to prison for two years each, and
died within a year.
An Italian Row.
AND THEY ALL SWORE ONE WAY.
Mulberry street toward Park Row, is peopled
by Chinese and Italians. The Chinese are very
peaceable, but the Italians are always in hot water.
It may not be known, but it is a fact they have
standing counsel paid by the year to defend them,
and if one happens to be complainant against a
countryman, that's his luck to help pay to acquit
the man he is prosecuting.
When Angelo Tomaso came on the stand with a
bound up head, he could not object to being froze
out by counsel as he couldn’t te l how soon be
might himself b© at th© bar to b© defended by thit
special pleader#
Angelo charged Dominico Tomaso an aged
countryman with assaulting him. He said Do
minico struck kim twice on the head with a
hammer. He did nothing to him. The assault
took place in a lager beer sa oon at 58 Mulberry
street.
"Before you were hit, how many people did you
assault?” asked council.
••Not one.”
"Look at these two men hero, who beat them?”
"There were five against me. I don’t know these
two men.”
•• They know you, and one of them knows your
fist. You left your mark on his eye, as you see.
Now isn’t it a fact that you were in the place and
threatened to kill every one there ?’*
"No, sir.”
Antonio Combinaro, residing at No. 44 Mulberry
street, said he was in the lager beer saloon, No. 58,
with some friends. While talking about their own
affairs, the complainant came in and struck him a
violent biow on the eye. The court could see the
mprossion it left.
It was still pretty black.
Nicholas Mario said he was in this beer saloon,
having a conversation with the old man, the
prisoner, when Angelo rushed in and struck the
previous witness. He interfered, and trying to
make peace, also got a black eye.
About twenty Italians were on hand to swear
Doniinico out of trouble, when the court closed the
case by finding him not guilty.
——
Feminine Dromios.
AN INCIDENT OF~WASHINGTON
(From the Chicago News.)
I was walking through a corridor ol the Capitol at
Washington one day with a member of one of the
largest wholesale hardware firms in New York—a
gentleman whose manner would impress the most
casual observer with his high-mindedness—when
we came upon a woman whom I recognized as my
companion’s wife.
••Why, Kate.” said my friend, “what are you
doing here ? When did you come ?”
The lady looked in a puzzled manner at him a
moment, and said, not ill-naturedly; "I don’t
know you, sir.”
My friend looked more closely at her, and said:
" Why, Kate, what do you mean ?”
I saw by my friend’s face that he had reached the
same conclusion that I had, that his wife had lost
her reason.
“Kate,” he finally burst out, “for God’s sake,
don’t you know me, your husband ?”
At this the lady drew back and looked frightened,
protesting that she never saw him before. I tried
to say something proper to the occasion, but before
I could do so my friend had drawn a photograph of
his wife from his pocket aud shown it to the lady,
saying:
*• See, Kate ! lam your husband. See this ?”
•* Where did you get that, sir ?” said the lady, in
dignantly.
I never was so befuddled in my life, I wondered
if I could possibly be dreaming all this. The lady
wan most thoroughly frightened and trying to get
away, while my friend was even more frightened,
and was trying to detain her.
It looked as if there was going to be a scene, so I
drew my friend aside and advised him to lat her go
until she reached some more retired spot. We fol
lowed her, and soon saw her point us out to an offi
cer of the Senate, whom 1 knew very well. The
officer approached and indignantly asked wuat wa
meant by our condct. An explanation followed,
and it turned out that the lady was the wife of a
very important gentleman in Washington.
Of course, the most abject apologies followed, and
then came my friend’s wife irom New York to veri
fy his story. 'J he two families became very inti
mate, but to this day neither husband is sure when
he meets one of the ladies anywhere, except at
home, whether she is his wife or not.
Didn’t Know the Ropes.
TRIALS OF A YOUNG MARRIED
COUPLE.
the London World.)
A newly-married pair, who arrived at a celebrated
Scotch watering place when accommodations were
at a premium, had a mattress spread for them by a
compassionate innkeeper, in one of his bathrooms.
