The Sentinel. [volume] (Trenton, N.J.) 1880-1882, 1881-03-26
A RACE FOR A WIFE.
A STORY FROM THE FRENCH.

A STORY FROM THE FRENCH
My father used to live at Rethel. in
the high street, in house T can still
see before my eyes with its slate roof
and projecting beams, O hospitable house
II ever there was one. Poor folks knew
the way to it. They entered with their
wallet empty and went away with it
full. We were all seated one night at
the fireside; my father was smoking his
pipe and watching the fire burn, nv
mother was ironing, and I was reading.
when we heard noise at the door, and
saw enter boy with frightened looks
What is the matter ?"
1t is soldier very tired who has
Just fallen exhausted before the door"
Ny father loved soldiers. He rose
brusquely, ran out, and there he was,
before L had taken step, coming in
again with young soldier leaning upon
him, or rather my father had taken him
up and was carrying him like sack of
corn.
Ny mother fastened to draw the big
armchair up to the fire. The soldier
was made to sit, or rather to recline in
it, and my father said, looking at the
poor fellow:
els it possible Walking in that
state?"
The fact is that the soldier was very
thin and pale, his hair fattened on his
forehead, 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 was beginning
to grow fresh, but the poor fellow was
nevertheless sweating big drops, as if it
had been dog days. He must have had
long tramp. His shoes were in shreds;
you could see where the stones had
torn the leather; the left foot was bleed
ing. The soldier did not move but re-
NAMED in the armchair with his head
thrown back, his eyes half open and
white as sheet.
My mother had already put some soup
on the fire.
"Bah p said my father; "the first
thing to be looked after is the feet"
And kneeling down he began to tear
and cut away the shreds of leather. The
soldiers feet, all swollen and full of bis
tiers, looked like the feet of the martyrs,
swollen with pain and wealed by hard
cords, which we see in the pictures of
the Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief in
vinegar 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
himself He looked at us--at my father,
my mother and myself and the two or
three neighbors who had come in one
after the other. His wandering eyes
seemed to interrogate everything. 1t
was no longer the road, the stones, the
great deserted woods that he saw before
him. but a gay room with ceiling Of
shining oak, cloth on the table, knife
and fork laid and brown earthenware
soup-bowl emitting a savory smell OF
cabbage soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning on
the arms of the chair, and said to my
father, with confused emotion:
"Ah! monsieur. But you do not
know me"
"Ah we'll 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 brooding over him, and looking at
the regimental buttons that shone on
his cloak. The soldier ate, and ate
heartily; my mother served him.
"Well," said my. father, suddenly,
pointing to the tin box that the soldier
carried slung on a cord, "you have fin
ished your time, for there is your congo.
Then why do you kill yourself by toiling
along the highway? I see how the mat
ter stands. You have no money to pay
for the diligence"
"Iy replied the soldier. II have
received my pay and bounty, and my
mother has sent me enough to pay for q
place in the coupe, if / liked. But l
could not"
81 understand" said my father, who
did not understand at all.
When the meal was over the soldier
tried to walk. He tottered, uttered a
smothered cry, and fell back into the
chair. then saw tear into his eye.
He was young man, rather thin, but
nervous, dark, and with an energetic
look. He was not man to shed teal
for little, and that tear puzzled me,