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THE ACCURSED HOUSE
BY EMILE GABORIAU
Emile Gaboriau, best known for his remarkable detective stories, was born at Sanson in 1853, and died at Paris in 1873. He was for a time private secretary of Paul Feval, the novelist, and published a great variety of work. In 1866 appeared in the paper called "Le Pays" his first great detective story, "L' Affaire Lerouge," which the author dram- atized in collaboration with Hostein in 1872. Like all of the great series, "U Affaire Le- rouge" "Monsieur Lecoq," "Les Esclaves de Paris," etc., are written in an easy flowing style, and are full of exciting moments.
It is interesting to trace the ancestry of the modern detective story. The first seeds are said to be found in Voltaire's "Zadig"; they germinate in Poe's tales, take form in Gabo- riau, and are in full bloom in Conan Doyle's "Sherlock Holmes."
Stay near me---do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy !
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:---with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
William Wordsworth,
TO A BUTTERFLY
Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.
I'VE watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!—not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 10
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
William Wordsworth, 1802
Translated in French
I hate it when people say that I'm mad at them when I am really not.
I hate it when people joke around or talk gibberish while I'm thinking about something.
I hate it when I'm left behind. I hate to hurt people's feelings.
I hate it when my feelings are being hurt.
I hate it when I can't be rude when I have to be.
I hate to be blamed for something I didn't do.
I hate it when people get too emotional.
I hate it when people can't control their anger.
I hate myself when I'm too stressed.
I hate to be hated by others.
I hate it when I feel like I don't have much time to do other stuff.
I hate it when I am too pressured.
I hate people who mess with girls like me.
I hate it when people talk bad about my close friends.
I hate it when my mom shouts at me.
I hate to be untrustable.
I hate it when people lie to me.
I hate it when I can't say what I really want.
I hate it when I can't do anything right.