Moths by Ouida — page 212: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

7 MOTHS. salled noise. The stillness was only broken vy the sound of a boat passing and the murmur of voices from people sauntering underneath. _ Correze threw himself into a chair that stood in the center of the room. ‘‘T have honestly tried to avoid her,” he said to himself. ‘* Tt -. is Fate!’ / His old and tried servant, Anatole, entered, and began to un- pack his things. Correze raised his head, - & Put the guitar out,” he said, ‘‘and then go down and see the cook, and preserve me from what ills you can; you know what it is to dine where German is spoken.” t Anatole laid out the guitar-case and opened it, then wen obediently. | He opened one of the casements and looked out; it had become almost dark; the tranquil pastoral loveliness was calm and dusky; _ lights twinkled on the opposite bank and up amony the woods; the nearer casements were,bright and ruddy above the stream; the murmur of voices came from under the indistinct leafy masses of the trees on the esplanade; the sound of oars in water made a pleasant ripple. It was a little too much like one of the scenes of his own theaters to please him perfectly; he preferred - - wilder scenery, more solitary places; at Ischl the glaciers and - the ice-peaks, though really near, seem far away, and are seen but by glimpses. Yet it was so quiet, so innocent, so idyllic, it touched and soothed him. , : “After all,” he thought, ‘*how much we lose in that hot- house we call the great world!” a8 There wasa balcony to his chamber. He leaned over it and looked down into the one beneath; there the dog, Loris, was lying, the starlight shining on his silver-gray hair; beside him on a chair there was a bouquet of Alpine roses and a large black fan. Correze felt his pulse beat quicker. ‘*Kismet!” he said to himself, and the dreamy charm of a - romantic fatalism began to stealon him. Pure accident has the ruling of most of our hours, but, in concession to our weakness or to our pride, we call it destiny, and we like to think its caprices are commands, _ ** Now she shall have a serenade in truth--a better welcome than from the chapelle de musique,” he said to himself, and with- drew into his own room and took the guitar out of its case—a jarge Spanish guitar that he never traveled without, considering its melody a far better accompaniment for the voice than any ~ _ piano could ever be. The organ has all the music of the spheres, and the violin all the emotions of the human heart: the organ is ‘prayer, the violin is sorrow. The guitar, though but a little thing, has passion in it, passion and tenderness and all the caress of love, and, to those who have grown to care for it under Southern skies and summer stars, it speaks of love and sighs for it, it has told its tale so often where the fireflies flash among the lemon-blossoms and the myrtle. } He took up his guitar, and blew out all the many wax candlea Hghted in his honor, and sat down in the darkness of his chamber, 5 Very rit a minh ‘ : Ay y * J pk 4 i ha ati! oh’ f mA Wy ice Lu Pi el a a PRN es Ae OR ee ad ¥ Latteg rk RE Yip © 8 Pat 4 ATLAS Fadel oa