In the middle of the night the house was alarmed
by loud shrieks proceeding from the nuptial cham
ber. The young bride, wishing to ring for a serv
ant, had caught hold of what she supposed to be
the bell-rope, and pulled it smartly. Unhappily it
was the cord of the shower bath, and forthwith
down plunged a deluge of cold water. Her hus
band caught frantically at another cord on his side
of the extemporized couch, but the only response
was an equally liberal deluge of water, this time
nearly boiling hot. The unhappy pair then screamed
in unison. When the servants came, they found
tho floor of the room flooded with water and the
wile was perched liko a monkey on her husband’s
back, uttering tho most lamentable cries, while her
good man was fumbling about in the dark trying
his best to find the door.
THE HAD SURGEON.
Horrible Child Butcheries in the
Name of Science.
Mysterious Murders that Terror
ized the People of Lyons.
PHILOSOPHIC M. JACQUELIN.
THE KNIFE-THROWER’S DISCOVERY.
Startling Exposure of Fiendish
Cruelty.
From time to time, through the years 1832-3-4, the
citizens of Lyons, France, were horrified and ex
cited greatly by the discovery of a series of hideous
crimes, the perpetrators of which baffled all detec
tion, and which seemed as unnatural and purpose
less, the work of sheer diabolism, as it is possible
for any crimes to be. The victims were in all cases
children and youth, of both sexes, ranging in age
from six to fourteen years. In every instance the
startling evidence of the crime was the same, sim
ply the
NAKED CORPSE OF A CHILD
found in the middle of some dark, obscure street
generally, though occosionally it would be discov
ered in the midst of a thoroughfare, where it would
seem almost impossible that it could have been
placed wtthout observation. These ghastly discov
eries were always made near dawn or in the later
hours of the night. In some instances the little
bodies had evidently been cold in death for several
days, but in others they were still almost warm
when picked up. In all cases the immediate cause
of death had been the same. Some sharp instru
ment had been driven through the spinal marrow
at the base of the brain.
But there was another uniformity in the manner
of these horrible deeds, the inexplicability of which
was overwhelming. Every one of the corpses had
Buffered amputation of some member. Sometimes
a leg was gone, sometimes an arm, sometimes only
a toe or two, or a finger—or a pair of them. In all
cases the amputations had evidently been performed
by a skilled surgeon.
Those who studied carefully the phases of these
successive murders obaerved that the operations
seemed to have been made in systematic series.
Thus, in the Summer of 1833, it was observable that
every corpse found had suffered amputation of
either the right or left arm at the elbow joint. There
were seven that had been thus mutilated. In the
Autumn of that year, the joints operated upon were
all knees—and there were nine of them. In 1832
there had been no operations upon joints, but three
amputations of thighs, five of upper arms and
eight of fore-arms attested the industry of the fiend
engaged in this awful butchery. It was generally
understood that this must all be
THE WORK OF A MADMAN,
but, whoever be was, so cunningly did he conceal
himself that his identity was not even suspected.
His victims belonged to all classes of society, and in
no instance was there anything to encourage the
suspicion that the crime had been perpetrated for
any other purpose than a passion for operating upon
a living body, with the subsequent disposition of
the subject in the most convenient fashion by
death and tossing away as worthless carrion when
the operation was over.
The physicians and surgeons of Lyons, alarmed
by the manifest growth of a tendency, especially
among the lower classes, to view them all with
suspicion, energetically exerted themselves to un
earth the mysteriously hidden brother professional
whose revolting crimes thus endangered them all—
for no one could doubt that skilful hands had done
these bloody deeds. They offered a reward of 200,000
florins for the assassin. Dr. Auguste Desmard, a
physician of high standing—whose only profes
sional fault was that he had such a horror of blood
that he never could be induced to perform a capital
operation, or even to assist at one—headed the
subscription of that great reward with the sum of
50,000 florins. Dr. Gottfried Dumreicher, a German
surgeon of excellent reputation, added 20,000 florins,
and Dr. Nicolai Vitarbo, an Italian, gave as much.
