The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1881-04-07
A RACE FOR A WIFE.

as we were talking on the hazards of life,
more astonishing and more romantic q
hundred times, than the inventions of
fiction. He had seen this little drama
develop itself; he still knew the actors in
it. "1 will present YOU" he said to me,
''and we will go together to Mezieres,
where we will find one of the heroes Of
this narrative still living. All the ro-
mances have not yet been written; the
most marvellous have still to be pub
lished And who knows how many ro-
mances each one of us takes away with
him profoundly buried in the secrecy Of
his conscience, painfully smothered I'M
der the tombstone?" Eugene Decary
did not know how true his words were,
and the story of Jean Chevnucheux was
the last that he told me. 1t is he who
will tell you the story.
MY father used to live at Rethel, in
the high street, in house l can still So,
before my eyes with its slate roof and
projecting beams, q hospitable house if
ever there was one Poor folks new the
way 10 il. They entered with their wal
let empty and went away with il full.
We were all seated one night at the fire.
side; my father was smoking his pipe
and watching the fire burn, my mother
was ironing, and 1 was reading, when we
heard n noise at the door, and saw enter
q boy with frightened looks.
"What is the matter?"
'Tt is a soldier very tired who has
Just fallen exhausted before the door"
My father loved soldiers. He rose
brusquely, ran out, and there he was,
before / had taken q step, coming in
again with q young soldier leaning upon
him, or, rather, my father had taken
him up and was carrying him like a sack
of corn.
Ny mother hastened to draw the big
armchair up to the fire. The soldier
was made TO sit, or rather recline in it,
and my father said, looking at the roor
fellow:
'1s it possiblel 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 bleeding.
The soldier did not move, but remained
in the armchair, with his head thrown
back, his eyes half open and white as q
sheet.
Ny mother had already put some soup
on the fire and painful Of wine.
"Bah," 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
blisters, looked like the feet of the
martyrs, swollen with pain and weakened
by hard cords, which we see in the pic
lures 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
dig cupboard.
Meanwhile the soldier had come Il
himself. He looked at us, at my father
my mother, and myself, and the two Of
three neighbors who had come in, one
after the other. His wandering eyei
seemed TO interrogate everything. i
was no longer the road, the stones, th,
great deserted woods that he saw before
him, but q gay room, with . ceiling o
shining oak, q cloth on the table, knit,
and fork laid, and brown earthenwar,
soup-bowl emitting q savory smell o
cabbage soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning OF
the arms of the chair, and said to m,
father, with confused emotion:
"Ah! Monsieur. But you do not know
me-"
"Ahl well, that does not matter; W
will become acquainted at the table,"
We had already dined, but my fathe
wished to bear the soldier company
He sat down to table opposite him, as i
were brooding over him, and looking q
the regimental buttons that shone ON hi
cloak. The soldier ate, and ate heartily
my mother served him. My father too
charge Of the wine, and the glasses di
not long remain empty.
"well," said my father, suddenly
pointing TO the tin box that the soldie
carried slung on o cord, "you hav
finished your time, for there is you
congo Then why do you kill yoursel
Ivy toiling along the highway? Sc
how the matter stands. You have n
money to pay for the diligence?"
ZIP" replied the soldier. II have r,
ceived my pay and my bounty, and m
mother has sent me enough to pay for
place in the coupe, il had liked. BIZ
could not"
II understand" said my father, WI
did not understand it all. Then he aske
for another bottle Of wine.
When the meal was over the soldie
tried to walk. He tottered, uttered
smothered cry, and fell back into th
chair. then saw tear in his eye. 3
was q young man, rather thin, bt
nervous, dark and with an energet
look. He was not q man TO shed tel
for little, and that tear puzzled me.
"Ah," he said with o movement
which there was little anger and goo
deal Of grief; II shall not be able
walk until tomorrow morning"
WALK cried my mother, terrified.
The soldier shook his head.
"You don't know, you, must"
IL was q vow.
In our Ardennes those primitive sou
have respect and faith. I saw my faith
look at the young man in the face wit
out astonishment, and with mute inte
rogation.
YES" said the soldier, 'T will Il
you the whole story. You have, perhap
saved my life; I ought, at least, to t
you who am. Ny name II Jean Cheva
cheux, and my father II . wood-splitt
Ut l. -
you, monsieur. Seven years ago. when
in love with Marguerite Servan, . go<
hearty girl and pretty one. hi
already asked her in marriage, and h
father had NOT said no; but, you %
Pierre Puvioux had asked her in ma