The Literary World Seventh Reader Part 39

"Roland," she whispered, "if this is really a diamond, there is nothing like it known to man!"

"Nothing, indeed," said he.

She sat staring at the great piece of glowing mineral which lay in her hand. Its surface was irregular; it had many faces; the subdued light from the window gave it the appearance of animated water. He felt it necessary to speak.

"Even these little pieces," he said, "are most valuable jewels."

"Roland," she suddenly cried, excitedly, "these are riches beyond imagination! What is common wealth to what you have discovered? Every living being on earth could--"

"Ah, Margaret," he interrupted, "do not let your thoughts run that way.

If my discovery should be put to the use of which you are thinking, it would bring poverty to the world, not wealth, and every diamond on earth would be worthless."

She trembled. "And these--are they to be valued as common pebbles?"

"Oh no," said he; "these broken fragments I have found are to us riches far beyond our wildest imagination."

"Roland," she cried, "are you going down into that shaft for more of them?"

"Never, never, never again," he answered. "What we have here is enough for us, and if I were offered all the good that there is in this world, which money cannot buy, I would never go down into that cleft again.

There was one moment, as I stood in that cave, when an awful terror shot into my soul that I shall never be able to forget. In the light of my electric lamps, sent through a vast transparent ma.s.s, I could see nothing, but I could feel. I put out my foot, and I found it was upon a sloping surface. In another instant I might have slid--where? I cannot bear to think of it!" FRANK E. STOCKTON.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

What happened to Clewe's automatic sh.e.l.l? What did he decide to do?

Tell of the preparations he made for his descent. What occurred when he reached the end of the shaft? Of what was Clewe thinking so intently while making his ascent? Why did he go at once to his office? What conclusion did he reach as to the central part of the earth? What did he have to prove the correctness of his theory? Why was he unwilling ever to make the descent again? This story was written about the end of the nineteenth century: what great scientific discoveries have been made since then?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

A Journey to the Center of the Earth--Jules Verne.

The Adventures of Captain Horn--Frank R. Stockton.

FOOTNOTE:

[391-*] Copyright by Harper & Brothers.

A STOP AT SUZANNE'S

The author of this sketch, a young American aviator, a resident of Richmond, Virginia, was killed in battle in August, 1918.

Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of "Suzanne's"

wasn't with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting meal, how nice the old madame is, and how fine a chap is her _mari_, the father of Suzanne. Then of the garden in the back--and before you had finished listening you didn't know which was the most important thing about "Suzanne's." All you knew was that it was the place to go when on an aeroplane voyage.

At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were bound in the same direction. We were given [v]barographs, altimeters and maps and full directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost.

We hung around the voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but there was a low mist and cloudy sky, so we could not start out until afternoon; and I didn't have luncheon at "Suzanne's."

After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my supper stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o'clock before starting.

Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve kilometers away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was a forest, green and cool-looking and very regular around the edges.

Pretty soon I came to a deep blue streak bordered by trees, and was so interested in it--it wound around under a railroad track, came up and brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide splash of silver over a little fall by a mill--that I forgot all about flying and suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could get and that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the wing.

Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white hangar. The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down rather anxiously, for if you can't make that field the first time, you never will be able to fly, they tell you before leaving. I glided down easily enough, for, after all, it is just that--either you can or you can't--and made a good-enough landing. The sergeant signed my paper, and a few minutes later away I went for "Suzanne's." The next stop is near a little village--Suzanne's village--so when I came to the field and landed I was sure to be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead, off I went to town after making things right with the man in charge.

That wasn't a bit difficult, either, for all I did was to wink as hard as I could, and he understood perfectly.

I knew where "Suzanne's" was, so I made directly for it. It was a little early, but you should never miss the [v]_apertif_. With that first, success is a.s.sured; without it, it is like getting out of bed on the wrong foot.

Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room--a big room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one end, where all kinds of bottles rested. It isn't called "Suzanne's," of course; it only has that name among us.

As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a _bonne_ was serving several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced, stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and then with a tremendous "_Tiens!_" he came out from behind the tables and advanced toward me.

"_Bon jour_," he said; "do you come from far?"

"Oh, no," I answered, "only from ----."

"_Tiens!_" he repeated; then, "Ah, you are from the school." _L'ecole_, he called it.

From _l'ecole_, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a door at the rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge voice he called "_Suzanne, un [v]pilote!_" and I was introduced.

As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three old men staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread and cheese in their hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light steps and a rustle of skirts, and Suzanne was before me with smiling face and outstretched hand.

Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air route.

Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it isn't that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family--that is the charm of Suzanne's.

After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to [v]"_Ma belle mere_," a white-haired old lady sitting in a big, straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.

A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house, there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an expression of resigned peace. Then she told me about Suzanne.

Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a huge, ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was taken, unconscious. He was carried to "Suzanne's," and she nursed him and cared for him until he was well again. "Suzanne was very happy then," madame told me. And no wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne were in love. She nursed him back to health, but when he went away he left his heart forever with her.

They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation--well, even at that, it hasn't changed so much.

One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she read that her _fiance_ had been killed. [v]"_Mort pour la patrie_," it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward.

For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the att.i.tude that you find throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.

One evening two men walked into the cafe and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from _l'ecole_. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner--to the intimacy of the back room.

They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory--that is how it started.

When the two pilots went back to _l'ecole_, they spoke in glowing terms of "Suzanne's," of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne.

Visitors came after that to eat at "Suzanne's," and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, "Suzanne's" became an inst.i.tution.