The weekly Floridian. [volume] (Tallahassee, Fla.) 1867-19??, 1885-08-13
VICTOR HAFONT.
BY EDWARD LOG wO~D RECkARD

Victor Lafont paused before the swing
ing gate which led into the little flower
and vegetable garden surrounding a pret,
ty lattice windowed cottage, half con-
cealed by running, Towering honevsuckle
vines from the view OF those who passed
along the quiet country road leading to
the sleepy miniature Norman town of
OctcNlllc, few steps beyond, and lis
tened with loving smile upon his parted
Ups to the sweet, strong voice of young
girl somewhere behind the vines covering
the little low porch
His happy face belied his heavy heart,
for he was to look into the innocent,
beautiful eyes of the fair singer. and tell
her the tale she only too well knew, for,
on the morrow, he would leave her to
seek his musical education, and perhaps
fortune i'll the great city which was to
him vision, a dream. He was to 90 to
Paris to the city where art and music
were recognized above all things, to carve
his way to fame with only his bow, and
win place in the rank of those with
whom he thought he belonged. He had
genius and courage, but they were all he
possessed, and to his provincial mind
were sufficient weapons with which to
meet the grim adversary, opposition, and
vanquish her Many other men had won
the same battle; men who began the
struggle as lowly and humble as he; they
had risen to the top, and he determined
to accomplish the same end. =.
The son Of a village schoolmastcr he
had scraped at his cracked old violin
| bn hol l,f,
and when his father, in more generous
mood than was his wont, had given him
a violin made in the city he was soon to
see, he thought his cup Of happiness was
overhowing. Not for an instant would
he allow it to be ont of his sight 1t was
his only thought, playmate, and besides
sweet, gentle Nannette, the daughter of
Paul Gosscin, the richest bouyojse of
the village, was his only companion.
He had never cared to mingle with his
schoomates in their idle sports, and as
soon As his meaGre lessons were finished
he would clasp his violin to his heart and
run away to the quiet green fields, and
there play to himself for long hours to-
gether, his eyes fixed vacantIy on the
ground before him, and his fingers run
ming with nevcr-tiring energy over the
tinger-board. Sometimes Nannrtte would
steal away with him and watch him, her
soul in her eyes, but the little girl was
closely guarded by her parents, who
looked upon Victor as a worthless fellow,
incapable of earning his bread His
father had long abandoned hope of turn
ing his set musical inclination, and not
being a severe nor particularly ambitious
man, had wisely seen how futile would be
an attempt to change the only passion the
boy possessed He had, therefore, re-
signedly allowed Victor his way, and
while not encouraging the lad, for he
looked upon music as an Indifferent
pastime, had placed no greater obstacle
in his path than compelling him to study
his simple lessons and remain at home.
Great was this good parents consterna-
tion when one day he discovered divers
little rolls of manuscript music in \ictor's
handwriting, on paper he had procured
from an tinerant pcddler with the few
sous his father had given him, carefully
slowed away behind a great chest in his
sons little garret.
He had from that time given up Vie
tors future as irrcdeemable, and the good
man had deprecatingly thrown up his
hands, wcpt few silent tears, and al
lowed Victor ever afterward to quietly
pursue his art.
And thus the years passed, and Victor
had now almost attaEcd his majority.
His father, at last, had concluded to per
nit him to carry ont his ardent wish, had
given him few francs from his little
hoard, and with his blessing, forebOdingly
consented to allow him to leave his hum
BILE roof and 90 to the great city which he
himself had never visited. But Victor,
unconscious of the mountains he had yet
to climb, had never for a moment thought
of ANYTHING other than success crowning
his efforts, and he little needed his fathers
warnings and prophecies.
And now he stood before the little gate,
waiting for the girl who loved him as only
her pure, innocent heart could love, who
had believed in his genius az honestly and
faithfully as she believed the sayings OF
the good old cure, who each Sunday
preached a short Latin sermon in the lit
tie village chapel; who had been scOlded
and threatened by her father, rich old
Paul, because she would steal away from
home and meet him clandestincly at their
tryst beneath the great spreading oak.
She encouraged and urged him to leave
the dull. unappreciative, though kindly
people with whom he mingled, well know
ing that every word cut her fond, loving
heart like cruel knife.
And now he was to see her for the last
time That soft summer evening was to
be the last they should spend together for
many a long month. He was patiently
waiting her coming, knowing she was
guarded by her proud and naughty father
as though his presence would contamnate
her. But love is omnipotent and laughs
at all obstacles, and the lovers met almost
constantly, and at times when the jailer
thought his bird was safe from the hawks
clutches.
The song slowly died away, and all was
silent. Poor Nannette sang to keep up
her failing heart, for she knew that night
it would follow the only one she really
loved through his travels and trials.
"Victor," her loving, low voice whis-
pered; her arms stole around his neck,
while he clasped her to his breast fondly.