Then th§ others subscribed, in proportion to their
means.
The ingenuity of the beet detectives of France was
employed, but
ALL IN VAIN.
The mysterious butcheries still occurred at inter
vals.
Late in the Spring of 1835 the murderer’s experi
mental amputations developed in a new direction
taking off arms at the shoulder, and there were no
longer the deadly thrusts in the spinal marrow.
The little victims had simply been allowed to b[eed
to death.
By this time not a few physicians had fled from
the city, fearing an outbreak of the mob at any mo
ment, that might result in their butchery as sus
pected persons. Of course, each, as he disappeared,
was vehemently suspected of being the guilty one,
and was followed and watched by detectives, but
the innocence of each in .turn was demonstrated by
the recurrence of the atrocities from the scene of
which they had fled. Manifestly, the guilty one
felt himself too secure from detection to care for
flight.
In the month of June of the year last mentioned,
the vail was lifted, and in a most unexpected and
startling way. M. Pierre Jacquelin, a well-to-do silk
manufacturer of Lyons, had the good and ill for
tune to possess a very pretty wife, at least twenty
years his junior. His fortune was so far good that
she was one of the prettiest, plumpest, most volup
tuous-looking and light-hearted of women, who
never, in the slightest degree, troubled herself or
him about the possible infidelities with which a
man growing old sometimes seeks to beguile, by
new attractions, his consciousness of advancing
age. And it was so far ill, that Madame Cora Jac
quelin fully indemnified herself for any short-com
ings in his marital relations toward her by kind re
ciprocation of the very earnest attentions of
A LOVER NEARER HER OWN AGE.
M. Jacquelin more than suspected that such was
the fact, but be wae philosophic and, after due
deliberation on the subject, resolved to feign entire
unconsciousness of what wae going on, so long as
there was no public scandal to compel his cogniz.
ance. An understanding to that effect, without
words, seemed to have been arrived at between him
and her, and the worthy pair got along very well
together. They had one child only, a charming
little golden haired girl seven years old, named
Florence, who did not at all resemble him, but he
was very fond of her, just the same. She looked
much like a very dear old friend of her mamma’s,
an Italian named Carlo Far ini, who had long been
a “friend of the family.'*
Farini was an actor, who had travelled much,
possessed a great deal of versatility, had picked up
many novel accomplishments in the strange coun
tries he had visited and was a remarkably hand
some fellow, athletic, agile as a cat and courageous.
For eight or nine years past he had lived in Lyons,
having seemingly given up his penchant for roving
since making the acquaintance of pretty Madame
Jacquelin. He generally had an engagement in one
of the Lyon's theatres, but if he had not had no
reason to trouble himself about means, so long as
Cora loved him.
One evening in June, 1835, he and Madame
Jacquelin- were together in the room of the latter
when the steps of
THE INOPPORTUNE HUSBAND
were heard on the stairs, coming up to her door.
He had returned home unusually early from his
piquet club at the cafe, where wont to spend
his evenings, and they had been too deeply en
grossed with each other to notice his entrance to the
house until he was so close to the only door of exit
that Carlo could no longer—as upon former occa
sions—glide out to a closet on the corridor and
thence slip away when the old gentleman had
passed on into bis wife's appartment and the way
was clear to the front door.
“You must not let him find you here, my love,”
exclaimed Cora, “for that would compel him to
take notice of the situation.*'
“Do not be uneasy,” answered her lover; “I
have been prudent enough to look out for my line
of retreat, in case of such an emergency as this.'*
As he spoke, he donned his most indispensable
garments very rapidly. His shoes had been kicked
aside and he could not find them in the darkness.
