III. Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic
illustrations | ||
3. III.
She wrote me that I might come and see her at
her own house. Oh, joy, joy unutterable, to see
her at her own house!
I went to see her after nightfall, in the soft moonlight.
She came down the graveled walk to meet me, on
pure white, her golden hair in splendid disorder—
strangely beautiful, yet in tears!
She told me her fresh grievances.
The Marquis, always a despot, had latterly misused
her most vilely.
That very morning, at breakfast, he had cursed
the fishballs and sneered at the pickled onions.
She is a good cook. The neighbors will tell you
so. And to be told by the base Marquis — a man
who, previous to his marriage, had lived at the cheap
eating-houses — to be told by him that her manner
of frying fishballs was a failure — it was too much.
Her tears fell fast. I too wept. I mixed my
sobs with her'n. “Fly with me!” I cried.
Her lips met mine. I held her in my arms. I
felt her breath upon my cheek! It was Hunkey.
“Fly with me. To New York! I will write
romances for the Sunday papers — real French romances,
with morals to them. My style will be appreciated.
Shop girls and young mercantile persons
will adore it, and I will amass wealth with my ready
pen.
Ere she could reply — ere she could articulate her
ecstacy, her husband, the Marquis, crept snake-like
upon me.
Shall I write it? He kicked me out of the gar-den
— he kicked me into the street.
I did not return. How could I? I,so ethereal,
so full of soul, of sentiment, of sparkling original-ity!
He, so gross, so practical, so lop-eared!
Had I returned, the creature would have kicked
me again.
So I left Paris for this place — this place, so
lonely, so dismal.
Ah me!
Oh dear!
THE END.
III. Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic
illustrations | ||