The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-06-13
THE PRESS.
A Race for a Wife.


nv ewes with its slate roof and projecting
beams. a hospitable house if there ever was
one, Poor folks knew the way to ltIhey en-
tered with their wallet empty and went away
with il full. We were all seated one night
at the fireside; my father was smoking his
pipe and watching the fire burn, my mother
was ironing and l was reading, when we
heard a noise at the door, and saw enter a
boy with frightened looks.
'What is the matter?'
ut is a soldier very tired, who has just
fallen exhausted before the door,
NV father loved soldiers He rose brusque-
ly, ran out; and there he was, before L had
taken a step, coming in again with young
soldier leaning upon him, or rather my faith
er had taken him up and was carrying him
like sack Of corn.
Ny mother fastened toadraw the big ann
chair up to the fire. The soldier was made
to sit or rather recline in it, and my father
said, looking as the poor fellow:
SIS it possible. Walking in that state?'
The fact is that the soldier was very thin
and pale, his hair flattened on his fore
head, the veins of his temples big as your
little finger, his face black with dust. We
were then in the month Of October, and the
weather vas beginning to grow fresh, but
the poor fellow was nevertheless sweating
big drops, as if it had been dog days. HIS
SHOES were Ill Slr0uSs YOU COuIu oOC NuOlO
the stones had torn the leather; the left foot
was bleeding. The soldier did not move
but remained in the armchair with his head
thrown back, his eyes half open, and white
as a sheet.
My mother had put some soup on the fire
and pan full of wine.
'Bah," said my father; ''the first thing to
be looked after is the feet"
And lzneeling down, he began to tear and
cut away the shreds of leather. The SOL
d;er's feet, all swollen and full of blisters,
looked like the feet of martyrs, swollen
with pain and wealed by hard cords, which
we see in the pictures of the Spanish paint
ers.
NV father dipped lis handkerchief in vim
egar and washed the wounds
"You," he said to me, ''make some lint"
And began to tear up some old linen
that my mother had taken out of the big
cupboard.
Meanwhile the soldier had come to HIM
self. He looked at US, my father, my moth
er and myself, and the two or three neigh
bors who had come in one after the other.
His wandering eyes seemed to interrogate
everything. It was no longer the road, the
stones, the great deserted woods that he
saw before him, but ceiling of shining oak,
cloth Oh the table, a knife and fork laid,
and bowl emitting savory. smell OF cab
bage soup.
Then he raised himself up leaning on the
arms of the chair, ard said to my father,
with confused emotion:
"Ah monsieur. But do you know me?"
"Ah! well, that does not matter; we will
become acquainted at table,"
We had already dined, but my father
wished to bear the soldier company. He sat
down TO table opposite him, as it were
broodirg over him, and looking at the regi-
mental buttons that shone on his cloak The
soldier ate, and ate heartily; my mother
served him. My father took charge of the
wine, and the glasses did not remain long
empty.
'sWell," said my father suddenly, point
ing to the tin box that the soldier carried
slung on a cord, ''you have finished your
time, for there is your congo. Then why
do you kill yourself by toiling along the
highway? [ see how the matter stands.
You have no money to pay for the dill
gence."
'I?' replied the soldier, 81 have re-
ceived my pay and bounty, and my mother
has sent me enough to pay for place in the
coupe if liked. But could not"
II understand" said my father, who did
not understand at all. Then he asked for
another bottle of wine.
When the meal was over the soldier tried
to walk. He tottered, uttered smothered
cry, and fell back into the chair. ] then
saw tear in his eye. He was a young
man, rather thin, but nervous, dark, and
with an energetic look! He was not man
to shed tear for little, and that tear puz-
zled me.
f'Ah," he said, with movement in
which there was little anger and good
deal of grief; 81 shall not be able to walk
until tomorrow morning."
'EWalkp' cried my mother, terrified.
The soldier shook his head.
''You don't know must"
1t was VOW.
In our Ardennes those primitive souls
have respect and faith. l saw my father
look the young man in the face without as
,tonishment and with mute interrogation.
''Yes," said the soldier, II will tell you
the whole story. You have, perhaps, saved
my life; ought atleast, to tell you who I
am. My name is Jean Chevaucheux, and
my father is wood splitter at Mezieres.
He is an honest man. like you, Monsieur.
Seven years ago, when l drew for conscrip-
ton, 1 was madly in love with Marguerite
Selvan, good hearty girl and a pretty one.
l had already asked her in marriage, and
her father had not said no; bit, see, Pierre
Puvioux had asked her in marriage at the
same time that / did. Pierre Puvioux is a
man of my age, who carries mis- heart in
his hand, as the saying is-gay and we'll
looking. L ought to have detested him,
and he has remained my friend. Well,
Father Seryan said to me as he held out bis
hand
You are worthy to be my son-in-lav,
my lad, but first of all you must please nv
daughter. will ask her.
Marguerite, when asked said that she
would gladly consent to be my wife. But
she said the same when they talked to her
about Puvioux. She loved both of us, one
as much as the other; she hesitated-she did
not dare to decide. But still she could not
marry both of us.
Time went on. When the time of the
CONSUMPTION came we drew lots, Puvioux
and l. on the same day; l had number three
and he had number seven, and so we both
of us became soldiers. For moment 1
was in a state of great fright, / confess.
People at Mezieres said that PuviouX had a
rich aunt, and that she would buy him off.
If Puvioux did not join the army, Puvioux
would marry Marguerite, and l, knowing
that should be obliged to go, for I was
poor, l thought L already heard the fiddler
at the wedding, rending my ears and my
heart.
Luckily, Pierre tPuvioux was not
bought off. His aunt died leaving debts
instead of a fortune. He had not a penny
more than 1 had. We were obliged to
shoulder our guns, and we were expected on
our way-bill every moment. One night
Father Seryan took US each by the arm and
led us to an inn, and this is what he said to
us as we emptied bottle of Moselle wine:
My boys, you are good and honest Ar
dennais, equal in merit. I love you with all
my heart One of you shall be my son-in-
law; that is understood. Marguerite will
wait seven years. She has no preference
either for you, Puvioux, or for you, Che
vaucheux, but she loves both of you, she
will make happy the one whom fortune
shall choose. These are the conditions on
which one of you shall marry my daught er;
you start on the same day-it is probable
that you will return the same day. w
the one who first comes and shakes ha
with Father Servan, and says, 'Here 1 am,
my time is OUT" he, l swear, shall be the
husband Of Marguerite
1 was astonished; l thought that had
misunderstood. looked at Pierre Puvioux
and he loo ed at me, and although we were
both sad e. ough at heart, we were certain
ly ready to burst out laughing.
But Father Servan was not Joking.
He had discovered this means of getting out
of that difficulty and he meant to stick to it,
l held out my hand and swore to act neither
by russ or violence, and to let Pierre Pu-