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About The west shore. (Portland, Or.) 1875-1891 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 1, 1886)
THE WEST SHORE. 01 AIMEE. POMEWHERE in the middle of Normandy, off the 0 high road, and at a distance from any centre of busi ness or pleasure, thcro is a biuull manufacturing town with two or three high chimneys and a few hundreds of work-people. The country round it is flat and uninter eating, the straight roads are bordered hero and there by iwplars; a slow, sluggish stream flows botwoon its low green banks without a single wind or curve; the one long street with its uneven pavement is narrow and dirty; the limes whioh surround the tiny jilacc look stunted and unhealthy ; the churchyard is overgrown and neglected; tbe church itself has no pretensions to beauty or oven to Antiquity. Few people visit Pont-Avizo; there is uothing ito attract them. Few people live thoro who can afford to live elsowhore. Yet Pout-Avize, too, hns its society, its cliques; its ambitions, its aristocracy. M. Jules Dubois, avoait, has his name on a bright brnss plate on the door of a red brick house at the corner of the principal street; the doctor and the cure live side by sido in two whitewashed houses bohind the church, and the private houses of the owners of the two large factories stand in thoir own gar dons on the outskirts of the town. M. Blanchard is the principal inhabitant of Font Avize. M. Laval, who lives nearly opposite, is of less consequence in the eyes of his neighbors. His factory is smaller; his house has no carringo drive up to it M. Blanchard has conservatories, a fountain in tho middle of his lawn, and some bright flower beds round its edge. M, Laval has only two Etruscan vases on tho steps which lead to his door, filled with nasturtiums. His flower beds are weedy, his walks are overgrown; his modem white house, with its green shutters all closed, is over shadowed by trees, and has a molancholy, dull look as of a young person who Iibs grown prematurely old. ' When Madame Laval died (bidding farewell without regret to a world in which the poor woman had found but little pleasure) sho loft an infant daughter of a few weeks old bohind hor. That was nearly nineteen years ago, but M. Lnvnl is still a widower, and the littlo Aimee lias known no other care than that bestowed upon her in a dutiful rather than a loving spirit by Mademoiselle Stephanie, M. Laval's unmarried sister. Like a plant which springs up wherevor it can find the least depth cf with in the crevice of the hard rock, and blossoms alike n rain and sunshine, so the child has turned darkness to light, and for her, as yet, life has no sadness even in its dull uniformity. Aimee was eighteen on her last birthday, another is nenr at hand, and she is beginning to bo conscious of un satisfied needs and unfulfilled desires. Sho has a world of her own inside the narrow world of Pont-Avizo. It is evening, and she has pushed back tho Vouetian shutters, and is standing by the window looking down the stroot The church clock has just struck five and her father will soon be coming homo. M. Blanchard has l' ft his office, and after standing on the step a moment talking to his clerk, he comes down tho road to bis own great iron gates. Before turning into them ho looks up at tho window and takes off his hat with a pdlsnt wave. M. Blauohtud is the greatest man in Pont-Avizo; he is nearly forty, but ho is still a bachelor. Ho has a white waistcoat and yellow gloves, and a rose in his button hole; but though Aimeo returns his bow iolit.ly sho does not look after him. On tho contrary, sho turns away again rather quickly. "What do you see? Is anything passing?" asks Mademoiselle Stephnnio rather crossly. "I am watching for papa," says the girl gently. "Thoro is nothing else to look for." Thoro Is no com. plaint, but just a touch of resignation In her voice, M. Laval is at this moment coming down the Mad opening his white umbrella, for the sun has not lost its power. He has just taken off his hat with an absent air to the doctor a lie drives pant, when all at oneo his attention appears to lie arrested. He stops short, stares along the dusty road, and adjusts his double rye-glass. Aimee, who was alxuit to withdraw from tho window, leans her pretty head forward with a littlo gasp of aston ishment For down tho straight road leading only to tho town which no tourist over visits, a stranger is coining; n tall young man with blue eyes and a sunburnt face. " lou sno something; what is it? her auut repent. "Ho is speaking to papa. He has stopped. What can he want here? It is -yes, it is an Englishman." "An Englishman! Impossible. I hey never visit our quiet town," says Mademoiselle Stephanie, coining to look over tho girl's shoulder. "It is true no one visits Pont-Avizo," says Aimeo with a faint smile. "Nevertheless ho is shaking to papa. He is coming to the garden door." Her heart is Ismting fast with timidity and pleasure. "And you have been staring at him out of tho window, Seat yourself and resume your work." Aimeo otoys in silence. But the voices are coming nearer and thero are stops on tho uncarpetod stairs. " Permit me to present you to my sister, my daiigh tor," says M. Iavnl, preceding his unexpected guest into tho room and indicating first one and then the other. "Tli is gentleman is the young Mr Horaeo Dallas," ho says, addressing himself to his sister. " You will ro. momlor tho grandmamma of my poor Henrietta was o! tho same name. I have often, have I not, spoken of our English relations? Mr. Pallas Is traveling in Normandy for tho first time. Join your entreaties to mino that wo may persuade him to pass a few days here." Mademoiselle Stephanie dislikes strangers and hates Englishmen, but she stillly expresses a hom that Mr. Dallas will not find Pont-Avizo too secludi-d to 1st agree able. Ho notices her grim smile, lie sees M. Lavnl' lit tle shrewd eyes fixed unu him; ho glance round tho bare yet gaudy little drawing-room, and ho hesitate. Ho turns to where Aimeo sits Is-nding her little dnrk head and flusheil checks over her work, and ho hesitate no longer. ( It is quite nncomwiouiJy that she look up at Mr.