M. Jacquelin was already knocking on his wife’s
door. There was no time to lose. In his stocking
feet Farini slipped out of the window, seized the
stout branches of an ivy vine that covered the gable
wall of the bouse with its foliage, and working his
way along it some twenty feet, clutched a limb of a
big shade tree and swung himself over among its
foliage, thirty feet above the ground. At that mo
ment Madame Jacquelin opened the door for her
husband, yawned sleepily and said to him: “How
late you are to-night, my dear I”
THE LOVER IN THE TREE-TOP
listened uneasily to some sounds in the darkness
below him. They seemed to be low, suppressed
growls and the gnashings of teeth. He fancied that
he could see a white form away down on the ground
and two eyes that glared up at him expectantly,
hungrily. There was nothing supernatural about
that presence. He knew too well what it was. M.
Jacquelin’s English bulldog, silent and ferocious,
was down there waiting for him. Decidedly, it
would be unwise to descend.
He clambered across to the opposite side of the
tree, waited until the moon camo out from among
tho clouds sufficiently for him to see what he was
doing, and succeeded in swinging himself into a
second tree. In like manner he passed to a third
and a fourth. That carried him beyond a boundary
fence, out of reach of the disappointed dog, and ho
descended to the ground.
Of where he was ho had not the slightest idea,
further than that he was in the open air, in some
body’s garden, surrounded by a very high brick
OPPICB, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT.
wall with sharp spikes set in its stone coping. A
long, low brick house occupied one side of the en
closure. A carriage-house and stable were on a
second side at right angles with the house-. His
arms were too tired for him to climb up the tree
again and try some more of that adventurous aorial
way. Clearly he had no other recourse left than
to enter the house—at the risk of being discovered
and
MISTAKEN FOB A BURGLAR
and make his way through it to the street. He tried
tho carriago-bouso and stable, but they were locked
up. Then be tried successively, three doors in the
house, and the third proved to be unfastened.
Being in his stocking-feet, and having naturally a
step almost as light as a cat’s, his tread was noise
lees, and the house seemed deserted.
Moving cautiously he passed through two rooms,
a hallway, and, gaining confidence as he went, was
about to push open another door, when, as his hand
was upon the handle of the lock, his motion was
arrested by a slight sound beyond the door that
seemed to him caused by the upsetting of a bot
tle on a table. Listening keenly, he could hear
somebody moving about, and muttering exclama
tions of impatience.
Slowly and noiselessly he opened the door, an
inch at a time, until be had a full view of tbe
apartment before him > and stood almost paralyzed
by astonishment and honor. The room was a
large one.
Some twenty feet from the door, beneath a very
strong light thrown down from large lamps under
a bright reflector, were two operating tables, upon
each of which a body—that of a child or youth,
was extended. Between the heads of those tables
stood a third, on which gleamed an appalling as
sortment of knives, saws, and other surgical im
plements.
A tair, thin man, with a head bald like a tonsure,
stood between the tables, holding in one hand a
bottle and with the other hand mopping up some
liquid spilled on the instrument table. He did not
seem to bear the noise of the opening door.
In an instant the truth flashed upon Farini’s
mind that he was looking upon
THE MYSTERIOUS ASSASSIN
of tbe children, and that two victims together lay
before him. Whether they were dead or only under
the influence of some drug that stilled their senses,
he could not tell, but he suspected that they were
alive, from seeing the man lift their eyelids and
look at the pupils of their eyes. As he looked, Fa
rini’s eyes became accustomed to the light and he
recognized, to his unspeakable horror, the smaller
child on one of the tables as pretty little Florence,
tho daughter of Madame Jacquelin, and, perhaps,
himself. The tall, thin man picked up a long, keen
knife, approached the little girl and stood balancing
the instrument, ready to use it.
Among the many queer accomplishments that
Farina had picked up in the course of his wander
ing life, was an extraordinary skill in knife-throw
ing, that be had learned in Mexico, and from bis
habits in Spanish-American countries, it had be
come a second nature to him to carry a big, heavy,
long knife, two-edged at the point and keen as a
razor.
