The Friends' Trysting-Place.
By G. H. Page.
RAYMOND, the young English tourist, sat on the terrace of the only hotel of Etréport overlooking the sea, which, immeasurable, very calm, and of the positive blue which is never seen from our own shores, flowed in foamless and silent to press insatiable kisses upon a silver strand.
He had drive over from Bellefonds, which he had reached by the afternoon boat, and while he drank a glass of lager beer old Dupont, the landlord, who remembered him from his previous visit of two years since, stood and chatted to him with French cordiality and ease.
Dupont expected a very good season, in anticipation of which he begged Raymond to observe he had built an additional wing. But so far the season had not begun. Monsieur was the first English tourist to arrive. At present he had only French visitors—a family from Bellefonds and two or three people from Paris.
As he spoke the hotel omnibus—which goes when needed to meet the trains at Petit Charmettes—appeared round the corner of the house, and with tremendous whip-cracking, sharp and resonant as pistol-shots, drew up at the inn door.
Arthur, the cook's underling, climbed down from his seat behind the driver, who handed him from the roof two big baskets of foodstuff, while Dupont rushed over to open the omnibus door for the inside passengers. A gentleman and two ladies got out, and from their casual, unobservant manner, and the fact that they had no luggage, Raymond concluded these were some of the hotel guests, who had been away on a day's excursion.
After a few words with Dupont the new arrivals went indoors, and Dupont returned to Raymond.
"Your visitors?" inquired the young man.
"Yes, my Parisians," said the landlord. "They have been to-day into Gex on business, and terrible business, too. Ah, a sad tale!"
He took a chair opposite Raymond and leaned his arms confidentially upon the table, while his puckered old face blossomed out with the pleasure of finding a fresh ear into which to pour an oft-told story.
"You saw those two ladies in deep mourning, did you not? That is Mme. Maréchal and Mlle. Léonie, her daughter, a very beautiful girl, let me tell you, although at the present moment overwhelmed with crape and a natural grief. Why? For a very good reason. The only son of the elder lady, the only brother of the young one, disappeared six months ago—oh! but disappeared so utterly and so incomprehensibly that his death is morally certain. Nothing but his death could have prevented him during all these months from communicating with his family; and, as you see, his mother and sister have given up all hope and have put on mourning for him.
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"YOU SAW THOSE TWO LADIES IN DEEP MOURNING, DID YOU NOT?
"Now," continued Dupont, moistening his lips to better relish that luxury of woe which the outsider enjoys in the tragedy which does not touch him personally, "the worst of it is that I—I who speak to you—am in some degree responsible for the death of that young man!"
Raymond took care to look suitably
