Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1882-04-21
A RACE FOR 4 WIFE.
BY JULEs CLARETIE.

by JULES cLARETIR.
have this story from friend who was
dear 10 me. He related it to me one day when
we were talking OF the hazards of life, more
astonishing and moro 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 4"
he said TO me, land we will go together to
Mezieres, where we shall find one Of the heroes
of this narrative still living. All the romances
have not yet been written; the most marvel
lous have still to be published And who
knows how many romances each one of US
takes away with him profoundly buried in the
secrecy Of his conscience, painfully smother
ed under the tombstone 2" 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, in the high
street, in house 1 can still see before my
eyes with its slate roof and 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
fresde my father was smoking his pipe and
watching the fire burn, my mother was iron
ing, and was reading, when we heard noise
at the door, and saw enter boy with fright
ened looks.
"What is the matter 2"
''It is a soldier very tired who has Just fall
en- exhausted before the door"
My father loved soldiers. He rose brusque-
ly, ran out, and there he was, before l had
taken step, coming in again with a young
soldier leaning upon him, or rather my faith
er had taken him up and was carrying him
like a sack of corn.
My mother hastened to draw the big arm
chair up to the FIRE. The soldier was made to
sit or rather TO recline in it, and my father
said, looking at The poor fellow:
''Is it possible Walking in that state 7"
The fact is that the soldier was very thin
and pale, his hair flattened on his forehead,
the veins OF his temples big as your little fin
ger, 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 az
If it had been dog-days. He must have had
long tramp his shoes were in shrsds you
could see where the stones had torn the eath-
er the left foot was bleeding. The soldier
did not move but remained in the armchair
with hishead thrown back, his eyes half open,
and white as a sheet.
My mother had already put some soup on
bah, said my father, 'the first thing to
be looked after is the feet !"
And kneeling down, he begun to tear and
cut away the shreds of leather. The soldiers
feet, all swollen aud full of blisters, looked
like the feet of the martyrs, swollen with pain
and wealed by hard cords which we see in
the pictures of the Spanish painters.
Ny father dipped his handkerchief in vim
egar 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 cup
board.
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 every
thing. 1t was no longer the road, the stones,
the great deserted woods that he saw before
him, but gay room, with a ceiling of shin
ing oak, a cloth on the table, a knife and
fork laid, ana = brown earthernware soup
bowl emitting savory smell of cabbage
soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning or the
arms of the chair, and said to my father, with
confused emotion:
"Ah monsieur But you do not know
mel"
"Ah well that does not matter; we will
become acquainted at table"
We had already dined, but my father wish
ed to bear the soldier company He sat down
to table opposite him, as it were brooding
over him, and looking at the regmental but
tons that shone on his cloak. The soldier 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 a cord, 'you have finished your time, for
there is your congo. Then why do you go
and kill yourself by toiling along the high
way see how the matter stands. You have
no money to pay for the diligence?'
'I?" replied the soldier. II have received
my pay aud my bounty aud my mother had
sent me enough to pay for place in the coupe,
| if had liked. But could not!"
~ understand" said my father, who did
| not understand at all. Then he asked for an
other 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. l then saw
tear in his eye He was young man, rath-
| or thin, but nervous, dark and with an ener-
getic look. He was not man to shed a tear
for a little and that tear puzzled me.
''Ah," he said, with movement in which
there was little anger and a good deal OF
grief: 81 shall not be able to walk until to-
morrow morning!"
"Walk" cried my mother, terrified.
The soldier shook his head.
"You don't know-you-I must"
1t was vow.
In our Ardennes those primitive souls have
respect and faith. / saw my father looh
at the young man in the face without aston
ishment, and with mute interrogation.
Eyes, said the soldier, 81 will tell you the
whole story. You have, perhaps, saved my
life l ought at least to tell you who / am
My name is Jean CheYaueheux, and my faith
er is wood-splitter at Mezieres, He is Al
honest man, like you, monsieur Seven years
ago, when drew for the eonscription, wa
madly in love with Marguerite Servan,
good hearty girl and pretty one. hat
already asked her in marriage, and her fathel
had not said no but, you see, Pierre Puvioul
had asked her in marriage at the same tint
that did. Pierre Puvioux is man Of my
age, who carries his heart in his hand, as the
saying is, gay and well-looking, Well, Farm
or Seryan said to me as he held out hi
hand
"'You are worthy to be my son-in-law, my
I Iod lint frat of all Won muat Dlaaaa nv dauph