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YOL. II.
JOHN H. SEALS,} PROP
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, APRIL 7. 1877.
rp XT'"DA/IQ t $3 PER ANNUM
± JliXtlVlOji IN ADVANCE.
NO. %.
(For the Siinnr SouthJ
THE PROMISED LAND.
BT MARIA LOU EVK.
I.
Say wherefore, O youth, with the shining eyes.
Swift roving yonr ekifl', under summer skies,
To the land where Fame, with her signet ring.
Shall meet you and crown you its Lord and King,
Why droopeth your form, and droopeth the oar ?
Or you fairly touch the Lavinian shore,
Where the hopes you sent o'er the deep, like doves,
Are building their nests and wooing their loves
Is the dream so bright, you fear it will break.
And morn, all the gifts of the night, shall take f
n.
Nay, this is the Pisgah, whence I behold
The Promised Land all its glories unfold—
Its arches of triumph, wherever I pass;
Its statues of bronze, and marble, and brass,
To show to the ages what I have done.
But oh I for one spring, only one;
Where my soul could stoop, in its drought, to drink,
I’d give all the glory, for that, I think.
But I'm sad to see, for all I have planned,
1 shall die of thirst, in the Promised Laud.
THE GHOST
— or THE —-
MALMAI SON.
AN EPISODE
OF
FRENCH HISTORY.
Translated from the French for the Suxkt South
BY CHARLES GAILMARD.
[Most of the characters in this story are not fictitious, j
but roal personages who took conspicuous parts in
some of the most important events which occurred dnring
the rebellion of the West of Franco—called ChotuumerU.}
CHAPTER I.
A pleasant Btunmer evening of 1809, on the j
uplands that crown the steep coast of Biville, j
between Treport and Dieppe, the sun empurpled !
with its last rays the crests of the white cliffs j
and the heights of the grand forests of Nor- 1
mandy.
The shadows gradually gathered in the silent j
valleys, while over a farm house, lost in those j
solitudes, a column of smoke went upward to ;
the pale skies.
In presence of this calm and rnstic landscape, j
a well-read man must certainly have recited, in j
an undertone, a celebrated verse of Virgil; but j
in those agitated times in which our century |
was born, the gens tie kttres were not to be found j
enjoying themselves that way, and, after all, the j
Bois-Guillaume farm had really nothing very-
poetic about it. It was only a two-story build
ing between a barn, where they stored hay, and
a stable, where the stock was kept.
Four vigorous boys were thrashing wheat un- j “ Louise, it is time for you to leave. Day will
der a shed; chickens were scattered here and | soon be gone, and it takes an hour to go to the
there, and hogs were wallowing in the yard. j point of Pertly.”
Miss Anna Dickinson.
The door leading to the hall, on the first floor,
"was open, and the oblique rays of the setting
sun fell on two men that could plainly be seen
sitting opposite each other at a long table. A
pitcher of cider and two glasses were in front of
them.
The farmer, smoking his pipe, was standing
under the mantel piece of an immense chimney
in which a fire was burning.
The farmer’s wife, leaning against a shelf co
vered with Rouen crockery, wore one of those
head dresses that one would mistake for a monu
ment erected by the women of the old Armerique
to their ancestors, the conquerors of England.
She was wiping a pewter pitcher and looking at
the drinkers.
And yet there was nothing in that group that
would strike a painter as worthy of note, accord
ing to the taste of the old Holland masters; but
“ I’na going,” simply said the young woman.
She put on the shelf the pitcher she was fur
bishing, unhung a lantern from the wall, took a
black mantle from a wardrobe, and throwing it
over her shoulders, went out without saying an
other word.
“Friend Maneheu, where do you send her?”
said to the farmer the youngest of the two ped
dlers.
“To the coast, to give the agreed signals to the
brig. If he does not see the light, the English
will not land any one.”
“And as he has been cruising within cannon
shot of land ever since this morning, he must
be anxious to get rid of his passenger and sail
back to Deal or Hastings. I understand that.
But we have at least two hours before night sets
in dark enough, and why send in advance
your charming wife—for Mrs. Maneheu is really
still not one of those faoes was insignificant, j charming—why make her participate at all in
The farmer, for instance, seemed to be more of I an expedition that may end in gun shots? ”
“The gun shots, if any, will take place at
a partisan than a peaceable cultivator. He was
young, but bis thick eye-brows, deep black
eyes, sunburnt face and dark pysiognomy made
him look ten years oldei than he really was. He
wore an old style hunting vest, red sash and
velvet pants, with long fawn-colored leather
gaiters. The whole of his costume had a certain
military aspect that was admirably adapted to
his bold, angular and hard features.
