Adventure, August 3, 1919 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

—— drink-sodden _ brutes. 8 ‘ae ste road after a three weeks’ drought which had turned mud into hard cakes and ruts into fissures which tore the lad’s feet till they bled. He did not reach the Cabaret de la Liberté till nightfall, and, when he got there, he hardly dared to enter. The filth, the squalor, the hoarse voices which rose from that cellar-like place below the level of the street repelled the country-bred lad, Were it not for the desperate urgency of his errand, he never would have dared to enter. As it was, the fumes of alcohol and steam- ing, dirty clothes nearly choked him, and he could scarcely stammer the name of Citizen Rateau when a gruff voice present- ly demanded his purpose. He realized now how tired he was and how hungry. He had not thought to pause in order to consume the small provision of bread and cheese with which thoughtful Lucile had provided him. Now he was ready to faint when a loud guffaw, which echoed from one end of the horrible place to the other, greeted his timid request, “Citizen Rateau!”’ the same gruff voice called out hilariously. ‘“‘Why, there he is! Here, citizen! There’s a blooming aristo to see you.” Etienne turned his weary eyes to the corner which was being indicated to him. There he saw a huge creature sprawling across a bench, his long, powerful limbs stretched out before him. Citizen Rateau was clothed rather than dressed in a soiled shirt, ragged breeches and tattered stock- ings, with shoes down at heel and a faded crimson cap. His face looked congested and sunken about the eyes; he appeared to be asleep, for stertorous breathing came at intervals from between his parted lips. Every now and then a racking cough seemed to tear at his broad chest. Etienne gave him one look, shuddering with horror despite himself at the aspect of this bloated wretch from whom salvation was to come. The whole place seemed to him hideous and loathsome in the extreme. What it all meant he could not understand. All that he knew was that this seemed like another hideous trap into which he and Lucile had fallen and that he must fly from it—fly at all costs, before he be- trayed M. le Marquis still further to these Another moment d he feared that he might faint. The a bibulous song rang in his ears; the ys id -& ~ cs a * ae. 4 y - a | <— . Needs Must * A _ de » “tm 4 49 reek of alcohol turned him giddy and sick, He had only just enough strength to turn and totter back into the open. There his senses reeled; the lights in the houses oppo- site began to dance wildly before his eyes— and he remembered nothing more. IV lacua THERE is nothing now in the whole Seesea countryside quite so desolate and forlorn as the chateau of Montor- gueil, with its once magnificent park, now overgrown with weeds, its encircling walls broken down, its terraces devastated and its stately gates rusty and torn. Just by the side of what was known in happier times as the stable gate there stands a hollow tree. It is not inside the park but just outside, and it shelters the narrow lane which skirts the park walls against the blaze of the afternoon sun. Its beneficent- shade is a favorite spot for an afternoon siesta, for there is a bit of green sward under the tree and all along the side of the road. But, as the shades of evening gather in, the lane is usually deserted, shunned by the neighboring peasantry on account of its eery loneliness, so different from the former bustle which used to reign around the park gates when M. le Marquis and his family were still in residence. Nor does the lane lead any- where, for it is a mere loop which gives on the main road at either end. Henri de Montorgueil chose a peculiarly dark night early in September for one of his periodical visits to the hollow tree. It was _ close on nine o’clock when he passed stealthily down the Mane, keeping close to the park wall. A soft rain was falling, the first since the prolonged drought, and, though it made the road heavy and slippery in places, it helped to deaden the sound of the young man’s furtive footsteps. The air, except for the patter of the rain, was absolutely still. Henri de Montor- gueil paused from time to time with neck craned forward, every sense on the alert, listening like any poor, hunted beast for the slightest sound which might betray _ the approach of danger. x: As, many a time before he reached the hollow tree in safety, felt for and found in the usual place the letter which the= «4 unfortunate girl, Lucile, had written to him. — _ % . Then with it in his hand he turned to | 5 a 5 ; E — ; dn 4 a . : ‘hi Neale 7 a5 —_ “m 5 * * " comicbooks.com