The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1881-04-15
A RACE FOR A WIFE.


dear TO me. He related it to me one day
os we were talking on the hazards Of life,
more astonishing and more romantic a
r hundred times, than the Inventions of
fiction. He had seen this little drama
develop itself; he still knew the actors In
It, II viii present you, he said to me,
''and we will go together to Mezieres,
where we will find one of the heroes Of
ttD3 narrative still living. All the ro-
mances have not yet been written; the
most marvellous have still to be pub
Eshed. And who knows how many ro-
naanoes each one of us takes away with
him pr0foundly buried in the secrecy Of
tlis 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 10 live at Rethel, in
Che high street, fin house / can still see
before my eyes with its slate roof and
!. projecting beams, hospitable house if
ever there was one. Poor folks new the
wsJ to it. They entered with their wal
Let empty and went away with it full.
side; my father was smoking his pipe
and watching the fire burn, my mother
was ironing, and I was reading, when we
heard noise at the door, and saw enter
@&a boy with frightened looks.
"What is the matter?"
eft 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 young soldier leaning upon
him, or, rather, my father had taken
him up and was carrying him like sack
of corn.
My mother fastened to draw the big
arm chair up to the fire. The soldier
was made to sit, or rather recline in it,
and my father said, looking at the poor
fellow
els it possible! Walking in that
stato?"
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 a
sheet,
My 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, 'Tnake 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 gay room, with ceiling of
shining oak, u cloth on the table, knife
aud fork laid and brown earthenware
soup-howl emitting savory smell of
cabbage soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning on
Che arms of the chair, and said to my
father with confused emotion:
'Ah Monsieur But you do not know
me-.
''Ahl 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 OF
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 I see
how the matter stands. You have no
money to pay for the diligenceY
'I?" replied the soldier. 81 have re-
ceived my pay and my bounty, and my
mother has sent me enough TO pay for q
-, H., &c 4 n
could not "
81 understand" said my father, who
didno understand itall. Then he asked
for another bottle of wine.
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 in his eye. He
was a young man, rather thin, but
nervous, dark and with an energetic
look. He was not a man to shed tear
for little, and that tear puzzled me.
"Ah, he said with movement in
which there was little anger and good
deal of grief; 81 shall not be able to
walk until tomorrow morning"
walk cried my mother. terrified.
The soldier shook his head.
'You don't know, you, must"
1t was vow.
In our Ardennes those primitive souls
have respect and faith. saw my father
look at the young man in the face with
ont astonishment, and with mute inter-
rogation.
eyes" said the soldier, 81 viii tell
you the whole story. You have, perhaps,
saved my life; I ought, at least, to tell
you who am. My name is Jean Chevau-
cheux, and my father is a wood-splitter
at Me1eres. He is an honest man, like
you, monsieur. Seven years ago, when I
drew for the CONSUMPTION, / was madly
in love with Marguerite Servan, good
hearty girl and pretty one. 1 had
already asked her in marriage, and her
father had not said no; but, you see,
Pierre Puvioux had asked her in mar
riage at the same time that did Pierre
Puvioux is man of my age, who carries
his heart in his hand, as the saying is;
gay and well-loolling 1 ought to have