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A Story of the Trench Commune.
BY EVELYN JEKEOLD.
CHAPTER X.
TWO LOVE KNOTS UNTIED.
The social adventurer’s existence is ruled and
ordered by a securer system of laws than those
of the Toulon galleys.
Chcinent’s was held on a tenure that compel!'
ed him to rigidly obey, and even forestall if
possible, every floating fashion of the day.
So, when the bellicose fever seized upon the
circles he frequented, after the first few disas
trous telegrams from the seat of war, he was
•apparently one of the first to be smitten. He
gave out that he intended to enlist at Chalons,
left Paris amid a chorus of encouragements and
retired to Switzerland to watch the course of
•events.
When the news of the final Titanic catastro
phe at Sedan reached him, he wanted a few
•days to learn whether the calamity was as great
•as the first rumors represented it to be; he
heard of the pacific revolution in Paris, of the
inevitable seige to be suffered, and then hasten
ed back to the capital, with hts arm in a sling,
and stories of adventures under the walls of
Sedan. The fiction was plausible, well put to
gether, and modestly recounted. It succeeded ;
and De Boisrobert saw his popularity increased
threefold by his audacious ruse.
One of his first visits was to the hotel where
Francisque was accustomed to stay when in
Paris. He was known to the proprietor and
servants as the Captain’s intimate friend, and
many voices were raised to question him as he
entered the courtyard.
“Ah,_M. de Boisrobert, these are awful times,”
said the landlord, looking admiringly at Clem
ent’s bandaged arm.
■“Ah, I haven’t escaped 1” returned Clement
lightly. “I am going up to Captain Carayon’s
room.”
“But where is the Captain, sir?” inquired the
proprietor ; and his wife and servants echoed
the question anxiously.
“Ohl my good friends, do not ask me; I know
not what to suppose. Poor Carayon was only
in Paris for a day, on his way t@ join his regi
ment, when I saw him last. He never joined ;
he has never been seen—never been heard of
since that day spent in Paris. Infamous calum
nies have been circulated concerning him. It
is said that he was the friend of suspicious
foreigners; it is hinted that he has betrayed his
country—or, at least dares not serve it in its
need.”
The group of listeners looked bewildered.
“Of course, I must not say how utterly I dis
believe these rumors! lam going upstairs now
to seek for some documents or memorand.' that
shall explain the mystery of his fate.”
“Well, I hope you will find something, sir,”
said the landlord, heartily. “I had raihersome
harm had come to the Captain than that he
should turn out to be a spy and a traitor.”
Clement proceeded upstairs The room had
scarcely been touched since Carayon’s disap
. pearance. There was “Ctesar’s Commentaries,”
the young man’s tavorite book, at the bed-side,
dog’s-eared and scored with pencil marks; there
was the little traveling valise, which contained
all Francisque had brought from Algeria; there
were the clothes he had thrown off on his arriv
al, the few toilet necessaries he had bought in
view of the coming campaign. Clement glanced
hastily at the mementoes, and at once took up
the valise, touched a secret spring, which Fran
cisque had manipulated before him again and
again, and plunged his hand into one of the in
ner pockets.
“Here’s the budget,” he murmured, selecting
some letters from the pocket, which he with
drew. “ ‘Your loving Reine,’ —the orthodox
style of signature; a lock of hair, of course ; a
ribbon ; faded flowers. By Jovel he managed
his love affairs in the fine old fashion of our
fathers, did my lamented friend, the Captain.”
He read the letters carefully. They contained
nothing of interest to the sceptic’s jaundiced
mind—only a girl's vows, the artless analysis of
her leelings, hopeful protestations, all the in
fantine babble ot a first love. The list letter,
in which Reine had made known his perfidy,
appealed to Clement rather more strongly. It
ran upon matters of “business ;” but he found
nothing new in the missive. The whole of the
information it conveyed had been made known
to him already by the last words he received
from Francisque.
“Now to deal the last blow,” he said, as he
made the letters into a packet. “She can hope for
nothing after having received this ; and it will
effectually prevent inquiries, or trying to sec the
old Count about her light o’ lovo.”
He addressed the packet to Mademoiselle
Reine Lagarde, went down, and passed into the
street, crying out to the landlord, “I can find
nothing up there. You had better keep the
things until something certain is heard.”
