Omaha daily bee., 1888-05-06
LA MONTELAISE.
And the Last Song Sung in the
Tuileries.
mdcpendent.

L.
Once upon a time, at Monteux, which
is the natal place of the good ST. Gems,
and also OF Saboly, the poet Of Christ
mas time, there lived a 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 we'll hammered and sang
parish put her at the head of the choir
in the little country church. For the
feast OF ST. Gems, the great holiday OF
the year at MonteuX, the father of little
Rose hired a singer to add to the attrac-
tions of his cafe:
The singer, who was Young, straight
way falls in love with the pretty face Of
the cafe-keeper's daughter, and in good
faith the blonde maiden lost her heart
as soon to the stranger from the city.
And thereupon the two precious chill
dren, without more ado, are married.
The little Rosette becomes Nine
Bordas.
Adieu, Monteux! Quickly they arc
off. All, but it is charming! 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. l re-
member it all as we'll 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 u bobolink when it perches on q
willow, stood straight up at the end of
the room in a little alcove. Her bright
golden hair fell about her shoulders and
npar how. prattv hn,a o,pnc anl nf har
feet her husband sat playing the accom-
paniment upon his guitar.
All, but there was an uproar when
she ceased. They were all fellow coun-
trymen of hers. The good people OF
Craveson, Saint Remy, Eraygue and
Mailanaise were all there. Yon did
not heal one crusty critic among them
all. There was only one verdict.
isn't she lovely, isn't she gentle, and
how she sings! She isnot from far: she
is from Monteux, you know"
And in truth Rosette did not sing OF
vulgar themes. She sang of her native
land, of her country's iag-of battle, of
liberty, of glory-with a passion, an
ardor, a fire, which made the breasts of
men expand with emotion, and when
she finished the songs she cried, car
ried away by the enthusiasm OF her own
nature. "Vlve st. Gens!"
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 coppers
rained down joyOusly INTO her little
basket. Smiling and grateful as though
she had received 1O0, 600 francs, she ran
back and poured her sous into her hus-
bands guitar. saying: ''Take them; see!
if this holds on we will soon be rich.
When Nine. Bordas had made the
circuit of the towns in the vicinity OF
her P%rovencal home, the desire to try
the larger cities took possession of her
heart. And there, as in the village, La
Montelaise carried eversthing before
her. She sung the Polish national an
them, 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 adore
the pretty singer. And then she said
to herself, paris next"
Straightway she was in the capital.
1t is Paris that makes or breaks the for
June of singers. But here, even more
than elsewhere, she becomes the popu-
lar idol. The crowds upon the boule-
wards falrly worship the falr, 1resh race
and clear, inspiring voice.
1t was during the last days of the
emperor, ''the chestnut smoked in the
PAN" and Nine. Bordas sang The
Marseillaise." Never before had she
flung out that hymn with such enthusi-
asm, with equal frenzy.
The workmen, the payiors from
the : streets, believed themselves to
see a vision, a Respondent vision OF
liberty incarnate and Tony Revlllon
said in n 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 goi
For every man is our brother,
And every tyrant our foe.
III