The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1881-04-08

A RACE FOR A WIFE.

more astonishing ana more rOmantlc
hundred times, than the inventions OF
fiction. He had seen this little drama
develop itself; he still knew the actors III
it. 81 will present YOU" he said to me,
land 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 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 ut Rethel, in
the high street, in a house l can still see
before my eyes with it's slate roof and
projecting beams, hospitable house il
ever there was one. Poor folks new the
way to it. They entered with their wal
let 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, when we
heard noise ut the door, and saw enter
boy with frightened looks.
"What is the matter?"
sit 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 step, coming in
again with young soldier leaning upon
him, or, rather, my father had taken
him up and was carrying him like a sack
of corn.
My mother FASTENED 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 poor
fellow:
sis 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 i'll 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
a 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
i'll the armchair, with his head thrown
back. his eyes half open and white as a
sheet.
Ny mother had already put some soup
oh the fire and painful of wine.
''Bah," said my father. 1.-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 i'll the pic
lures of the Spanish painters.
Ny 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 como TO
himself. He looked ut 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 gay room, with ceiling OF
shining oak, cloth on the table, knife
and fork laid, and brown earthenware
soup-bowl emitting 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! well, that does not matter; we
will become acquainted at the 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 took
charge of the wine, and the glasses did
not long remain empty.
"Well," said my father, suddenly,
pointing to the tin box that the soldier
carried slung on cord, "you have
finished your time, for there is your
congo. Then why do you kill yourself
by toiling along the highway? 1 see
how the matter stands. You have no
money to pay for the diligence9"
"I?' replied the soldier. III have re-
ceived my pay and my bounty, and my
mother has sent me enough to pay for a
place in the coupe, If had liked. But
I could not"
81 understand" said my father, who
did not understand it 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. I then saw tear in his eye. He
was young man, rather thin, but
nervous. dark and with an energetic
IL ne waa not n man In ahed n tear