Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1913)

TEE VENGEANCE OF DURAND; OR, THE TWO PORTRAITS 39 maid's announcement rose above the low rhythm of the music she played. She did not look up until he had reached her side, and then it was to lean back, the soft masses of her deep brown hair quivering against his sleeve, and her eyes looking straight into his heart. He stepped back, with a supreme effort of restraint. "Mademoiselle, you are even more loA^ely tonight. ' ' ' ' No, ' ' she assured him, with a little laugh, as she placed the tips of her fingers in his palm; "I assure you that I am at my very worst tonight. ' ' Carl gazed at her now with undisguised affection. ' ' Mademoiselle, what is your name?" he pleaded, gently. "Beatrice," she murmured, and seeing that he was about to make some sort of declaration, she turned quickly to the piano again. "Listen, I shall play — for you." The last two words gripped Carl like a vise. Suffering sweet agonies, he stood afraid of what the least movement on his part would result in. Then Beatrice sang. It was one of the old songs that her mother had taught her. It flowed into Carl's ear and affected his heart like new wine. He stood panting from the terrible emotion that inundated his soul. The song drifted off into the gloaming shadows of the salon — . . . Dear heart, to mine be true ! The soul of the song swayed her as she turned and lifted her eyes, which unmistakably bore the burden of it. But Carl needed no further portents of promise. He had sprung to her side, and had her in his strong arms, the words: "Beatrice, I love you!" repeatedly on his lips. Beatrice's arms had stolen about his neck, and she clung to him, forgetting and forgiving all things in that sublime moment, her eyes halfclosed in ecstasy. Then their lips met, and the complete avowal of love was his. A minute, or an hour, might have passed. They might not have granted the passage of any time at all had not there come a mighty crash of glass that startled them both into the world of reality again. The girl sprang rigidly to her feet, pulling herself forcibly away from him. Carl was gazing, with something akin to terror, at the man who stood near a great mirror that he had just shattered in his passion at the sight before him. In one hand, the man clasped, nervously, the German machine-gun. "There, Beatrice, that is he," he shrieked; "your mother's slayer! Ask him to deny it ! ' ' Carl turned to the girl, appealingly. Beatrice surveyed his countenance, and seemed to wait for some explanation. Suddenly her face changed. It became the reflection of her father's in its intense hatred. She threw back her head and laughed long and loud, moving slowly over to her father's side. "Well, were you not satisfied to rob me of my wife, that you must return like a beast to carry off my only child?" taunted the man. He had carefully locked the outer door, and stood with his back against it. Carl's face had assumed a terrible expression at the realization of his horrible predicament, and the perfidy of the man who was responsible for it. Perhaps the deception of the woman he would love with his last breath, had frozen his soul, and set his brain on fire. For a full minute he heard, he saw nothing, yet felt all the tortures man is capable of. He shuddered like a reed. Then he slowly folded his arms and turned his now gray face toward his tormentors. "Beatrice, you've done splendid work!" cackled the girl's father. ' ' Look at his face ! I can see the reflection of your mother's wounds in his eyes!" Beatrice's laugh still curdled the air with all the harshness of hysteria. Still Carl said nothing, tho each taunt kindled a fresh fire in his eye and drove reason farther and farther afield. "She loved you, woman-killer, just