The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1881-04-07
A RACE FOE A WIFE.

1 have this story from q friend who was
dear to me. He related it to me one day
as we were talking on the hazards of life,
more astonishing and more romantic a
hundred times, than the inventions 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,
land we will 60 together to Mezieres,
where we Will find one of the heroes of
this narrative still living. All the ro-
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 buriedsin the secrecy of
his conscience, painfully smothered UNI
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. It is he who
will tell you the story.
MY father used to live at Rethel, in
the high street, in q house I can still Sos;
before my eyes with its slate, roof and
projecting beams, a hospitable house if
eve there was one. Poor folks new the
way to it. They entered with their wall
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 I was reading, when we
heard a noise at the door, and saw enter
a boy with frightened looks.
"What is the matter 2" g u
cit is a soldier very tired who has
just fallen exhausted before the door,"
My father loved soldiers. He, rose
brusquely, ran ont, and there he was,
before I had taken a step, coming in
again with a young soldier leaning upon
him, or, rather, my father had taken
him up and was carrying him like q 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 1t,
and myfather said, looking at the POOR
fellow
'Is it possiblel Walking in that
state?"
The fact is that the soldier WA very
thin nd.rale,, his hair hattened 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 II it
had been dog days. He must have had
q long tramp. His shoes were in shreds;
YOU could see where the stones had torn
the leather; the left foot wa bleeding.
The soldier did not move, but remained
in the arm-chair, with his head thrown
back, his eyes half open and white as q
sheet. 49,
My mother had already put some soup
on the fire and q 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 n4he pic
lures of the Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief in
vinegar and washed the wounds:
"You." he said to me. t.make some
lint"
And I began to tear. up some old linen
that my mother had taken out Of the
Dig 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 interrogste everything. It
vas no longer the road, the stones, the
great deserted woods that he saw before
him, but a gay room, with a ceiling of
shining oak, a cloth on the table, knife
nn1 forI lad and hrN-n aorkhon1ro
soup-bowl emitting q, sayory 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 you7do notknow
me-"
"AhI 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 regimentai 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.
'sWell," said my father, suddenly,
pointing to the tin box that the soldier
carried slung on q cord, lyon have
finished your time, for there is your
congo. Then why do You kill yourself
by toiIing along the highway? I see
how the matter stands. You have nc
money to pay for the diligence?"
"I?" replied the soldier. ST have re.
ceived my pay and nay bounty, and my
mother has sent me enough to pay for 9
place in the coupe, if I had liked. But
/ 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 q
smothered cry, and fell back into the
chair. I then saw a tear in his eye. He
was a young man, rather thin, but
nervous, dark and with al energetic
look. He was not q man to shed q teal
for a little, and that tear puzzled me.
"Ah," he said with q movement in
which there was a little anger and q good
deal of grief; ST shall not be able to
walk until tomorrow morning"
"Walk!" cried my mother, terrified.
The soldier shook his head.
"You don't know, you, I must"
It was a VOW.
In our Ardennes those primitive souls
have respect and faith. I a W my father
look at the young nan in the face with.
out astonishment, and with mute inter.
rogation.
Eyes" said the soldier, ST will tel
you the whole story. You have, perhaps,
saved my life; I ought, at least, to tel
you who I am. My name is Jean Chevau.
cheux, and my father is q w~ood-splittel
at Mezieres. He is an honest man, like
you, monsieur. Seven years ago, when ]
drew for the CONSUMPTION, I was madlJ
in love with Marguerite Servan, q good
hearty girl and q pretty one. I had
already asked her IN marriage, and hel
father had not said no; but, you see,