South Pasadena High School - Copa de Oro Yearbook (South Pasadena, CA)

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COPA and amazement, attended by not a little awe as Well, for it was a strange sight. The dark old room, the altar, the aged peasant woman standing nearby, with her heavy keys—all made a picture which he never forgot. Suddenly, from between the iron bars. through the colored windows, laden with the dust of past years, came a ray of sunlight, falling upon a feature of the room which our artist friend had not yet noticed. On the opposite side of the altar from which the carved statue Was placed hung a velvet curtain. of dark crimson. He turned to his attendant and. she, quick to discern his wish and influenced by his ready gold, told, in a wierd and hesitating voice, the tale of the mysterious chateau. Her hearer’s some what slow perception was quickened by his curiosity, and aided by her many gesticulations and the expressions of her countenance, he was able to learn the mysterious tale, which is told as he afterwards told it to his friends. In the terrible days of the French Revolution, when many of the nobility of France were murdered in cold blood, there lived, amid the gayety of Paris, a Count of immense wealth and aristo- cratic lineage. The Count of Ruddesae, for so he was, had only one child, a daughter, Elise by name, a girl of mar- velous beauty and pure religious char- acter. When the anger of the mobs grew hot and cries of “Down with the nobility!” resounded night and day through the streets of Paris, the Count, knowing the danger that surrounded her, sent his lovely daughter, with a young maid, to a quiet secluded spot, where stood the old chateau, in years past the abode of an ancestor possessed of a strange mania for living alone. There, for a time, she lived in utter solitude, seeing no one but her maid and the servant. faithful even after her father’s death, who brought pro- visions weekly. But she was happy in her religion. Hour after hour she knelt in prayer, counting her rosary o’er and o'er and chanting sad, sweet hymns that the soul of her father, after her depart- ure immediately cast into the dark old DE ORO prison of Bastille. might rest in peace, But there came a night when a fren zied mob swept through the streets of Paris, increasing in size and fury until individuals were lost sight of in a surg ing mass of angry people. Palaces of the noblemen were burned to the ground and when the awful night Was almost over, a few men, into whose hearts had been born in the desire to kill, having found out the whereabouts. of Klise Ruddesac, set out upon their dread ful errand. On through the dark streets, lit only by the smouldering fires, out over the lonely road they went, already inticipating the sweets of revenge. At last they neared the chateau. The maid Was not awakened immediately; but Klise hurried from her little apartment into the chapel room, as she had been wont to call it, and knelt before the altar in prayer. As she arose from her knees, a sound of loud tramping came from without, and hoarse voices demanded admittance. It being refused, they opened the door by force and entered. “And then,” as the old French woman told the artist, “the strangest thing happened. I saw it, for I had crept in unnoticed through a secret door. Elise stood still by her little altar, gazing at those men. [| had never seen her look so beautiful. Her great, dark eyes shone with the fire of righteousness and her loosened hair fell over her shoulders. At last, one fellow, rougher than the rest, stepped forward as if to seize her, but before he could touch her she had passed within her shrine and disappeared behind the crimson velvet curtain. “Strange as it may seem, not one of those men dared to step within my Klise’s sacred nook of prayer. So struck with a sense of awe were they that they left without noticing me, and disap- peared in the darkness. “And so,” she continued, “through all the weary years of my dull existence, I have lived in my little cottage to guard my mistress’ altar. I know not where her body lies; I only know that her soul res ts in peace, for she was as pure as the white roses she loved to Wear. With these last words, the French woman silently left the young man and

