Custer weekly chronicle. [volume] (Custer City, S.D.) 1890-1931, 1890-07-05

now all the gates Of the city were opened,
and the world came TO see the work of des.
truction. English, Americans, foreigners
Of ali kinds went about looking at the ruins,
as at Pompeii or H~eTculaneum, criticising,
examining, somewhat disappointed that the
havoc was not more universal.
On the 7th Of June came the funeral pro-
cession of Monsignor Darboy, the third
Archbishop OF Paris murdered within a
quarter Of a century. Under a gray and
sunless sky the car with its long train of
mourners, soldiers, people, solemnly, siloat-
ly defled along the quays, past tue still
sm~oulderlng ruins of palaces and mansions.
No roll Of drums, no funeral music broke
that awful silence; only the rhythmical
tread OF the soldiers, the hollow rumble Of
gun-carriages. In the d~Anbness OF abroken-
hearted city, a city reeklng with blood new
ly shed, the martyr was carried TO his tomb
In the great cathedral-last stage of q jour
ney that had known 50 many dismal halt
ing-places-from prison 10 prison, and then
to the common grave at Pere Lachaise, from
there to the bed Of state in the archlepisco-
pal palace, and now to the final resting
place among the historic dead.
In the Rue Git lie Ceur life had resumed
NC Hoyf OaNO " OAip Imply BAetNNs
Rose was again astir, the careful manager,
the attentive wife, nursing her baby, busy
with her domestic work, cleaning, cooking,
keeping the little apartment as neat and
bright as palace. There were flowers on
the window-sill again, a bunci of flowers
on the table at which Philip wrote or read,
a bouquet of lilies Of tie valley. pure, spot
less, telling no tale of n ruined city, a hui
miliatad and I'm pnyarie,ad nation Within
by the domestic hearth, all was peace.
Philips arm was slowly mending. lie was
able even TO work a little at the famous
carved sidebosrd in his workshop, or to
bring one of the panels into his wife's sit
tlng-room, to sit there by the open window,
| chiselling a group OF fruit, bird or fish, and
whistllng softly 20 himself as he worked,
while Rose sat In her rocking chair Groom
ing 10 her sleeping babe.
And Kathleen, the widowed, the heart
broken, what wa her life in these days OF
restored peace? She was very quiet. She
bore her sorrow with a silent resignation
which W as more pathetic than loud wailing:
or passionate tears. But Rose would have
liked better TO see her weep more. That
bloodless face, those fixed and hollow eyes
that slow and heavy step--the step which
| hdh OiN DttH 81 llkut dllu SNlli hpOu AiN
stair-those long intervals of silence and
apathy, were not these the indications of a
broken heart?
Rose Durand did all in her power to com
fort the mOuTner. She tried 10 persuade heI
sister 10 surrender the apartment on the up
per story, and TO occupy a little room of
Philips workshop; q mere closet; but Rose
could furnish 1t, and make IL a pretty nest
for her darling; and then Kathleen would
be her child again, always under her watch
full care. She would share all their meals,
live with them altogether; and the company
of the little one, who showed himself full OF
intelligence, would soothe and amrse her.
You are very good, DEAR answered
Kathleen meekly, when this scheme was
pressed upon her; 'yOu and Philip have
been all goodness TO me. But | like 10 live
alone, just now. ! am not fit company fol
any one. And again, if-if-" with a pro
found sigh, "if-he should come back, and
fine his rooms altered, his books disturbed
it would seem as II | had not really loved
him."
Rose was silent. Till this moment she
had supposed that Kathleen was absolutely
convinced of her husbands death, that the
black gown she wore was the sign OF hope
less widowhood; but these words told of a
lingering hope, and after this Rose no long
er urged her sister to give up the apartment
1t was better she should go on hoping until
the thin thread Of hope wore out, than thai
she should sink all at once into the gulf OF
an absolute despair. Better, too, that she
| should nave the daily occupation OF arTang
ing her rooms, busting Gaston's books,
opening a volume now and then and look
ing at a page, as II IL held his own words
There were pages of Musset's poetry which
seemed TO speak TO her with her husband:
voice, so often had he read the lines to hel
in their brief married life. She knew al
his books, and knew the measure of his love
for each.