The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1881-03-12
A RACE FOR A WIFE.
BY JULES CLARETIE.

mantle hundred times than the inven
lions of fiction. He had seen this little
drama develop itself; he still knew the
actors in it. 81 will present YOU" he
said to me, :" and we will go together tc
Mezieres, where we shall find one of the
heroes of this narrative still living. Al
the romances have not yet been written,
the most marvellous have still to be pub.
hshed. And who knows how many TO.
mances each one of as takes away with
him profoundly buried in the secrecy OF
his conscience, painfully smothered un.
der the tombstone?" Eugene Decary
did not know how true his words were
and the story of Jean Chevaucheux was
the last that he told me. 1t is he who
will tell you the story.
My father used to live at Rethel. il
the high street, III house [ can still see
before my eyes with its slate roof an6
projecting beams, hospitable house if
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 fire.
side; my father was smoking his pipe
and watching the fire burn, my mother
was ironing, and [ was reading, wher
we heard noise at the door, and saw
enter boy with frightened looks.
"What is the matter %
" 1t is soldier very tired who he's Just
fallen before the door,"
My father loved soldiers. He rose
brusquely, ran out, and there he was,
before l had taken a step, coming il
n with a yvo11pCr cOljio,, -,
him, or, rather, my father had taken hin
up and was carrying him like a sack oil
corn.
My mother fastened to draw the big
arm chair up to the fire. The soldier
was made to sit or rather recline in if
and father said, looking at the poor fel.
low:
els it possible ! walking in that
state ?''
The fact is that the soldier was very
thin and pale, his hair tiattened on hi
forehead, the veins of his temples big al
your little finger, his face black with
dust. We were then in the month O.
October, and the weather was beginning
to grow fresh, but the poor fellow was
nevertheless sweating big drops as if il
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
Ill the arm chair with his head thrown
back, his eyes half open and white as
sheet.
My mother had already put some sour
on the fire anda pan full of wine.
Bah, said my father, "the first
thing to be looked after is the feet"
Aud, kneeling down, he began to teal
and cut away the shreds of leather. The
soldiers feet, all swollen and full of bills
tiers, looked like the feet of the martyrs
swollen with pain and wealed by hare
cords, which we see in the pictures Of the
Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief IL
vinegar and washed the wounds.
You, said he to me, " make some
lint"
And began to tear up some old liner
that my mother had taken out of the BIG
cupboard.
Meanwhile the soldier had come tc
himself. He looked at US, at my father
my mother, aud myself, and the two OF
three neighbors who had come III one af-
ter the other His wandering eyes seen
to interrogate everything. 1t was nc
longer the road, the stones, the great de
serted woods that he saw before him, bu
a gay room, with a ceiling of shining
oak, cloth on the table, knife anC
fork laid, and brown earthenware soup
bowl emitting savory smell of cabbage
soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning OF
the arm of the chair, and said to nv
father with confused emotion:
"Ah! monsieur. Butyou donot know
me-"
"Ahi 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
brooding over him, and looking at the
regimental buttons that shone on his
cloak. The soldier ate, and ate heartily
my mother served him. My father tool
charge of the wine, and the glasses die
not long remain empty.
"Well, said my father suddenly
pointing to the tin box that the soldier
carried slung on cord, "you have fin
ished your time, for there is your congo
Then why do you Kill yourself by toll
ing along the highway? | see how tn,
matter stands. You have no money K
pay the diligence?"
q? replied the soldier, 81 have re
ceived my pay and my bounty, and my
mother bad sent me enough to pay for
place in the coupe, if | had liked. Blu
i could not. "
l understand, F" said my father, wht
did not understand at ALL Then he asked
for another bottle of wine.
When the meal was over, the soldie.
tried to walk. He tottered, uttered
smothered cry, and fell back into thu
chair. | then saw tear in his eve
He was young man, rather thin, bu
nervous, dark, and with an energetic
look. He was hot man to shed 8
tear for a little, and that tear puzzled
me.
"Ah." he said with a movement il
which there was little anger and
good deal of grief; Il shall not b,
able TO walk until tomorrow morning.
"Walk T" cried my mother, terrified
The soldier shook his head.
You don't know, you, must.
1t was a VOW
In our Ardennes those primitive soul
have respect and faith. [ saw M
father look at the young man IN thu
face without establishment, and Will
mute Interrogation.
"Yes," said the soldier, g Will tel
you the whole story. You have, per
haps, saved my life; | ought, at least
to tell you who l am. Ny name i
Jean Chevaucheux, and my father is
wood-splitter at Mezieres. He is al
honest man, like you, monsieur. Sever
years ago, when I drew for the con