The wife was the very reverse of this fierce-
looking man. A plump face, lit up by two blue
eyes, at once soft and penetrating. She was tall,
and the fulness of her form, and rosy tinge of
her whits skin attested plainly her Norman ori
gin. She belonged to that race of strong and
valiant plowmen-soldiers made to conquer aad
cultivate the earth. Her sunburnt face was
I’anse de Biville, where we go ourselves to help
the friends climbing by the cable hung along
the cliffi The point of Penly, where I sent my
wife, is three miles ofl to the left, towards
Dieppe, and it is always there that we hoist the
beacon. It is understood with the captain of
the brig, and, anyhow, a woman is never sus
pected, and should the gendarmes meet Louise,
they would not mind her.”
“Do the gendarmes come often this way?”
“ Some patrol now and then during the day,
but never at night. They prefer to sleep in
their beds than to tramp on these waste lands.
But I have no time to be talking. I shall send
my threshers away and go to see if the cable is
safely fastened. You have no further use of me,
much freckled, and her arias, that her rolled-up ] I suppose?”
sleeves left bare to the elbow, seemed strong j “No; I know the way to the cliff, and I know
enough to handle a musket or a plow. But this I'anse de Biville as I know the galeries du Palais
Royal. ”
“ Then good-bye, gentlemen. I will wait for
rustic and masculine aspect was tempered by
the charm of her clear look, hightened by the
dignity of her attitude. She was dressed like a you yonder among the furze.”
well-to-do farmer's wife, and the solid-gold cross
snspended at her neck testified sufficiently to
the financial prosperity of the farmer.
As to the men seated at the table, they were
two peddlers of such as go from village to vil
lage, selling calico, thread, needles and alma
nacs.
One, slender, good-looking, and apparently
CHAPTER II.
As soon as Maneheu was gone out of sight,
the elder of the two peddlers said to the other:
‘‘So you are sure teat Georges Cadoudal will
land to-night ?”
“ Perfectly sure. He wrote to me that Capt.
Wright would land him some time between the
very young; the other, about fifty years old, and j 19th and 21st of August To-day is the 21st,
heavily built. His stolid ways and impassible j and the brig is in sight Georges commanded
features contrasted with the elegant manners j me to meet him here with our most reliable
and graceful face of his companion. j friends, in case it became necessary to contend
They both seemed to be the best of friends, i with Messieurs les gendarmes, and I arrived yes-
und always fraternally struck their bumpers be- ' terday at the farm. That did not suit me ex-
fore drinking. | actly, for I have a fine time in Paris. You have
The farmer’s wife was observing them; but in- j no idea how gay it is there now. It is almost as
stead of fixing her regard on the face that express-| pleasant as in the old time of the Directoire.
ed youth, frank gayety and thoughtless audacity, But duty before all; and besides, you know,
die looked with preierence on the stolid phys- | there is no joking with Georges about the serv-
■ognorny that told of a stern resolution and a ! ice of the king. Moreover, he says in his letter
haughty sadness. Her eyes were riveted on him, j that we have at our trail a spy that might come
aid one would have been led to believe that a j around here. It appears that he is an old bush-
fiseinating power was exercised by that stalwart i whacker, and he has in his possession some of
aid severe man. * j our secrets. If he fails iDto my hands, his ac-
Probably the farmer had noticed it, for he j count shall soon be settled. I have very plain
tojk his pipe out of his mouth and said, in a j orders about him, and they are iar from being
haish tone: i mild.
peddler’s bag on my back and arrived here
twenty-four hours after you.”
“You were right to come, by Jove! and
Georges will have an agreeable surprise in see
ing again so brave a comrade.”
“I have not seen him since our last campaign
in Morbihan, and haye many things to tell
him.”
“You shall tell him to-night. But since you
No ! I acknowledge that the names in
scribed on that paper are mine. I acknowledge
nothing more.”
The brilliant cavalier, who was the most beau
tiful, most elegant, and at the same time, the
most dashing of all officers under Georges Ca
doudal—Jean Coster de Saint-Victor, the con
spirator, known in Paris for the last six months
as the citizen Charles Valreas—looked with in
dignation and pity on the old veteran of the
| Royal party, whom hazard had shown to be
‘ a traitor.
“You are not aware,” said he, slowly, “that
Georges did not only send me that order, bat
minutely explained it in his letter.”
“Ah! and what did he apprise you of?”
“He wrote to me that, after having been faith
ful to our cause, you pretended, last year,
0 that some business kept you in Paris, instead of
live in Paris now, I am just thinking how it is j going to London to join our commander and
I never met yon there. True, you rarely go to i the princes.”
the ball rooms, and I stood a poor chance ofl “’Tistrue, I refused to emigrate as I had al-
having you for vis-a-vis at Tiyoli. Bet you never ready refused in 1792. I thought, and I still
were there? Well, my dear friend, it is the think, that the king must he served in France.”
most delicious of gardens, and the women are “Very well; bnt Georges says that instead of
ravishingly beautiful. ” serving him in Paris, Flenr-de-Rose was a traitor,
“ My dear Saint-Victor, will you always be i and sold our secret to the police of the Premier
the same man?” said Liardot, smiling sadly, j Consul.”