The packet was dispatched immediately. It
is reedlejs to say that Reine’s hiding-place had
been discovered by M. Michon, whose experience
as concierge rendered him quite a Columbus in
the troubled, turbid ocean of Paris life.
Not many yards from the hotel he was nearly
overthrown by a tall, square figure, rushing
with erratic steps and bent head down the
streets.
“Deuce take the booby!” said Clement, hastily,
as ha recovered his equilibrium.
The stranger courteously raised his hat. It
was Mcrvale.
“Why Mcrvale,” said Clement, taking the
Englishman by the arm, “where are you going
at that pace ? What is wrong ?”
“Wrong!” said his friend, his clear, ringing
voice lowered to a bitter sneer. “Everything is
wrong. The birds are out of tune, the sun's
gone out, the trees are moulting. You see be
fore you a victim to Venus—a gentleman who
might write rejected redresses, if he were of an
autobiographical turn of mind.”
“Don’t talk in that fashion, old fellow. Walk
with me a little way. Now what have you been
doing?”
“Proposing.”
“But to whom, in the name of common
sense ?”
“To Miss Juliet Summerson.”
“Well, and what did she answer?”
“Answered that she had never thought of me,
and was about to become the Countess de Cha
yolles.”
Clement indulged in a long, low whistle.
“So he’s caught at last,” he added.
“Hooked, netted, landed, fried, and pretty
well eaten, I suppose,” said Mervale, hotly.
“Whar is the woman made of, De Boisrobert ?
She seemed fascinated by some officer fellow—l
forget his name—a few months ago.”
< Hang it!” thought Clement; “he has heard
of her idiotic fancy for Carayon. It must have
been more evident than I thought.”
“I swear to you that she has encouraged me
by every means a woman can use, short of ac
tual promise in words; and she ends now, with
the air of a Madonna, by marrying a Comte old
enough for her grandfather”
“I have told you all I know about her,” re
turned Clement, “it isn’t much with her. She
was betrothed to a Jew banker some years ago,
and the affair came to nothing—except that he
disappeared a dishonored man. And really, my
dear fellow, I can’t sympathize with you. A
lucky escape i- about the formula of my conso
-1 ition.
“Yes, yes; I know,” said Mervale, as they
parted ; but I’m two far gone for he moment to
t .kc much comfort from that.”
Comfort from anything wi s not to be found
by Mr. Eustace Mervale, it appeared. He roam
ed listlessly about the Boulevards, read the
telegrams from the seat of war, and would have
been puzzled to say what they announced a
moment after In a walking dream, he reached
the Porte St. Martin, and turned into the great
literary cafe of the boulevard.
“Mervale, you’re on the brink of writing
elegies,” said a high, incisive voice, as he sat
down.
Mervale turned and confronted M. Joachim,
the fashionable journalist and farce writer,
whose leading articles were beginning to attract
so much attention, and provoke duels
“Mervale, you are not worthy of your adopted
•country,” said the writer. “Why are you so
down? What’s the matter?”
Tue Englishman blurted out his tale, half
seriously, half ironically, and set to
work to cheer him, in a flippant, kindly way,
which was not without its influence.
“I’m just finishing an article on the fortifica
tions about which I am as ignorant as a marshal
of France, so I shall not be long. Take an ab
sinthe. We’ll dine together; and then we’ll go
to a popular music-hall afterwards. You can
write something on the ‘Spirit of the Popula
tion,’ you know.”
Mervale acquiesced; and, after dinner, the two
sallied forth to the famous cafe concert of the
Folies, Belleville.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CAFE CONCERT.
High up, out of the blaze and merriment of
mid-Paris—high up in a network of steep streets,
as dark and dirty as any Thames lane or alley
—beyond the big belt of exterior boulevard—
beyond hilly Montmartre, in a region the Eng
lish tourist wots not of, and among crowds he
would shrink from in dismay—the coming vic
tories were to be celebrated, with the simple
pomp o poverty and the simpler faith of ignor
ance. The mode of celebration was singularly
Parisian. An extraordinary performance was
to take place at the Folies, Belleville; a milita
ry piece was to be played, speeches were to be
made, and patriotic songs chanted.
