Puck — February 12, 1879 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 ‘PUCK. find it there. Was he to risk losing Marie for ‘such an end? “* Let him that thinketh he standeth,..." Xt *is ill to preach, but the words will come. The strong man rose and trembled. Those who have learned to know him will know what in- extricable chaos of steadfast rock and raging sea was at work within him. “Twill not restore the necklace, and I will not lose you.”” The words were enough to make her know him and hate him, and he knew that as soon as they had left his tongue. “You have never found me to lose,” said she. ‘‘ Here is your money for you.” “You will not have the necklace, which your drunken lover made to save me. And 1 will not have your money. I will have it, and you too.” He did net tremble now, nor did she. But moved towards her, cold with need of her treasure, on fire with need of her. ‘Yes —or no?” “‘No—once for all.—Ah!" There was one plain way to gain the necklace, even though it lost him her. ‘*Ah—" she screamed in a choking whisper, for one of his strong hands was upon her fragile throat, and was pressing harder than it knew. “Yes—or no?” “No!—Ah, for the love of God, don’t wake the—” What had he done? He had not waked the child—and the necklace was his own. . I. Stitt, after seven long years, the house of Pascal Fénix, goldsmith and jeweler, stood in the middle of the south side of the Rue Du- guesclin. But it was not Pascal Fénix who, seven years later, sat at the desk in the private counting-house, It was young Marcel Riche, who was looking over the account-books as if he were master, though too young for such a place, one would think, being but seven years older than seven years ago. His task did not seem to please him—and no wonder; for the entries where the house ap- peared as debtor were many and large: those where it stood as creditor were very few and very small. In truth, things were very different now from what they were when he was a boy. Ever since that visit of her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Stéphanie, when she came to claim a finished necklace and found only a lump of gold beaten out of all shape by a mad- man, things had gone wrong. She had, very naturaily, transferred her patronage to the house of Wertheimer, and the great world had followed her. ‘hers had been a little mystery about the matter into the bargain, for Made- moiselle von Mohacz was positive that Coulon had died before the accident, and could not be persuaded out of her error by the united testimony of Marcel, Madame Coulon, and the physician, backed by tae notoriously trust- worthy word of Pascal Fénix. But the mys- tery had not been worth solving. The Arch- duche:s went off, her ambassadress obtained credit as a singularly interesting instance of the effects of insomnia upon the imagination, and the goldsmith was left alone—and a great deal too much alone. For first he lost his best clients, then his second-rate ones, then his best workmen, then his confidential clerk; until at last he was left with nobody but Marcel to act as foreman, bookkeeper and salesman, all in one, It is true that the pluralist held some- thing very like a sinecure, for his designs were never worked, and the state of the books made their keeping more vexatious than troublesome. And yet he stayed on, though the house of Fénix seemed falling about his ears; and he did his best, even to the point of setting out, to catch stray and passing customers, the win- dow in which anything like vulgar display had once been held profanation. No doubt such fidelity demands respect. But it sometimes receives more respect than it de- serves. And yet it could hardly be the pleas- ure of peddling: and of carrying balances to the wrong side of the ledger that had made Marcel Riche serve Pascal Fénix as long as Jacob agreed to serve Laban. ° He was deep in a hideous column of debts when a graceful and tolerably pretty girl, of about seventeen or eighteen, came into the counting-house, and stood patiently by the safe until Marcel had come to an end of his calcu- lations; and then, as soon as he turned round and looked at her, the smile which lighted up his whole face and found a very fair reflection in hers showed plainly enough that fidelity it- self does not account for all things; and that Bertha Renouf, the motherless orphan of an old friend and comrade whom Pascal Fénix had adopted out of charity when he was rich, about seven years ago, had a good deal to do with keeping Marcel