A Struggle For Life | Page 2

time to wipe his glasses,
and taking scrupulous pains not to glance towards the lounge at his
right, on which were seated Mile. Dorine and a young American
gentleman, whose handsome face rather frankly told his position in the

family. There was not a happier man in Paris that afternoon than Philip
Wentworth. Life had become so delicious to him that he shrunk from
looking beyond to-day. What could the future add to his full heart, what
might it not take away? The deepest joy has always something of
melancholy in it--a presentiment, a fleeting sadness, a feeling without a
name. Wentworth was conscious of this subtile shadow that night,
when he rose from the lounge and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his
lip for a moment before parting. A careless observer would not have
thought him, as he was, the happiest man in Paris.
M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward. "If the house," he
said, "is such as M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to close
with him at once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I am
too sad at losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage for her.
Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss it;
for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. By
to-morrow night," he added laughingly, "little Julie here will be an old
lady--it is such an age from now until then."
The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spots
within thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanes brought
him to M. Cherbonueau's estate. In a kind of dream the young man
wandered from room to room, inspected the conservatory, the stables,
the lawns, the strip of woodland through which a merry brook sang to
itself continually, and, after dining with M. Cherbonneau, completed
the purchase, and turned his steps towards the station just in time to
catch the express train.
As Paris stretched out before him, with its lights twinkling in the early
dusk, and its spires and domes melting into the evening air, it seemed
to Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. On reaching Paris
he drove to his hôtel, where he found several letters lying on the table.
He did not trouble himself even to glance at their superscriptions as he
threw aside his travelling surtout for a more appropriate dress.
If, in his impatience to return to Mile. Dorine, the cars had appeared to
walk, the fiacre, which he had secured at the station appeared to creep.
At last it turned into the Place Vendôme, and drew up before M.

Dorine's hôtel. The door opened as Philip's foot touched the first step.
The valet silently took his cloak and hat, with a special deference,
Philip thought; but was he not now one of the family?
"M. Dorine," said the servant slowly, "is unable to see Monsieur at
present. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the salon."
"Is Mademoiselle"--
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Alone?"
"Alone, Monsieur," repeated the man, looking curiously at Philip, who
could scarcely repress an exclamation of pleasure.
It was the first time that such a privilege had been accorded him. His
interviews with Julie had always taken place in the presence of M.
Dorine, or some member of the household. A well-bred Parisian girl
has but a formal acquaintance with her lover.
Philip did not linger on the staircase; with a light heart, he went up the
steps, two at a time, hastened through the softly lighted hall, in which
he detected the faint scent of her favorite flowers, and stealthily opened
the door of the salon.
The room was darkened. Underneath the chandelier stood a slim black
casket on trestles. A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white flowers
were on a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead.
When M. Dorine heard the sudden cry that rang through the silent
house, he hurried from the library, and found Philip standing like a
ghost in the middle of the chamber.
It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details of
the calamity that had befallen him. On the previous night Mile. Dorine
had retired to her room in seemingly perfect health, and had dismissed
her maid with a request to be awakened early the next morning. At the

appointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mile. Dorine was sitting in
an arm-chair, apparently asleep. The candle in the bougeoir had burnt
down to the socket; a book lay half open on the carpet at her feet. The
girl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and that
her mistress still wore an evening dress. She rushed to Mile. Dorine's