The facade of the cafe concert was illumin
ated when Joachim and Mervale took their
tickets. Men, women, and children, poorly
dressed, but animated and alert, were flocking
into the large hall and galleries, and taking
Iheir places at the little round-tables; which
busy waiters, in blouses or in shirt-sleeves were
covering with glasses of cheap beer, thin wine,
and common liqueurs.
Joachim and his friend made for a table in a
secluded corner.
“Your broadcloth is rather too fresh,"and
your watch-chain too splendid ; they will call
that aristocratic ostentation here in Belleville
We had better keep in the shade, if you want
to avoid a discourse on political economy, with
a free fight at the end.”
As he spoke, two men in blouses sat down at
the table beside them.
“Who are our friends ?’’ said Mervale, in an
undertone.
Joachim scanned the new-comers, and said,
“I know one of them by sight. He’s a violent
democrat. Eugene Etienne—a nomde guerre, I
suspect.”
“I say, Choquard,” said the blouse designated
by Joachim to his companion, “shall you
speak?”
“No,” returned Choquard; “they’ll have
enough of politics during the seige. Let them
be happy for to-night, poor wretches.”
“Citizen,” said Joachim, addressing Eugene
Etienne, “do you know this new singer, about
whom every one is talking?”
“I have heard of her,”,said Choquard. “She
hasn’t an imnense amount of science, perhaps;
but her voice rings like a bugle She stands
up there,” and lie pointed to the stage, “with
the flag in her hand, like a Goddess of Reason.
And a beautiful face, take a connoisseur's word
for it.”
Here Mervale joined in the conversation. His
unaffected manner and easy politenes made the
workmen forget the outward sign which Joachim
had pointed out as being so peculiarly obnoxi
ous to Belleville, and he was deep in a discus
sion of the Prussian military system with Eu
gene Etienne, when loud cries of “Siler.ce” in
terrupted them.
“It’s the new singer,” said Joachim.
The band played the prelude of the “Marseil
laise,” and the audience rose to a man.
A lady come forward, holding the tri-color
aloft.
There was a burst of applause, and Eugene
Etienne sat down abruptly, and averted his face
front the stage.
“Get up, man,” said Choquard, touching his
shoulder.
“Don’t you know her?” whispered Eugene.
“It’s Reine!"
“Youdon’tsay so?” said his friend, astonished
“Well what of that?”
“What of that? Why, I don’t want to meet
her or let her see me just after that cursed affair
at Ville d’Avray.”
“Still squeamish 1” mutterd Choquard, dis
dainfully.
He was constrained to turn, and listen. The
clear notes of the young vocalist’s was echoing
through the hall, hushed to hear them as though
ereiy man and woman Were spell-bound. Never
had the mighty music, the noble words of the
revolutionary anthem, meant so much, even to
the Belleville democrats. Their thoughts went
back involuntary to the first days of freedom in
the eve of the lust century, when France was in
arms against the world; when Theroigne de
Mericonrt sang the chant of vengeance in the
Palais Royal, and Camille Desmoulins’ fervent
voice echoed “Aux armes, citoyens !’’
Loudly swelled the chorus in the Folies,
Belleville; hats were doffed, women wavedjtheir
kerchiefs, and held up their children to give a
cry for the Republic ; and as the first stanza
ended, an unanimous roar of applause shook
the roof and galleries, and went echoing in
muffled murmurs down many a narrow street of
the revolutionary quarter.
Ere the singer had began the second verse, a
messenger came huiriedly on the stage, and
handed her a small packet and a newspaper.
She probably supposed that the manager of
the music had required her to read some im
portant telegram to the audience. The an
nouncements were not unusual then.
She opened the packet, gazed vacantly- at its
contents and grew deadly pale. Her glance fell
upon the newspaper, and what she read there
made her totter, and lean against a balustrade
for support. The orchestra was waiting. She
remembered her position suddenly, and began,
with a quivering voice, “amour sacre de la
Patre ;” then a sob choked her utterance—she
tell back, and was led away. The manager
came forward to announce that Mdlle Marguerite
was taken suddenly ill, and could not continue
her part.
