Waterbury evening Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1887-1895, 1893-12-12

81 do not understand, sir"
Pardon me, lady, or l am told
should say 'citizenessr All. me, how
things are changed for me as for
France" Here he heaved deep sigh
and threw himself with picturesque
grace upon rustic bench.
Then the whisper began to grow and
grow that this was returned emigre,
and from henceforth his personal dig
nifty, his noble bearing and his lofty as
pect generally became in Charmont-Sur
Point almost articles of religion.
AT first with some diffidence, but aft
erward with larger measure of freedom,
as they recognized that he was not I'M
approachable, one and all began to prof
fer their services. He was tired, he was
hungry, he had come far and was in
need of rest. He must allow some one
to be his host. Anything that could be
done for him would be privilege for
them all-so ran the expression of the
hospitality in the old world fashion of
these simple people.
The stranger received the proffered
hospitality in silence, whereupon it was
Straightway doubled. Then one began
TO vie with the other in pressing on kim
TO stay. putting forward the most tempt
ing opportunities of repose.
The willy vagabond listened carefully,
although he did not seem 10 notice. He
observed, however. that the general
strain of invitation was in the direction
of certain Farmer Beaumont, whom by
chance reference he found TO be the
father of the pretty girl to whom he had
spoken.
His r,iDJ N,-uS SOON y,a,la mn md ,-isi,,,r
to his feet he made n graceful bow and
said TO the little crowd with an air of in
finite Condescensiun:
My good friends, one and all, thank
You. | have been SO long stranger to
the sweet entertainments of the tender
/ hospitality OF our dear France that did
not realize at the first the genuine kind
ness of Your welcome. Let me now
atone Let me put on record my sincere
opinion that the jewel which | sought in
vain in the court of France and among
| the noblest courts of Europe have found
here enshrincd in this loveliest casket of
natures own devising. But enough of
this. The wayworn stranger thanks
| you from the bottom of his weary heart.
| Ny friends. do not seek to know Your
affairs-Tay. do not even know Your
names. I'm content TO receive you as
| you are. without guarantee of any sort
or kind. You are honest. like myself.
You are perhaps, some of You, in trouble
and have suffered even rs | have myself.
| You ask no questions. l ask no Ques-
| tions. We are from henceforth friends,
and as such l mingle with You freely.
Here and hereafter am n simple citizen
of Charmont-sur-Pont.
No better instance could be given Of
the absolute guilelessness of these simple
folk than the fact that they received in
faith and with gratitude this appalling
piece of sheer impudcnce. They all
| made low bows or Courtesies and re-
| joiced i'll their hearts and on their coun-
tenances.
| Presently he said:
The night comes On. and must stay
somewhere. You mentioned the name,
think. if my memory served me right
of one Beaumont. at whose house you
thought it we'll that should rest. Is he
here, or shall some of you conduct me to
him."
This speech settled the matter. Not
only had he deity quartered himself IL
the most desirable spot in the village AMI
by tho public desire. but no had in an in
direct way by renewing the matter of his
accommodation himself given n gentle
reproof for their tardiness. How could
any ono after this venture to ask him
any questions, although all were burn
ing with curiosity to know something OF
him? As yot they did not know even hi:
name.
So 1t was that the stranger became in
stalled in tho best house in the village q:
an houored guest. Farmer Beaumont
made much of him, producing for hi
benefit the best wine he had, while hi
wife and their daughter-an only chile
now, for the boy and girl who had pre-
ceded her had both died young-prepare,
a tasty supper and spread for his bed thei
finest sheets.
The supper and the wine. especial,
the latter, seemed to thaw the stranger
reserve, for without being asked he tol,
them his name, doing it in such man
ner that he seemed to be comforting ia
vor.
"You will doubtless, my good friends
like to know my name Well, man. IL
matter who he may be. must not be
churl to those who have taken him t
their hearts,
Here Marie blushed and turned ava,
her head.
You may call me-remembcr that
say it freely-you may call me Robert
Robert what or Robert who:" aske,
the farmer.
Easy, my good friend! Such know
edge might be of inestimable value. Blu
why, say again, should scruplo to tel
even such a thing to one who for augh
any of us can tell may some day be clos
to my heart, throughsome one he loves
, even as feel l am Close to his and to tn
, hearts of those dear TO him.
, Here the farmer scratched his head
/ His wife settled her cap strings, an
Marie again turned away her head.
, The stranger went on:
The name you long so eagerly to hea
is none other than the proud name G
, Macaire!"
! AS he spoke it he threw himself bac
: in his chair with an ineffable air of to,
, Grafton at their surprise on hearing sue
n name, quite regardless of the fac
, that not one of those present, from tn
, farmer himself down to the half Sill
, cousin who sat hugging himself in tn
: chimney corner. manifested the slightes
= or faintest measure of surprise, interes
/ or any kindred emotion. Nevertheless
l the effect was just what he had calcu
lated on, for seeing him expecting to Sc
surprise they all tried to exhibit som
; and blamed themselves for their own ie
: norance in not knowing the name, whic
. thus gained vastly in Importance.
1t was only natural that when th
i next day the Beaumont family imparte
A the secret of the strangers name, wit
0 yarions degrees of confidence. The