Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1893-12-14

himself as he worked while Rose Sa
in her rocking chair grooming to hel
sleeping babe.
And Kathleen, the widowed. the
heart broken, what was her life in
these days of restored peace: She was
VERY quiet. She bore her sorrow with
la silent resignation which was more
pathetic than loud wailings or passion
ate tears. But Rose would have liked
better to see her weep more That
lbloodleSs face, those fixed and hollow
eyes, that slow and heavy step-the
step which had once been so light
and swift upon the Stair-thOse long
intervals of silence and apathy. We're
not these the indications of broken
theart?
Rose Durand did all in her power
10 comfort the mourner. She tried to
persuade her sister to surrender the
apartment on the upper story, and to
occupy little room off Philips work
shop; a mere closet; but Rose could
furnish it, and make it a pretty nest
| for her darling; and then Kathleen
would be her child again, always under
all their meals, live with them alto
gether and the company of the little
one, who showed himself full of in
/ telligence, would soothe and amuse
her.
! You are very good, dear" answer
ed Kathleen meekly, when this scheme
was pressed upon her; you and Philip
have been all goodness TO me. But
| like to live alone, just now [ am not
fit company for any one. And again,
if-if-" with a profound sigh-"if-
he should come back, and find his
rooms altered, his books disturbed
it would seem as if | had not really
loved him"
Rose was silent Till this moment
absolutely convinced of her husbands
death, that the black gown she wore
was the sign of hopeless widowhood:
but these words told of Il lingering
hope, and after this Rose no longer
urged her sister to give up the apart
ment. 1t was better she should go on
hoping until the thin thread of hope
wore out, than that she should sink
all at once into the gulf of an absolute
despair. Better. too, that she should
have the daily occupation of arranging
her rooms, busting GaStOnS books,
opening a volume now and then and
looking at a page, as if it held his own
words. There were pages of Musset's
poetry which seemed to speak to her
with her husbands voice, so often
had he read the lines to her in their
brief married life She knew all his
books, and knew the measure of his
love for each.
Every morning she put a little bunch
of flowers on his writing table by the
window. And yet in her heart of
hearts she was convinced that he was
dead, and that it was his blood she
had seen staining the dusty ground in
the street off the Avenue d'Italie. And
then when this work of busting, polish
ing, and arranging everything was
done, work over which she fingered
lovingly, she would put on her little
black bonnet, with a thick Grape veil
over her face, and go out and wander
about the streets and the Quays, and
loiter on the bridges, hearing all that
could be heard Of the public news.
People respected that black gown and
bonnet, and the thick mourning veil.
She was recognized as one of the
many nourners who had been left be-
hind after the awful tide of blood and
fire had rolled over Paris. Lonely as
she was, young, beautiful, no one mo-
Tested her. She went from place to
place, secure in the majesty of her
deSolatiOn.
She saw the long files of insurgent
prisoners led along the streets, fasten-
ed together by their elbows, with
lowered heads, still fierce and shud-
dering from the bloody battle guarded
by Gordon of soldiers. She saw the
exasperated crowd f1inging itself say
agely upon these victims of their lead
er's folly. trying to break through the
Gordon of soldiers, the women more
furious than the men, striking at the
prisoners with their umbrellas, crying,
Death to the assassins! To the fire
with the incendiaries"
When some poor painting wretch,
exhausted by fatigue, tottered and fell,
and was picked up by the gendarmes
and put in one of the vehicles of relief
which followed the convoy, there was
a howl of fury from the mob:
mo, no." they cried, 'shoot him on
the spot!'
And as the dismal train passed
through the villages, on the quiet
country roads, there was the same
chorus of insults and excavations, a
torture that knew no cessation till the
prisoners reached the camp at Satory,
where they had the naked earth for
their bed, and the sky for their shell
ter. Perhaps some among these pill
grims of the chain may have assisted
in that other procession on the 9th
of May, when Emile Co.'s and his
myrmidons drove the priests and gen
darmes to the place Of butchery in
the Rue HaXo.
! The day of reprisals had come, and
the day was bitter. And the cry of
Paris is like the voice of the daughter
of Zion that bewaileth herself. that
spreadeth her hands, saying, Woe is
me now, for my soul is Wearied be-
cause of murderers!'
In all her wanderings, those loiterings
under the lines and the naples, on
the boulevard, or on a bench in the
Champs E1ysees, where the old air
of gaiety began once more to enliYen