The Argosy — page 83: what you’re looking at

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

70 Checkmate in Ten Moves. jocose enquiry ready: ‘‘ How about the checkmate in ten moves?” And I could see he was divided between the amusement of my dis- comfiture, and the disappointment of real curiosity. But one day, when I had not seen him for a whole week, being confined to my room by an indisposition, I was dreamily turning over some of my old books, and suddenly lighted on Meéry’s. “ Floride.” It flashed upon me in a moment that I had found my problem. Through several languid hours I puzzled it all out, and made it clear. Having verified my author with the help of a chessboard, I re- solved to take the first opportunity of challenging M. Fronsac. The weather was very lovely the day I went downstairs. As my friends were engaged in class, I ventured to take a saunter in the garden ; an old-fashioned pleasure ground, surrounded on three sides by capital walls for fruit, and bordered on the fourth by a little wood that skirted the town, and crept away below it. Presently I heard the old cook’s voice calling to me, ‘‘ Ma’amselle! ma’amselle !” We were always good friends, and it was with a beaming smile that she held up a small basket, containing a variety of good things for my gouter, as she called it. If I liked to have my promenade, there was the arbour, with a table and a chair, and shelter from wind and sun. And there, too, was Mere Dénise, the weeding woman, who would dust it; she herself could not stay to, as her soup required watching. Looking round, I met the eyes of old Mother Dénise, twinkling under her large cap and kerchief with a keenness of expression I had never seen in them before. She was quite a character in her way, and a favourite of Eleanor’s; and her Alsatian way of talking had often been an amusement to us both. She was considered just now almost an historical personage, on account of the strife in her home. M. le Maire himself, when she crossed his path, would lift his hat, as he explained to me, in honour of the heroism she repre- sented. ‘Well, my good friend!” I said, after we had looked at each other for a minute, ‘have you had any fresh news? What Is ite” She put a finger on her lips, pointed to the provision basket, and turned away, signing me to follow. Passing to the arbour, she hurried on, glancing anxiously right and left as she went, till she reached the wood house—a hut I had never visited before. The door was locked, but Mére Dénise had the key in her pocket, and she held it open for me to enter, securing it quickly behind us. I looked round; there were nothing but piles of faggots and logs of wood, except old flower-pots and other waifs of gardening existence. A few rays of light made their way through an aperture in the wall, newly stuffed up with briars, and before my eyes had become accustomed to the change from the noontide brightness, I was startled to hear a voice whisper my name—whisper it with that peculiar in- tonation I could not mistake, though it filled me with terror. CONNIE XOOKS (E(©) m