where he was now. “Have you done your sum?” asked she. “Yes,” he said, a frown making an inroad upon the smile. “ At least, I should have done it if I could only prove to my satisfaction that three thousand eight hundred and ninety-six francs are equal to fifteen.” “Well, never mind now. No doubt you'll do it very well next time. I want to speak to you now.” ‘Oh, there's plenty of time for sums like that. ‘They’re things that one can go at again and again.” “It’s about Monsieur Pascal, Marcel.” That was the half-familiar, half-respectful name by which the goldsmith was known in his house- hold of three, of whom not one was related to the other, “Ts he no better to-day ?” ‘Not the least better.” “T can’t make it out, dear Bertha. always seems so strong in the afternoon. course there’s only one thing to be done.” “Ah, I thought you would know! What is it, Marcel?” “Send for a doctor.” “ How odd!—that is what I said to him my- self this very day. How strange it is that we always think the same about everything ! But—" “But—? Ihate Bus, Bertha.” “So do I—how strange again! But he won't see a doctor—and you know what Monsicur Pascal is when he says he won't,” she said, with asigh. And he Of (To be continued.) EPIGRAM. Aman of presence, one whose virtues are Beyond the cavil of earth's meanest craven, Offending none; I'll bet a prime cigar No angry woman ever Claude De Haven. —Erratic Enrique. On Tuesday, the 28th ult., a heavy squall struck St. Louis, and in honor of the event Eugene Field has written a boy-stir-us parody, commencing thus: You're a colic-stricken laugher, Baby mine, baby mine! Son of a paragrapher, Baby mine, baby mine! If you do not stop that howl, You will make your daddy growl, And pinch each chubby jowl, Baby mine, baby mine! - —wN. Y, News. SPW , Puck's Frchanges. In the midst of life we are in debt.— Court Journal. Tue fop feels too big for his boots until he gets corns.—V. O. Picayune, Let's see, wasn’t Othello a-tawny general of Venice?—Biddeford Miniature. A Man will sometimes tell a few natural lies when he goes to naturalize.— Boston Transcript. Tue Highland fling dance might more ap- propriately be called Hop-scotch.— Wheesing Leader. Tue Mormon question—How many wives can I afford to starve to death? — Buffalo Express. ‘ Miss Dickinson's lecture ‘on platform and stage” does not refer to horse-cars and omni- buses.— Boston Bulletin, 5 Miss Kettocc having decided to retire from the opera field, will devote the rest of her life to last appearances.— Boston Bulletin. A Cuinaman will labor for three years to make a nice snuff-box, and then use it to hold his bait when he goes fishing.— Pittsburgh Telegraph. An Indiana editor has been indicted for murder, His first step in crime was copying paragraphs and clipping off the credits.— Nor- ristown Herald, Louise and Lorne have been to see Niagara, but the ungallant falls refused to present itself to their view in a low-necked dress.—Pahila, Kronikle-Herald. Tue Boston Courier can’t see any reason why a woman shouldn't have the ballot box if she wants it, after the election is over and there is no further use for it, THe New York [World's last question is, “Why snould the Oil City Derrick be the hangman's organ?” So far as we are concerned we gibbet up.— Derrick, THERE is an irrepressible conflict going on in the horse cars between the hater of cold draughts and the contemner of camp-meeting smell.— Boston Transcript. Just at this present date there is not a first- class stage-coach robber in the whole country, and every boy is crying out, “ Learn your boy a trade!”—Detroit Free Press, It makes an editor mad as thunder to read of the way subscriptions are rolling in to the four-per-cents, while he hasn't had a new sub- scriber in six months.—Derrick. “Out isn’t it just glorious?” was Princess Louise’s exclamation on seeing Niagara. Iorne didn’t say much, but kept thinking about the hack fare.—New Haven Register. ‘Tere are rumors of a new comic weekly in New York, to be called Pantaloon, It will not be a rival of Puck, because Puck doesn’t wear pantaloons.— Norristown Herald, * Lire seems a howling wilderness to a man who stands in his bedroom with a Niagara of water dripping from his face and hands, and no towel in sight.—Hackensack Republican, Ir is exceedingly gratifying to know that there is $220,000,000 worth of coin in the treasury. It encourages us, you know, and gives us the heart to stave-off the milkman and the grocer for another week, — Bridgeport Standard, comicbooks.com