Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1895-04-12

Hldttn lNlb III lile DlN.
"ThunGcr of brndczingucm he cried,
letting loose his favorite oath. "Hcrc /
ann fixed; IL my fire or lamp should SO out
again, shall have to spend the night re-
suScitniing he convict. And five FIGHTS
of stair, to go down and climb first of all
for the matches. Well, no; will go and
ask II few of my nciglibor."
Tho ncghbor was Mother Matthew, q
poor old woman whose daughter, recently
deserted by her husband, had died u few
months before. leaving a little boy. The
little fellow was D months old, and his
grandmother, II scanistrcss, raised him on
the bottle. Great misery there was in tbs
den. The romanccr who was n kindly
man. had come here sometimes and lcf. his
frame piece, although he had not enough
for himself
Bon soir. Mother Matthew. Can you
give M II few match"s:" He stopped on
the threshold, spccchlcss. BY the light
of a candle end the old woman was bent
over, rolling and tying up her only mat
trCSS.
Near the mean bcdstead of redwood the
,hild slept in wicker cradle
"Ah, Mother Mathicul What are you
doing:'
you can see for Yourself, Monsieur
Nignol. replied the old woman. whimrcr-
ing. Il am going to carry this TO the
mont de pict" and | must hurry, for it
closes at s. They will give me 10 francs
anyway Ii l., gond enough wool"
"Whit, your only Mattress"
IL must You soc, my Youngest sister,
a widow like Inc. she does houNcwork and
now she's sick Gbnd, and he hospital
wont take care of her for they ny il :
chronic disease; so must help Ter u bit
She has been 80 good to me. | can sleep
on the straw IL few days. | won die of it.
hope to redeem it ON the 18th. when |
draw my quar- ~ What troubles me is the
boy. 1t will me- at least an hour to 80
to the mont dc Iicte and 10 my sister. l
usually leave him with the janitrcsS.
good woman she is. Tonight they Lave
family dinner, and they are only now at
dessert.
Jean Nignol's good dog eyes were fun OF
tears.
Nothing of that kind, Mother Mathiru.
Leave your hc,iding | have still 10 francs
Here are 10 francs for your sister. As for
the mite here bring him in to me. He is
sleeping like the blessed, and he won't
prevent my working. If he begins to
make music, very we'll. 1t is not so bad
to rock him and give him bit to drink
How pleased is the old woman! All,
my good, kind Monsieur Nignol!" The
cradle is placed near the romancrr's writ
ing table, and Mother Matthew retircs.
mumbling bcncdictionS. And left alone
with the babe, the writer laughed softly in
his great beard. Here l am, Il dry nurse"
Quito chccfrd up by this good deed he
seated himself under the lamp and raised
his pen, for he must not forget that tomor-
row morning he is obliged to send his
sheets to press.
The whole story is modified by the res
direction of Bouffc TouiourS, but this
evening he i in a story telling vein. His
convict, who had been pitched from the
Tour Eitfcl by an elegant scoundrcl. a Wis
count, descendant of the crusaders and
member of the Jockey club caught an iron
bar in his ilight and climbed down to the
quay with tho agility of an ape. The day
after tomorrow h. will stab three police
men. Ii i to he hoped that the sub
scriber' Will feel some emotion.
All at once the infant began to whmpcr
Amused M his new duties, Jean Nignol
took tie bottle, fed him, not awswardly for
beginner, thrn rocked the cradle, and
the child Slept again.
But the writer of romance does not re-
turn to his table JIc stays Tcn,iycly
looking at tie poor little being. Wi its
head deep in the pillow, clinching its tiny
fists on its breast.
Cradles Babies, Had he, Jean Vignol
not made use of them often enough in his
absurd novels? How stupid he thinks
them now. all these impossible tales of
children stolen and changed one for an
other. A child Here was one, an orphan,
"A son of misery. What will become of lin?
His gIandnoth her is aged, worn with toll
and p1vntiOn. She will not go much far
thcr. Then he will become one of those
poor little wrctchcS whom the public as
sistance raises by thousands and who go to
the bad oftcnc.t. 1t is among them that
the army of cVildocgs recruit, itself fu-
ture convicts tlc>c-the true ones.
Jean Nignol falls into "a mOurnful rev
erie. The poet that he dreamed of being
when hc was young Is not altogether dead
Meanwhile the door opens. Ii is MolEcr
Matthew returning, brcaihlcss. Oh, how
tired and decrVpit she is, and what sor-
rowful face, with its thousand wrinkles.
framed in black hair. Tie good man sue
cUmbcd To the desire which had torment
ed him fer several minutes.
"LiS'cn. Mother Mnihicu ! have been
thinking during your absence. Wien my
mother was hcrc earned enough for two
/ Ntlii L Will l.lht YOU Win me II You VIII
come. You viii do the housekeeping, and
l will help You raisr the child"
This is not all. Jean Nignol's generous
conduct turned out advantageously for
him. He continued, of course to serve
the same tIilleS to his especial public
However, in his last novel, THE Orphan
of Bcllevillc," there is something indie
scribable, not to be found in his others.
which makes the people cry. The circula-
tion of The Petit Prolctaire mounted ND,
and from that time the writer has had his
sous IA line. The work has even been
produced in several provincial papers, and
the other day, when Jean Nignol drew his
order on the People of Letters society, he
knew the only real joy of his literary life
The most famous, the first novelist of
his time, touched him on the shoulder in
front of the wicket "Tcll me, Monsieur
NignOl, l have read several of your stories
these past days, and have found very
good things in thcm-very sincere, very
true-about children"
The poor man blushcd To the ears
"Thank you, said he, stammering with