Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1878-11-08

master anu Dflng Jnem mere 10 your
Who watched by Sophie when she was
in convulsionsw
Her voice broke and her fingers re-
laxed their hold, but this time Pierre
answered without hesitation: "She did
I know it we'll"
"Then," pursued Marcelline, "you
are willing to stand by and see her
slowly murdered, inch by inch, by this
white-faced devil, who leans over her,
and Processes TO love her, but is killing
her-biIIing her-with hunger and
thirstpn Her voice shook so that she
could scarcely speak as she concluded.
How do l know" asked Pierre,
slowly, after long pause, "that what
you think about this may not be mis-
takeP" Marcelline made an impatient
gesture, but he went calmly on: "They
say Mons. Alphege is good doctor,
and that he is fond of the mistress
How can l take mans life on mere
suspicionP'
She almost flew at him in her frenzy,
but the darkness so shielded her that
he did not see the movement, which
was as well. She controlled herself in
stantly, and only said in reply: Thou
hast not been always so careful of white
life, mon ami-so unwilling to shed
white blood"
"Ah, bahr' retorted he; "that was
when l could not be detected, and when
more than life was in question. But
now TO kill this man would be to suffer
death myself in the next hour, and to
know that my wife and children were
punished as well. Besides" he con-
tinued, as if trying to reason with her,
"you have told me nothing which con-
vinces me that what you say is true"
" Listen, them she said, raising her
head, which had sunk upon her breast.
"You do not believe that he is starving
her to death; you think she has all the
food required by one in her weak and
perishing condition. You think her
cries, her prayers, her agony of desire
for nourishment-for nourishment!-
are only the result of sickness, and that
if she had it she could not eat. Every
morning when l go into her room to
dress her blisters with fresh poultices,
l find the old ones torn off and eaten up!
Tell me, Pierre, have any of our kin, in
their worst straits of hunger and suffer-
ing, done worse than thatPn
She spoke in low voice, but it was
freighted with such an intensity of
horror and misery that the man beside
her could not speak for an instant.
When he did. he said in tones of the
deepest feeling, my poor mistress!
my poor mistressn
"Do you still refuse?" hissed Marcel
line.
The answer was compassionate, but
resolved:"I do, Marcelline. Not even for
her sake can | risk all. You know l have
saved nearly enough money to buy my
freedom. Once free, | shall soon pur-
chase Sophie and the young ones. l
cannot abandon such hopes even to
save her."
There was a moments silence. "May
God help me, thenr' said the woman as
she rose, "for l swear by the Blessed
Sacrament to save her if she be still
alive-to revenge her if she be dead.n
Three days later e long funeral cortege
passed from the gates of the Lavassour
plantation and took its way along the
dusty road toward the Catholic Church
of the settlement, some three miles off.
In and out between the massive green
wall of shining Cherokee rose-vines,
which formed impenetrable barriers on
either side of the way, wound the long
line of old-fashioned chariots with black
coachmen in queer, antiquated liveries,
preceded by the tawdry French hearse
with its numerous gilt devices and huge
nodding plumes. The pitiless sun beat
down upon them, and the binding clouds
of dust rose and choked them, but the
mourners, both black and white, who
formed the procession--and it was closed
by throng of weeping negroes on foot
were too much interested and alb
sorbed in their melancholy task to feel
either the one or the other, for such an
occasion as this had never taken place
in all that quiet countryside before.
inside of that hearse, in a snow-white
coffin covered with flowers and gayly
decorated with cut paper, silver crosses
and waXen saints, reposed the mortal
remains of Madam Hypolite Levassour,
who had died at midnight thirty-six
hours previously; and by her side in
another coffin, more hastily contrived,
lay the body of her well-beloved son-in-
law and physician, Doctor Alphege
Cherbuliez, who within six hours after
her death had been killed by shotgun
in the hands of an unknown assassin.
Two negro men, Gerard Grol and
Pierre Lambas, had been arrested on
strong suspicion, and were now in close
confinement awaiting the trial which
both knew would be short, sharp and
swift, and administered by a Judge who
would not wait for legal proceedings to
assist or confirm his decisions. Cir
cumstantial evidence was strong against
them, and the two unfortunate wretches
were not more conscious that the sun
was shining in heaven, making the mar
row eaboose in which they had been
confined an uncomfortable, suffocating
den of heat, than they were that when
the dead were buried and grief was
satisfied vengeance would make sudden
and terrible work with them.
When the charch was reached the
carriages drew up in double ranks
around the broad green meadow in
which it stood, and the occupants,
descending, filed in motley array
into the building. Just in front
of the altar two tressels were
prepared for the collins, which were not
brought in until the whole congrega-
ton, which filled the pews to overflow
ing, was seated. Then the measured
tramp of men was heard, and amid
general weeping and lamentation the
pall-bearers entered, and the priest,
advancing from the foot of the altar,
sprinkled with holy water first one cof-
fin then the other as they were placed
before him, while the choir chanted
softly the "De Protundis." Everything
proceeded quietly as usual through the
beautiful services for the burial of the
dead, and the cool, dark church, with
its mingled odor of incense and flow
ers, became more and more quiet as the
soothing influences crept over the hearts
of those assembled there. Mass was
over, and the priest, coming out from
the chancel, knelt before the tall cruel
fix which stood at the foot of the collins
and began the most touching of all
prayers, " Non i,1tres IN ,judiciunl,p