When be escaped from Madame Jacquelin’s room
that night he had left his shoos, but had not neg
lected to take his knife with him, thrust, in its
scabbard, under his waist belt. Now he drew it,
stood sidewise to give free.play to his right arm,
swung the long, ugly weapon by its point and meas
ured his distance for throwing it.
The next instant, just as tbe butcher was about
slicing the lender flesh before him, Farini’s kniio
flew like a dart of steely lightning across the room
and
TRANSFIXED THE ASSASSIN’S SKULL,
piercing it completely from temple to temple. The
wretch sank dead upon the floor, and Farini sprang
across the room. Snatching up little Florence in
his arms he satisfied himself in an instant that she
was still alive and unhurt. Be gave but one look of
startled surprise and horror at the other figure ex
posed, a strange creature, that seemed a monster.
Then he fled, with the child in bis arms, to the
street and the front door of his mother's house,
where his vigorous knocking soon roused the in
mates and brought assistance.
A servant was dispatched for the worthy physi
cian, Dr. August Desmard, who was a near neigh
bor, to come and care for the little girl. In a few
moments tho servant returned reporting that she
was unable to summon the doctor, whose front
door was open, without entering the bouse, and sho
was afraid to do that.
Another doctor soon appeared and restored the
child to consciousness, when she said that she had
slipped out of the house, after her nurse supposed
she bad gone to bed, had run out to see some little
neighboring playmate and was on her way home
when a cloak was thrown over her head, she did not
know by whom, and after that sho knew nothing
until she found herself again in her mother’s arms.
By this time the gend’armes had arrived and Fari
ni, frankly telling what he had seen and had done,
led them to the house from which he had rescued
the child. There
A STARTLING DISCOVERY
awaited them. The child-murderer was no other
than Dr. August Desmard, the philanthropist, who
was so tender-hearted that be could not be a sur
geon, and who had offered a toward of 50,000 francs
for the discovery of the assassin, to divert suspi
cion from himself.
From copious diary notes found among his pa
pers, it was made perfectly plain that Le had for
several years been insane upon the subject of am
putations and the actual grafting on the human
body of limbs and members, and had sacrificed a
number of lives in his merciless experiments. Tbe
little corpses that he had used ho got rid of by the
ingenious contrivance of a trap-box under the seat
of his carriage, which he could operate from the in
side of the vehicle, so as to open its floor and drop
the body through, while going at full speed, with
out the knowledge of the driver and with scarcely a
possibility of discovery.
The figure on the other table was a hideous evi
dence of the doctor’s infernal skill. It was that of a
lad about fifteen years of age, that had been cut
apart and patched together with fragments of other
bodies in the most surprising fashion. One arm
was reduced so that the wrist was but three inches
from the shoulder. The other had been extended to
nearly five feet in length by added sections, in
which were included two elbow joints, and, to tbe
infinite astonishment of other surgeons, those
joints worked fairly well. The legs had been re
modeled in the same way.
Altogether the poor wretch was a startling proof
that the operations upon him had been conducted
with the most wonderful skill, and Dr. Desmard’s
papers demonstrated that it bad been his intent,
when he had completed his awful work, to exhibit
him and confess what he had done in the interest
of science. The tortures to which the lad had been
subjected had made an idiot of him. and he could
not tell who he was or how long he had been under
torment. In a vague way he remembered that there
had been two others, permanent victims, like him
self, but they had died, and their bones were found
in shallow graves under the stable floor, as was
also a miscellaneous collection of arm and leg bones
of children. The boy lived but a short time. Dr.
Despard’s body was never given sepulture, having
been given over for dissection, and his great fortune
was confiscated for the municipal orphan asylums.
Farini never fully confessed bow be came to ba
in the doctor s back garden, but it was readily sus
pected, and indeed merry Madame Jacquelin did
not deny her knowledge of it when her husband
died, which he did a couple of years later, when
she became Madame Farini.
Terrorized by a Spook.
WAITING OiTgHOSTS REQUIRES
NERVE.
