Sacramento daily record-union. [volume] (Sacramento [Calif.]) 1875-1891, 1888-05-02
La MONTELAISE.
And the Last Song Sung In the Tun-
cries.

Once upon time, at Monteux, which is
the natal place of the good st. Gems, and
also OF Saboly, the poet of Christmas time,
there lived pretty little blonde maiden,
with hair as bright as gold. They called
her Rose She was the daughter of the
keeper of the cafe. And as she was veil
hammered and sang like an angel, the good
cure of the parish put her at the head of
the choir in the little country church.
For the feast of st. Gems, the great holt
day of the year at Monteux, the father of
little Rose hired singer to add to the
attractions of his cafe.
The singer, who was young, straightway
falls in love with the pretty face of the
cafe-keepers daughter, and in good faith
the blonde maiden lost her heart as soon
20 the stranger from the city. And there
upon the two precious children without
more ado, are married. The little Rosette
becomes Nine. Bordas
Adieu, Monteux Quickly they are
off All but it is charmingl Free as the
air, fresh as the mountain springs, they
had nothing to do but to love each other
and to sing for daily bread.
The first festival upon which Rosette
sang was the first day of Sainte-Agathe,
the patroness of the Mailanaise remem-
Der it as well as though it were yesterday.
1t was at the Cafe de la Place. The great
room was as full as an egg. Rosette, with
no more fear than a bobolink has when it
perches on a willow, stood straight up at
the end of the room in little alcove
Her bright golden hair fell about her
shoulders ard over her pretty bare arms !;
and at her feet her husband sat playing
the accompaniment upon his guitar
All, but there was an uproar when she
ceased. They were all fellow-countrymen
of hers, The good people of Craveson,
Saint Remy, Eyrague and of Mailanaise
were all there. You did not hear one
crusty critic among them all. There was
only one verdict: "Isn't she lovely.
isn't she gentle, and how she sings She
Is not from far she is from Monteux, YOU
know"
And in truth Rosette did not sing of vul-
gar themes. She sung of her native land,
of her countrys fag-of battle, of liberty,
OF glory-with passion, an ardor, a fire
which made the breasts of men expand
with emotion, and when she had finished
the song she cried, carried away by the
enthusiasm of her own nature, "Vive st.
Gensr
You would have thought the cafe must
be wrecked by the applause that followed
Rosette descended from her place and made
triumphantly the round of the tables and
the big ceppers rained down joyously into
her little basket. Smiling and grateful, as
though she had received 100000 francs,
she ran back and poured her sous into her
husbands guitar, saying: "Take them :;
see if this holds on we will soon be rich
When Nine. B1rias had made the cir
cult of the towns in the vicinity of her
Provcncal home, the desire to try the
larger cities took possession Of her heart.
And there, as in the village, La Monte
laise carried everything before her. She
sung the Polish national athem, a flag in
her hand; and she threw so much of her
soul into her patriotic cries that she made
her hearers tremble with excitement. In
Avignon, Cette, Toulouse, Bordeaux, it was
all the same Everywhere the common
people adored the pretty singer. And then
she said to herself, =" Paris next"
Straightway she is in the capital. 1t is
Paris that makes or breaks the fortune
of singers. But here, even more then else
where, she becomes the popular idol. The
crowds upon the boulevards fairly worship
the fair, fresh face and clear, inspiring
voice.
1t was during the last days of the En-
peror; "the chestnut smoked in the pam"
and Mime. Bordas sang "The Marseillaise."
Never before had she flung out that hymn
with such enthusiasm, with equal frenzy.
The workmen, the paviors from the
streets, believed themselves to see vision,
a resplendent vision of liberty incarnate,
and Tony Revillon said in one of the daily
journals:
She comes to us from her mountains
Where blows the breath of the sea
She knew as a child the spirit
That fills the breast of the free
Beauty and grace immortal
Thou dost the soul enchain;
Eager to follow thy gesture,
We spurn the affairs of gain.
March at the head of our columns,
We follow wherever you go;
For every man is our brother,
And every tyrant our foe.