Short Stories, vol 12 | Page 6

very calm.

Then she returned to the kitchen and sat down, ready for any
emergency. She slept on a chair and awoke at daylight.
She did the rooms as she had been accustomed to every morning; she
swept and dusted, and, towards eight o'clock, prepared M. Lemonnier's
breakfast.
But she did not dare bring it to her master, knowing too well how she
would be received; she waited for him to ring. But he did not ring. Nine
o'clock, then ten o'clock went by.
Celeste, not knowing what to think, prepared her tray and started up
with it, her heart beating fast.
She stopped before the door and listened. Everything was still. She
knocked; no answer. Then, gathering up all her courage, she opened the
door and entered. With a wild shriek, she dropped the breakfast tray
which she had been holding in her hand.
In the middle of the room, M. Lemonnier was hanging by a rope from a
ring in the ceiling. His tongue was sticking out horribly. His right
slipper was lying on the ground, his left one still on his foot. An
upturned chair had rolled over to the bed.
Celeste, dazed, ran away shrieking. All the neighbors crowded together.
The physician declared that he had died at about midnight.
A letter addressed to M. Duretdur was found on the table of the suicide.
It contained these words:
"I leave and entrust the child to you!"

A COUNTRY EXCURSION
For five months they had been talking of going to take luncheon in one
of the country suburbs of Paris on Madame Dufour's birthday, and as
they were looking forward very impatiently to the outing, they rose
very early that morning. Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman's
wagon and drove himself. It was a very tidy, two-wheeled conveyance,
with a cover supported by four iron rods, with curtains that had been
drawn up, except the one at the back, which floated out like a sail.
Madame Dufour, resplendent in a wonderful, cherry colored silk dress,
sat by the side of her husband.
The old grandmother and a girl sat behind them on two chairs, and a
boy with yellow hair was lying at the bottom of the wagon, with
nothing to be seen of him except his head.

When they reached the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour said: "Here
we are in the country at last!" and at that signal his wife grew
sentimental about the beauties of nature. When they got to the
crossroads at Courbevoie they were seized with admiration for the
distant landscape. On the right was Argenteuil with its bell tower, and
above it rose the hills of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, while on
the left the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear morning sky,
and in the distance they could see the terrace of Saint-Germain; and
opposite them, at the end of a low chain of hills, the new fort of
Cormeilles. Quite in the distance; a very long way off, beyond the
plains and village, one could see the sombre green of the forests.
The sun was beginning to burn their faces, the dust got into their eyes,
and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of
bare, ugly country with an unpleasant odor. One might have thought
that it had been ravaged by a pestilence, which had even attacked the
buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or small
cottages, which were left in an unfinished state, because the contractors
had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each side.
Here and there tall factory chimneys rose up from the barren soil. The
only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted an
odor of petroleum and slate, blended with another odor that was even
less agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time,
and the bridge was a delight. The river sparkled in the sun, and they
had a feeling of quiet enjoyment, felt refreshed as they drank in the
purer air that was not impregnated by the black smoke of factories nor
by the miasma from the deposits of night soil. A man whom they met
told them that the name of the place was Bezons. Monsieur Dufour
pulled up and read the attractive announcement outside an eating house:
Restaurant Poulin, matelottes and fried fish, private rooms, arbors, and
swings.
"Well, Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your
mind at last?"
She read the announcement in her turn and then looked at the house for
some time.
It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open
door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which sat two
workmen in their Sunday