(From, the Dallas, Texas, News.)
From the days of Cicero, who related the thrilling
case of the two youths of Megara, and in fact behind
Cicero’s days, stretching away back toward the
dawn of the creation, ghost stories have been hand
ed down through the mists of time, and have
served, if no other purpose, the useful one of help
ing to keep history spiced and otherwise em
balmed. Virgil would have proved a shapeles
wreck on the strand of the middle ages without its
ghost story, and no first-class old play—as “ Ham
let,” for instance—could prosper without one.
In modern times, too, a rising city can no more
afford to be without its ghost than a jaybird can fly
without a tail. Kansas City has had several, and
now Dallas wheels into line with a regular teeth
sbattcrer, 40° below zero.
The scene is laid in the Second Ward, and the cir
cumstances, as related to a News reporter, are as fol
lows: For some time back a good Christian family,
who have an aversion to seeing their names in print,
have heard unaccountable noises in their house at
night, which recently have taken on more decided
manifestations, as if a case of jim jams which es
caped from its owner had found the latch-string on
tho outside, and bad come to stay. In the latter
stage furniture would be rudely thrown ground,
and on more than one occasion the heads of the
family would feel hands passed over their faces with
—G. Whilliken I—all the clammy feeling of death.
The man of the house informed the neighbors, and
some of them kept watch, but they did not seem te
be en rapport with the ghostly visitors, and they
watched in vain.
Last Monday night the climax of terror was
reached, when, at the dreary hour w’hen church
yards yawn, the same cold, clammy hands were
passed over the iaces of the presiding family elders,
and the next moment found the bed in which tho
aforesaid elders lay whirling across the floor. The
parties thus rudely treated by the unseen, jumpe I
out of bed suffering from congestion, and spent the
remainder of the night in terror and prayer, with
the full blaze of a lamp beaming on their pallid
countenances.
Tbe gentleman who relates this experience says it
is not all, some of the antics of the phantom being
too queer for recital. Tho family moved out of the
neighborhood, but the Second Ward, which is be
ing prominently brought to the surface by the
strange event, proposes to explore the mystery, and
an opportunity is offered to young men of an in
quiring turn of mind to tost their nerves. Some of
the people of the neighborhood attribute the affair
to a combination oi imagination and rats, but it is
contended that imagination oi* that an army oI rats
trained to han Hin : freight could not well move a
bed and its two human occupants.
PRICE Fl YE CENTS.
AN OLD CEMETERY-
BY MIRIAM LESTER.
My feet now tread these quiet spots
So hallowed by long years
Of gatherad hopes—forget-me-nots
That bloom amid our fears.
Full many a heart hath weary grown,
Full many a head hero lain
In weariness and grief adown
Finds blest surcease of pain.
Not only age with tottering feet
Hath reached this hallowed field.
But youth and infancy full sweet
Their tribute here did yield.
As on the moss-grown stone 1 read
The word of hope and cheer,
Or pause to scan the text and heed
Monition’s that appear.
My eager thought would pierce tho vail
That shrouds the days long sped,
When lived and loved, or strong or frail.
The forms we now term dead.
Had time for them such sordid cares,
Such longings and regret,
Such strong temptations and such snares
As now earth’s path beset ?
Was life one grand and solemn strain.
Or were the discords felt?
Soared still aloft some heart’s refrain
In chords that grow and melt?
Nay, not to time or age is given
To hold all joy or pain;
And only at the gate of heaven
Is strife and longing lain.
BEWITCHING LOffl,
BY A NEW AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XVI.
"I WILL MABRY MISS MEI.FORD, IF SHE WILL
HAVE ME.”
If Diana’s soft, sweetly-modulated voice were
a knife it could not have gone straighter to
Lord Guy’s heart than it did. It stabbed him,
one of those thrusts which, though they may
not bo fatal, last in the shape of a scar for a
lifetime.