“ What proves it ?” quickly asked Liardot.
“What proves it ? Why, is it true er not that
“ No; not by a great deal, old fellow. Jean j Jacques Sonrdat holds a situation in an office?”
Baptiste Coster de Saint Victor, whom you know “It is true. I told you so myself just now."
to be a dandy ia 1797, has become now the citi- “ Yes; but what you did not say, and still I
zen Charles Valreas, living off his income.” know, because Georges wrote it to me,is that your
“So much the better. I, too, have changed ■ employment was given you by Fouche; that you
my name and situation. I hold a place in an | received wages from that apostate and regicide,
office, and they call me Jacques Sourdat.” ! who is now the spy and valet of Bonaparte.
“Sourdat! You say that your name is Sour- j Come, defend yourself. Answer something.”
dat?” j “I have no answer to give, and I disdain to
“Yes. And what is there so extraordinary defend myself.”
about it?” I “Then it is the truth! You, who in former
The young man looked fixedly at his compan-1 days have sacrificed yonr fortune and risked
ion, and said, with emotion: * ' your life conspiring against the Directoire; you,
“ When you served in Bretagne under Georges who afterwards fought bravely side by side with
“ Do. you think you live yet in the time of the
collets noire and the perraqaes blondes ?"
did you not have also a nom de guerre ?”
“Yes, as had all our comrades.”
“And that name was ”
“ Flenr-de-Rose. Did you not know it?"
Saint-Victor turned pale, and made a move
ment to rise.
“What ails you?” asked Liardot
‘‘Here! read !” answered the ex-dandy, tak
ing a paper from his vest pocket.
Liardot took it, calmly unfolded it, and read,
in a steady voice:
“ Order to be shot immediately on the spot.
Georges during the hardest years of the chouan-
nerie—you have lowered yourself to this degra
dation ! Ah 1 ’tis too ignoble, and I still refuse
to believe in so much infamy ! ”
“So,’’said Liardot, always impassible, “Ca
doudal declares me a traitor simply because I
hold a situation as scribe at Senator Fouche’s,
who is no longer minister of police, since he
was discharged last year by Bonaparte. Is it
for that fact only that he accuses me ?”
"No, sir,” said Saint-Victor, indignantly.
“GeorgeB has against you more conclusive facts.
wherever found, the man who calls himself He has ascertained that, knowing our secret way
Jacques Sourdat, and who formerly served in of landing here at Biville, you would not fail to
the Royal Army under the name of Pleur-de- he here in disguise to act as guide to the agents
Rose.” who have charge of capturing him. And he did
“It is signed ‘Georges Cadoudal, General not mistake, either, since I meet yon here dis-
Lieutenant for His Majesty, Louis XVIII,’ and I guisad as a peddler at the very hour he is to
recognize the hand-writing,” said Liardot, cold- land. Your accomplices, the hired assassins
ly. “This order is formal, my dtar comrade.” of Fouche, are no doubt ambushed somewhere
“ Yes, that order is formal; I only know it too
well,” said the young man, who no longer tried
to conceal his violent emotion. “ Is it really yon
it applies to ?”
“I could deny it, since you have not my de
scription ; hut my life is not worth a lie. It is
I who, in 1797, was known in the Royal Army as
“But, my dear Liardot, let us speak of your
self, old friend. Indeed, after six years without
seeing you, I did not expect to meet you on this
coast of Normandy, and to work with you to-
Dight like of old, under the reign of that good
Mr. Barras. Upon my word, I have more pleas
ure in meeting you again than in admiring the , .. ...
charming Madame Tallien, whom I danced with j Fleur-de-Rose; it is I whom they call now in
last week at Ranelagh. So Georges has written I Paris Jacques Sourdat.”
to you to come to Biville too, and you are one I “So you acknowledge you are a traitor?”
of us, are you?”
“I am yours as I have always been and
will ever he,” said Liardot; “but Georges did
not write to me. I learned from one ef our
friends in London that Georges Cadoudal was
to land, and I had reasons to believe that I
might be of service to him here. I know all
our stations and lodgings from Paris to the farm
of Bois-Guillaume, and I was aware that the
peddlers’ costume was not suspected, so I put a
! on the coast, only waiting for you to take us all
j at one haul. I’m going to see to it. By heav
ens ! I swear you 6hall never communicate with
your friends.”
“I really believe,” replied the old bushwhack
er, with his same calmness, “that a detachment
of gendarmerie d'elite was recently sent from Paris
to watch the surroundings of Dieppe.”