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Cora a person with a truly artistic apprecia- tion of the beautiful would have reveled in the rural scenes that would meet his enchanted eyes along the road. But, although the young English artist, for so he was, had strolled thus far into the country for the express purpose of filling his mind with several charm- ing little scenes of southern France, he was engaged in the truly horrifying task of reviewing his most limited French vocabulary in anticipation of an = ap- proaching conversation with the land- lord of the inn, in which he was residing, the result of which interview would be satisfactory or otherwise, according to his lucky choice of words and phrases. This accounts for the fact that he had strolled about three miles from the village of Sans Souci before he realized what he was doing. In the distance all that could be-seen of the town was a subdued blur of cottages with the spire of the old Catholic church of Saint Pierre rising above them, its golden cross catching the gleams of morning sunlight as it tipped the spire. Now alert for some scene pleasing to his fancy, he went on a mile or two, un- til he had passed the scattered farm houses and had reached a turn in the road. Impelled by curiosity to seek farther, he made the turn and there met his astonished eyes a singularly beautiful old chateau. It stood in all the splen- dor of its fast decaying beauty, stained by age and exposure, with green moss growing within its time-worn crevices and ivy clinging to its walls. A steep, winding stairway led to a little balcony from which the only entrance into the room was through a small door; the door, as well as the colored windows, was barred with rods of iron. It was a place which one would naturally sup- pose to be shrouded in mystery, and as the young Englishman gazed, enchanted, upon its ancient beauty, he was seized with a desire to fathom the mystery. But how? The chateau was barred and the only habitation of man that was anywhere near it was a small hut of the poorest sort, built close to the old cha- teau, as if relying upon its ancient grandeur for protection. DE ORO Summoning nerve and confidence to his aid, for his surroundings were in- deed very singular, he knocked loudly at the door of the cottage and awaited the result of his venture. He heard a sharp ery from within, a cry of seeming surprise, a slight sound of shuttling greeted his ears and the door was opened. There stood before him an old woman of the peasant type of France, whose sharp, dark eyes, from under black brows, met his with an attitude of de- fense. Her straggly, gray hair was par- tially covered by a cap of peculiar de- sign; her skin was yellow and wrinkled with age, and her form bent and old. Her aspect was so fierce that he hastily called to mind all the French words he knew and stringing them to- gether in wild confusion, asked her if she would show him the interior of the chateau and tell him something of its history. He took for granted that the chateau had a history and that the aged peasant woman was its keeper. After a lengthy conversation, in which the old woman chattered volubly in French and the young artist sought by every possible means to make his wish known, he having placed a piece of gold in her hand, she grimly smiled and bade him follow her. Out through the tangled grasses, up the narrow winding stair, they went. The woman, with an old and rusty key, turned a lock and drew back the iron bars. Taking another key of unusual shape and size, she unlocked and threw open a narrow door and they stepped within the main room of the old chateau. What a strangely furnished place it was! The dark walls were old and crumbling, so stained by time and weather that it was difficult to ascer- tain what their coloring had originally been. Dust lay thick over the tables of odd design and carved chairs, but the object that aroused the greatest curi- osity, about which centered all the mys- tery. was a sort of recess in the wall at the far end of the room. Within it stood an altar of dark oak; a crucifix was fastened to the wall, and a marble statue of the Virgin stood upon a sort of carved shelf. The young man gazed in open wonder

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(G () se AN went out. He saw her pass within her cottage; he never saw her again. Out through the door of the old chateau he went, and as he walked to- ward his inn, his mind was filled with strange thoughts and questionings. He went home to England the follow- ing winter, but often, amid the work and gayety of his busy life, would come the questions to his bewildered mind, “Where did the Count’s daughter go? What lies behind the crimson curtain?” So often and with such force did the questions return that when, the next summer, he returned to Paris, he, in company with a bold friend, took the journey from Paris to the little village of Sans Souci, out, over the country road, to the old chateau. They knocked at the old woman’s door but received no answer. Peering in, they saw that all was bare and empty. “She is dead,” wy Although the baseball fan is some- what excited in the last inning of the deciding game of a World’s Champion ship series, when the score is tied, two out and three men on with the weakest batter vainly sceking the loca- {ion of the delusive sphere, his excite- ment bears about the same ratio to that of a schoolboy during the last summer meeting of the School Board, as a game of bears to a game of foot-ball. The children of today start happily to school, on the opening day, being sure of a pleasant smile of greeting from the teacher, whoever he or she may be, but when I went to school about forty years ago, a smile of this kind was no more expected than the election of William Jemings Bryan to the Presidency of the United States. I remember, more than any other, my last teacher. The School Board had been rather slow that year, and when school was scheduled to commence no teacher had yet been appointed. How- ever, we were told to be in our seats the next Thursday at nine o’clock and wait bases, chess DE My Old Schoolmaster ORO said the artist; “let us see if we enter the chateau.” They went up the winding stairway and to their surprise, the door was open. Entering, the Englishman found all the same. Not without a certain awesome feel- ing, he entered the retreat and drew back the velvet curtain. All that he saw was a dark, damp vault. A casket lay at one side; a censor swung from the ceiling; but what struck him aghast was that a dagger lay beside the casket and tall candles burned at either end. “Who lights the cand was the ques- may tion that came to his mind. And from the crumbling walls there seemed to come a voice that answered, “’Tis a mystery, the mystery of the old chateau. It can never be solved.” LAURA ROYCE, 712. =z for the new master, from the nearest station as Deacon White's old gray mare leave distance behind her. He about ten and slowly the room. He was almost dwarfish in size. His right eye looked as though it were try- ing to locate his left ear, while his left seemed to be counting the freckles on his right cheek. His nose projected very noticeably from under his spectacles, acting as a peacemaker to the opposing eyes. He walked quietly to the platform and turned upon the school, gazing at the anxious faces of us children. He looked back and forth aeross the room several times and then smiled, actually smiled. I have often wondered how he ever succeeded in getting his eyes into the spirit of the smile, but he did and the effect was marvelous. It was the first, who was coming fast as would arrived o'clock entered last and only smile that ever graced the features of a teacher in that building. It was not, however, the winsome smile of the teacher of today but resembled more that of a man-eating tiger as he