Lome and Seymour Melford. Seymour Mel
fore, the son and heir of the millionaire I That
was the reason, then, why she had insisted that
she and Guy should be free—" quite free ’’—for
three months. She wanted to see if Seymour
Melford would propose to her ; if so, then sho
would be free to accept him, to become the wife
of a man who would, probably, be one of the
richest commoners in England. If Seymour
Melford did not propose, then she would have a
second string to her bow in the shape of him
self, Lord Guy !
This is what he thought as he stood smiling
in the midst of the gay and brilliant throng in
Lady Farnham’s drawing-room, and the thought
was an agony! That Lome—the dear, sweet
little girl, not yet even a woman—should be so
false, so mercenary! That it should come so
soon, too! Three months, she had said, but
her love had not lasted one !
“Her love? No,” he thought as he leaned
against a pillar and pretended to listen to a
young sporting lord, who insisted upon talking
about Gipsy and tho Grand Stakes—" she had
never loved him! It was just a girlish Ireak, a
whim! Yes, that was all 1”
Then, with an aching heart, he recalled that
scene in tho lane. How sho had nestled to him;
how coyly and how sweetly she had put her lipa
to his ! And now, a few days later, she was all
but engaged-to Seymour Melford.
The young lord’s voice buzzed, buzzed in
Guy’s ears.
“ And you are still backing Gipsy, Kendale ?
You think it is safe to win ?”
“It was only a girlish fancy, only fun, that
was all,” muttered Lord Guy; then, seeing the
blank amazement in the young fellow's face, he
started. " I beg your pardon, Bruce. I was
thinking of something else. Yes, I believe in
Gipsy; but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t back him 1
I’m out of luck now, and it's not likely to
change.”
Then, leaving Lord Bruce amazed and puz
zled at the sombre face and moody voice, Lord
Guy strode up to Lady Farnham and said,
“Good night” He meant to leave the room
without a word to Diana, for his heart was sore,
and he felt that his misery would "shine
through his eyes;” but sho stood near the door,
and held out her hand.
“ Arc you going .” she said, and there came
the softened look into her face, which was the
only thing usually wanting in its rare beauty.
“ I am afraid you have found the evening rather
slow.”
And her voice dropped to the low, confiden
tial tone, which she assumed for none but him.
“ No, no,” he said.
He could say no more; for he dared not trust
his voice, and made for the door. But it was
fated that be should not escape even yet. In
the hall stood Lady Farnham, speaking to one
of the footmen, and she turned as Guy got into
his overcoat.
“ I thought you’d gone,” she said, looking at
him with the half smooth, half motherly smile
which he had grown to regard as hie right.
“ Well, and you haven’t made up your mind
yet, Guy?”
“ What do you mean ?” he asked.
The old lady smiled significantly, and laid
her soft, white hand upon his arm.
"Don’t dilly-dally too long, my dear boy.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and look
ed down at the ground.
“I don’t know what you mean qnite,” he
■aid.
“ I mean that if you don't take care the prize
will slip from your grasp, Guy,” said Lady
Farnham, gravely. “Don’t yon think that
other men have eyes to see that she is one of
the most beautiful girls in the world, dear boy;
and that other men want some of the Melford
money as badly as you do?”
“ Diana Melford ?” he muttered.
The old lady smiled.
" You say that as if she were as old as I am,
and as ugly,” she retorted, with a smile. " Yes,
Diana Melford ! Take the advice of an old wo*
woman who is silly enough to bo fond of yon,
Guy, dear, and make her Diana Kendale as
soon as possible, or you will wake up some fine
morning to discover it is too late.”
A quick shade passed over his face, and a
hunted, worried look into his eyes.
“You are in a great hurry to marry me, my
lady,” he said, aud taking her outstretched
hand, he raised it to his lips, and went out.
It was a dismal night, and as ha lay back in a
corner of his brougham, the wind seemed to
laugh at and mock him. Fate, all tbe world,
seemed against him, even Lerrie ■ Even I.or
ris, upon whose truth he would have staked his
hie !
What should be do? Should be write to her.