River Falls journal. [volume] (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1872-2019, 1883-11-22
A FRENCHLOVE STORY.
AIphonso and Hyacinthe.
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From the Texas Sifti1gs.
Why do the flowers bloom in spring?
Why do the soft winds sigh? Why do
the birds sin1?
The mysteries of nature are not told
to everybody, neither to me nor to you.
In Enquire Within for Everything"
you will find many things; but not that,
not By any means.
They sat under tree in the old forest
OF Nraimont.
Oh! how the birds did singl How the
flowers did bloom! The sun shone down
On the peasant milkmaid and the cheer
full cow And the milkmaid smiled, and
the COW kicked out and sent the milk
maid on her back, all among the dainty
DAISIES.
We have much to be thankful for,
that nature thus makes us happy.
Eth, bieu! let me go on with my story.
Lie is short:
They sat under tree. They were
young, and their lips met. Why should
they not have done so? No one was
looking, and the sweet, shy daisies could
never have had it in their hearts TO up
braid them.
II love you, Alphonse," said Hya-
cynthe. One would have fancied that
sweet, clear voice to be the washing of
the water on the pebbles of the
brook, or of the flannel petticoats
in the rude cottage of the peas
ants.
"Alphonse," she said, 81 love you"
Then all the world was Joy to that
young man. In the words of the great
Shakespeare it was Jam" also. We
have no. that word in French, but we can
borrow it from the false, cold English
when we wish it.
And Vhen she said that she loved him
thew arose and looked around the beau
tiful temple of nature.
She was young. Fresh from the pen
sion. Yet she was wise, as are the
daughters Of Paris. She had read
M. Zola's "Assommoir." She had
partly tasted what life was, this shy
maiden.
"Hvacinthe," he faltered out, tremb-
ling with passion, 'you are my life, my
love, my heart, my joy!"
And again they kissed. And he left
the mark of his Honeroise- powdered
moustache upon those sweet lips, and
the pearl powder from her cheeks
was transferred to his classic chin.
1t was nature, and nature must
be right. Why SO? We cannot tell,
ignorant one. Look in the diction-
airy.
''Let us walk home, dear Hyacinthe,
said Alphonse.
"There is not O. Gacre to be had" she
answered, land if there were, you are
poor, and have no money to pay for it,"
and she burst into tears and laid her
hea on his shoulder. So they wan
dered through the woods, did these
young ones. And the birds sang. And
tie COWS, seeing them, and seeing how
much they loved each other, frisked
gaily over the sward and butted the
gardes champetres into the bitches.
And the lark singing in the skies sang
more loudly.
"Ah!" she said, ''what will the good
mere say? 1t is late, Alphonse. She
will give me the spanks, and, oh, Al
to be spanked" and she sighed deeply.
"But you will love me forever" he
asked
81 will, core of my hearth she an
swered; and again she wiped some pearl
powder off as she chung to him.
They reached the gates of the park of
M. lie Baron Sucque Absinthe.
"Will the fates be good to us?" he
said
"They will not!' cried stern voice
and the mother Of Hyacinthe stood be-
fore them.
She was one of the ancient regime,
was the Baroness. She had been a beau
ty once; now she was OLD, and held
cane in her hand.
Il will fetch you un oner," she said in
in the old familiar patois of the noun
tains of Boulogne, where she had dwelt
in her youth, and had met the wealth
and rank of Angleterre, and mixed with
them, calm, cold people though they
were
Tonight" size almost sbrieked' "you
marry the aged Tarenton" and she tore
her daughter away.
Alphonse stood outside the park and
listened to the shrill screams OF the UNI
happy one. Then he went back to Paris
and joined his regiment, and departed
for Algiers.
So closes the first chapter of their
young lives. She was spanked.
He went away. Love can be divided |
sometimes, and you can split your dish |
es at the restaurant of Paris. We know |
the world.
Oh! yes.
1t was the salon of Nine. de Tarenton. |
The spirit OF Paris was there. What |
is the spirit of Paris?-Absinthe?
No, that is sort of liquid cordial-or |
something of she kind.
The spirit of Paris is wit and sweet |
ness, and genteel compliment and rail |
cry.
Madame de Tarenton had somewhat |
neglected her guests, and was sitting |
alone. She was the fine woman, the |
fine woman to perfection. The exotic !
of the salon, perhaps. A fower-an
azalea, if you will. But no matter.
There was look of melancholy on /
her face. There had been high words
with the baron that day.
THAT bill of Worth's, madame" he |
had said, lis more than on million FIVE |
hundred thousand francsp
ga woman cannot dress in Paris IN
der one hundred thousand francs a
month, Would you have me go as a
beggar or would you have me wear in the |
salon the bathing costume OF Trou, ille?"
and she laughed a moeking laugh.
A husband is always in the way I'M
less there is bill to be paid. Hal ha!
Who are there in the whole world like
the Parisians?
Yet she had dressed and dined and
had received.
A woman must conceal her care like |
her age. (Ha! ha! that is good sem
tence, ysu calm, cold Englishl
She saw some one coming towards her.
She thought she knew the face.
Can fetch you an ice?" he said.
She thought she remembered the
voice, but she did not answer.
"Can fetch you an apple?" he said.
Then she was. convinced to the heart
that she knew that voice.
Can | fetch you fiowor-your fan
your powder-puf-you last novel-your
beots-your carriage?"
cit is Alphonse," she murmured, with
a bloodless, sighless gasp.
She knew it was Alphonse. That
thoughtful, Partisan attention! Only the
child OF Paris has it. The rest of the
world is composed of clods. What are
Engllshmen or Americans but Gods? !
Men! BAH We would not have it so.
at is Alphonsep she said.
fAnd you are married" said Alphonse.
And We loved" said he.
and we we're young" Alphopse said.
Then he paused and she was silent.
The heart may be too full OF hot
thoughts sometimes. as the mouth may
be of soup. Both must be got rid Of
but how? 1t is awkward.
Those spanks your mother gave you
must have hurt you, Hyaclnthe, he said
with faint sigh.
You must not call me Hvacinthe,"
she opSrarad SirbIuO daaplv. fsbr7t 7 |