“You acknowledge it. This is the very height
of impudence. Why don’t you add that you
came to help them perform their task ?”
i “ Or to keep them from accomplishing it. I
see, in fact, but these two hypotheses."
This brief and clear answer startled Saint-
Victor, and caused him very probably to change
his tone.
“Liardot,” said he, after a short pause, look
ing his old companion squarely in the face, "we
, have known each other for the last tei^ years,
and I have always thought you the noblest and
most generous of men. Appearances are against
yon, as is also your own acknowledgment But
yet I cannot believe you to be a traitor. Maybe
there are some extenuating facts that may excuse
your actions. Present them and justify your
self; I am disposed to listen to and admit
them.”
“ You forget that you have not such a right.
The order is formal: to shoot immediately on the
spot."
“ I know it; and I know, too, that it may
cost me dearly not to have executed it to the
letter; but it shall not be said that I did not try
by all possible means to save yon from an infa
mous death. And I must own that my heart is
shocked at the thought of giving orders for
shooting a brother in arms, a friend—for you
have been a friend, Liardot, and you would be
my friend yet if you would only justify your
self from that horrible accusation.” For the first
time since the beginning of this terrible dia
logue, the brazen face of the old conspirator be
came clouded. His eyes partly closed, and
Saint-Victor thought he perceived a tear falling
on his cheek.
“Liardot, it is time yet to explain,” said he
warmly. “ Tell me why you entered Fouche’fl
service; tell me why you are here now. You
must have had some good reasons for it—reasons
that I cannot fathom; for a loyal soldier as yon
have been does not sell his honor for a miserable
sum of money.”
“I thank you, Saint-Victor, for doubting yet,
while the facts are seemingly against me. I
had indeed powerful motives for actiDg as I
did.”
“ Confide them to me, and I pledge yon my
word of honor that I will take upon myself to
defer the execution.”
“To Georges alone can I confide them; he
alone must know the motives of my conduoL
By divulging them even to you I would injure
our cause.”
“ Unfortunate man, this subterfuge you in
vent is equal to an avowal. Do you believe me
so simple as not to understand that, if you are a
traitor, it is to-night that you will give us away ?
To let you live till Georges gets ashore, would
be to give you time to apprise your accomplices,
the gendarmes d'elite, as you call them.”
‘‘Your reasoning is just, and I cannot object,’
said Liardot
He then placed his elbows on the table, and
burying his head between his hands, he became
absorbed in an inexplicable reverie.
There was a long silence. Saint Victor was
exceedingly agitated, and the contracted nerves
of his face told of the terrible anguish of his soul.
At last, the old partisan raised his forehead,
on which age and passions had left many a deep
wrinkle.
“Time is flying,” he said coldly; “they are
waiting for you on the cliff. What do you in
tend to do with me ?”
“Listen,” said the young man, and his voice
trembled against his will; “I am now certain
that you are a traitor; but we have fought side
by side and eaten together the bitter bread of
proscription; and then—I think you must have
given way to some irresistible temptation, some—
I don’t know—maybe—a fatal passion for a
woman ”
“I have long since ceased to love !” answered
Liardot bitterly.
“Whatever might be the cause that led you
to such a crime, I am pleased to think that there
is yet in your inmost heart a feeling of honor.
Be your own judge. If you were in my place
and* I in yours, what would you do ?”
“I would fulfill Cadoudal’s order,” answered
the accused man without hesitating. “Passive
obedience is the first duty of a soldier.”
Saint-Victor’s face became pallid at this heroic
answer.
“You know,” said he, with difficulty, “that
the hour has come. ”
“ I know it, and I am ready. Where are your
men ?"
“Five hundred paces hence on the road to
Biville; at the bottom of an old abandoned
quarry.”
“ ’Tis well. The place will be good to shoot
me; the rocky sides will deaden the sound, and
it is important that the detonations be not heard
by those who may be just now scouting around
this farm.”
“So you refuse to save your life in telling
your ”
“ I refuse. Is there among yonr men any of
those who served with me ?”
“ There is Burban.”
“ Whom in Bretagne we called Malabry ?”
“ There is Deville, too.”
“Whose nom de guerre was Tamerlan, is it
not ? He had left the seminary for the regiment
at the last call for volunteers from Morbihan.”
Saint-Victor nodded affirmatively.
“ I saved the life of both at the battle of Fow-
geres,” answered Liardot. “They must not
reeognize me. But night will soon come, and
anyhow I will pull my hat over my eyes. It is
time,” added he. rising hurriedly.
“ Once more, will you speak ? I assure you 2
only wish a pretense to grant yonr pardon.”
“Pardon to me? I would rather die than
to accept it. After all, I was destined to end
that way,” said he, speaking to himself in an
undertone, and bending under the weight of
some sad remembrance. Then, straightening
himself proudly, “Let us be off,” said he
firm voice.”
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