The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 18??-1935, 1892-11-11
HIS FIRSTS ASHES.

HIS FIRST'S ASHES.
When the wife of Durande, captain in
the One Hundred and Twelfth cuiras-
siers Of the line, died, he was sorely
stricken with sorrow, and would not be
comforted In fact, he had hardly had
time to enjoy his happiness or appre-
ciate his treasure, for they had been
married only a mouth, when she was
taken from him in the midst of their
wedding tour in Italy.
Just about returning to Paris, she fell
i'll in Rome and died of fever, in spite
Of the many physicians called to attend
her and the devoted care of her husband,
who never left her side till she breathed
her last.
Conscious to the end, she bravely
sought to console him.
at was not given to mOrtaIs," she
said, ''to be happy for long. Our JOY
has been too great; 1t could not last.
Do not weep, dearest" she cried; "let
me pass away in peace, without the
memory of your distressed face. Smile;
do not look so sadp' and she raised her
trembling hand and caressingly laid it
ON his cheek.
"You are a soldier" pursued she;
death should have no terrUrs for you.
have loved you only; do me, then, one
last little favor | wish to be near you
always, even in death. l beseech you,
cremate me, then; reduce me to a little
heap of ashes that You can carry always
with you. shall never disturb you.
How strange it seems to call heap of
ashes P-yet SO it will be. You will
sometimes glance at me thus, and can
never entirely forget mel"
Nevertheless when Durande returned
to Paris he was changed man. lie was
thin and haggard; his eyeshad lost their
luster, his step its elastic spring and
confidence.
Courage, courage, my boy!' his colo
mel would say to him.
"Be brave, my friendp repeated his
brother officers.
But joy and brightness had gone out
of Durandes life. The once brilliant
soldier was broken man.
No one on arrival was allowed to
touch his luggage, and he himself, with
care and weeping, drew from his satchel
an artistic little vase that he solemnly
charged his brosseur never on any &C
count to lay hands upon.
"a token of poor madame? the man
ventured to ask.
eyes, a token" Durande responded
before which, the slim Roman urn that
held all that was left of his poor wife's re-
mains, he knelt and wept bitterly when
alone again. At night it stood in full
view upon a cabinet beside his bed, that
his eyes might rest upon it when moi
closed in sleep and by day. When his
leave had expired and he had returned
to duty, he was distract, a stranger to his
comrades, joining i'll none of their pleas
ures or amusements, seeming to live only
in the memory of his lost wife and thai
urn-which might be knocked over.
He had placed her portrait in every
room in his house, and by a strange para
dox of sentiment it was here, among al
these tender reCollectiOns, that he passet
his least miserable hours.
By degrees, through steady cOntem
plation, perhaps, the sight of the Roman
urn produced less painful effect upol
the disconsolate widower, and no longe
caused him the cruel heart pangs of tn
first days of bereavement.
He was now able to picture his dar
ling as she had been in the zenith o
strength and beauty, gay, smiling, charm
ing. Again and again he recalled ant
lived over the moments of that honey
moon journey, and grew happy himsel
in this sweet, posthumous revival o
radiant hours.
When at work the urn stood on hi
writing table, and he thought how il
life and in that bygone time he had writ
ten and poudered and she had sat qui
city beside him reading or sewing tran
GULLY, silently, without disturbing him
Six months passed, heightened to {
wear, and now and then it happened tina
Durande forgot the urn aud left 1t on hi:
table at night instead of carrying 1t t.
his bedroom. Finally he enshrined il
for good on his Office table. Not thai
the memory of his wife was less than al
first. but because in time it was borne
in upon him that funereal deposit like
this was unsanitary, unhealthy In
sleeping room.
Nevertheless every day it was sTr
rounded, as usual, with lilies and roses
his wifes favOrite flowers.
The one year heightened to two, ant
Durande had returned to his bachelor
life.
"'Tis wrong to bury yourself allv'
thus" said his friends and his wlte's re
lations; begin, go into the worl'
again"
Durande yielded, once more went out
freouented the quarters OF his brothe
officers, joined in their jolllfylng' an
actually one evening carried them a.
homo with him to a banquet i'll his ow
npartments. The wine was good, I'll
cbamnagne sparkling, laughter, song
unroar the order Of the night; when I'll
supper ended they all adjourned to ii
,,rivate Office. where the mortuar
shrine stood alone upon the table, sever
and mournful.
Revelry ran riot, in the midst
which Durande suddenly recalled Il
.spresence of the dead" as he was VOL
10 call the urn, caught it up hurriedI
darted from the room and depOsIUou
in an upper chamber, piled with
bachelors litter of old books, boots an
firearms.
Next morning, determined that pr
fanation like that of the previous nlgl
should not happen again, he resolved
turn this lumber room, where he ha
temporarily deposited the precious
mains, into a mortuary chapel, and ga
instant orders for a cathedral windo
and a niche and altar TO be placed
meath it.
There the urn was again enshr1ne
,dt the lilies and roses had given pla'
to immortelles. Some days later, pc
ceiving that these had lost color fro
lack of air and light, Durande had the
changed for garlands of Sevres al
bisoue Of the costliest character, al
thus the urn stood peacefully in ii
calm retreat.
Two years Of widowhood lengthent
ID tl1ree, and Duraude tool qhtQ hlsps.