Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1911)

THE CARNIVAL. 99 memory was poor. Only last month the old mother had visited her, and then she was from Gascon v. "Your mother? How nice!" Fifine responded, and caught up her hat. The baby in the cradle began to whimper softly. "Fifine is not going out this evening," Jerome remarked in a voice he would not have recognized as his own, so charged was it with controlled emotion. Fifhie turned toward him, her eves wide with astonishment. "You three may go, now!'' he added savagely, and pointed to the door. Smiling, the girls passed out, without a word; only Xinctte paused at the exit and made a mocking little courtesy. Fifinc had not moved nor spoken. When they were alone he turned upon his wife, fury in his heart, and spoke as men speak when their idols have crumbled and their dreams have vanished, while she wept the easy tears of her type, half defiant, half afraid. With grim face he suddenly turned to his canvas and settled himself as tho to paint, tho the light was now but a pale gleam. For a few moments Fifine stood undecided, her red lips in a childish pout ; then with deliberate movements and eyes that flashed with growing anger, she pinned on her hat, caught up her wrap, and crossed to the door. He wheeled as the latch clicked. "Fifine! Where arc1 you going?" he demanded. She surveyed him thru half closed eyes. "Where I please,*' she said softly, and the door closed with a bang that roused the baby to loud wailing. -Jerome sprang to the door and called her name, but already she had disappeared down the narrow stair. Heturning to the room, he took up the1 child, and endeavored, clumsily, to feed ii, but the child would not be comforted. On the landing outside the door he heard a shuffling footstep, and opened the door quickly. "Madam Barnard," he said quietly, "my wife is out for the evening, and I desire to call upon a friend — will you have the kindness to care for tKe child?" The Breton woman who looked after the linen and food of the half dozen students on the floor below smiled gently, and took the child hungrily to her breast. "I must get out for a while, or I'll go crazy," Jerome muttered, and catching up his cap fled down the stair. He walked until he was weary, rapidly, with eyes upon the ground. When he presently looked up, he found himself opposite the old rookery where Leon wooed fame in a grimy loft. The place was off color, even in the Latin Quarter, but, as Leon philosophically remarked with a gentle shrug — "Could one expect much in addition to a splendid north light, for six francs per week?'" As Jerome passed a door upon his long climb, there came from within a hurst of laughter, and then, high and clear, the voice of Fifine, sin»-ino\ At the end of the song there was a riot of applause, and the pop of champagne corks. With a grim smile he rapped sharply upon the door. A voice demanded. "Who's there?" and he gave his name. Within was a dead silence. Fifine was frightened. In her anger she had gone a little further than even she could excuse, and she did not dare meet her husband here, and in this company. Again came the knock upon the door, sharper, insistent, and one of the men moved toward it, looking inquiringly at Fifine. For an instant she hesitated, then crept under the table, the hanging cloth of which afforded a fair degree of concealment. "Just like in a play," the irrepressible Ninette giggled nervously. Jerome stepped thru the opened door, and looked searchingly about. "1 wish to speak with my wife," he said shortly, a dangerous light in his eyes. ' "Fifine? Why, she hasn't been ier< i e Ninette lied glibly and loyally. "I left her with my mother " "The one from Normandy or Oas