The Argosy — page 254: what you’re looking at

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

Maison Malowunze. 239 was scarcely surprised to recognise in her Horace’s lively companion of the morning. Horace behaved beautifully in Bonne-maman’s eyes. After greeting me coldly, he overlooked my insignificant presence, lost in the overpowering brilliancy of the sparkling and amusing Berthe. She absorbed him entirely. They were making arrangements for a trip to Mont St. Michel, where he and I had talked of going. How wretched I felt, how wild with the scraps I heard: ‘Train from St. Malo—carriage at Dol, on to the Hospice.” I must make a diversion, and somewhat abruptly asked Mdlle. de Pontac to play or sing. In vain Bonne-maman objected that it was getting dusk and she did not want lights, as it rested hereyes. Mdlle. Berthe, gracefully shaking out her puffs and laces, sweetly observed she would play for Mme. d’Harcourt, and sing for Mademoiselle. She rattled through a noisy and brilliant piece, and then her voice, sharp and metallic, filled the air: ‘‘Si vous n’avez rien 4 me dire.” She was singing it at Horace, who, apparently buried in thought, was sitting near her. I wondered if he remembered it as one of the songs I had often sung to him. Bonne-maman coughed and fidgeted and shivered; Mdlle. Berthe bravely sang on, sometimes flat, some- times sharp, finishing at last on a note that jarred every nerve and fibre. Horace was profuse in thanks, and I, too, thanked her, and added immediately, “Shall I sing you a little English ballad?” Bonne- maman interrupted me to order the lamp, but I maliciously remarked that I would sing a twilight song first. I could not resist my anticipated triumph. Straight from my heart the words rang out, ‘In the Gloaming,” and vibrating strangely through the dusk came the farewell to my love, mine no longer—“ Best for you and best for me.” I must have sung better than usual, from the deep silence paid as tribute to my talent, and under cover of the darkness I rose, and stealing silently to the door, sought the friendly night wherein to hide my sorrow. Perrine met me with the lamp, and leaving the hateful light and the happy circle I turned away to the garden. IV, HuRRIEDLY I went, past the clipped yew hedge, to the stone seat, on which I sank, and burying my face in my hands burst into passionate tears. I was young, and this my first sorrow seemed too great a burthen. I heard footsteps, and shrinking back into the shadow of the hedge, waited breathlessly. ‘They were passing, when the treacherous moon shone out and bathed me ina flood of silvery light. A hand ‘was kindly laid upon my head. There, in all the glory of his six- foot stature, in the white shining moonlight, stood Horace, looking down with kind and pitying eyes upon the tear-stained face uplifted to him; and in the winning voice of old I heard my name. CoOnniclooolks (SO)