Mervale’s eyes had never left her face during
the song. As she retired, he rose and, turning
to Joachim, said, hurriedly, “You will think me
mad, Joachim, but, I can’t leave that poor girl
helpless. Your name is known; will you ac
company me behind the scenes ?”
Joachim obeyed, and the two threaded their
way out of the ball. The ciitic knew the stage
door, of course—what Paris stage-door wfs he
not familiar with ? They passed the porter, and
proceeded, stumbling over ropes, ladders, and
those inexplicable ridges with which the floor
ing of all theatres seems purposely studded, to
the green-room, where Mdlle. Marguerite might
probably be heard of.
At the door, Joa. him met the manager, with
whom he was slightly acquainted.
“Don’t go in there,”said the impresario. “Onr
first singer lias been taken ill, and she is sitting
in there, and wishes to be alone. The poor girl
seems almost distracted.”
In spiie of the recoiniv.endntion, Mervale let
the manger and journalist walk on ; then raised
the curtain that covered the green loom door
way, and entered.
Reine was sitting at the table, gazing fixedly
at the newspaper in her hand. The paragraph
that riveted her attention was brief; but the
poor piece of prose went to her heart with a
force and eloquence the grandest verse ever
penned would not have possessed in her sight
at that moment:
“We are sorry to learn that a very promising
young officer, Captain Carayon, of the Chasseurs
d’Afrique, has been missing for several weeks,
and is known to have been absent without leave
from his regiment at Sedan and the preceding
battles. The conclusions to be drawn from this
fact are obvious as they are painful. Either M.
Carayon (who is known to have been on intim
ate terms with many foreign Parisian residents
of doubtful character) forms part of the vast
legion of the Prussian spies that infests France,
or he has cravenly deserted his colors at a mo
ment when our country- most needs the courage
and devotion of its citizens.”
This was what Reine was reading; and beside
her on the table lay her early letters to Fran
cisque, returned without a word—returned to
prove to her, cruelly and silently, that her story
was disbelieved, and that her lover—the tie of
past happiness which these letters commemor
ated
She rose as Mervale entered.
“Still I must go to him,” she murmured. “He
is in danger now ; something has befallen him.
I cannot believe him to be what they- say-. I
must go.”
Mervale advanced respectfully.
“Your pardon, Mademoiselle. I saw from the
first that you were in some distress. Can I help
you ?”
She did not recognize Miss Summerson’s
friend in her misery. She was so changed, her
dress so different, her face and figure so thinned
by suffering and privation, that the Englishman
on his part had no recollection of having met
her once before.
“Oh, monsieur, you are kind 1 All I will ask
you to do is to send tor a conveyance quickly.
So many things depend upr n your haste.” ?
No cab was to be found at that hour in Belle*
ville.
“But,” said Mervale, telling her this, “you can
I find one on the extreme boulevards.”
She was hurrying away-, when he stopped
her.
“You cannot go through this evil quarter
alone at this hour. Allow me to walk with
you.”
She assented mutely and absently. They
hurried to the boulevards, a cab was found, and
Mervale entered it with her.
“To the Saint Lazare Station,” he cried.
The station was dark, but crowds were col
lected in the vicinty, excitedly discussing some
recent disastrous events.
“Stop I” cried a guard. “Where are you go
ing?”
“To Versailles,” said Mervale.
“Versailles is occupied The line is cut. The
seige has begun in earnest.”
“Ah 1” cried Reine ; and fell back in the car
riage, fainting.”
MR. HILL’S SPEECH IN THE NORTH.
A correspondent of the Atlanta Cou
rier, in speaking of Ben. Hill’s great
Andersonville speech, says: “The ’de
mand for the speech through the North
ern States has been immense. The
Northern members have scattered it
broadcast through their districts, and it
has already outsold any speech delivered
in the House, having passed the figures
reached by Proctor Knott’s Duluth
speech a day or two since.
“Much has been said about the Kad
icals circulating this speech as a campaign
document. There is not a particle of
truth in the report. The unparalleled
demand for the speech has been from
Democrats, and notably from Eastern
Demacrats.
“There is a document, however, con
taining Blaine’s and Garfield’s speeches,
with garbled extracts from Mr. Hill’s
speech published between them. Not
more than two pages of the speech is
published, and it is cruelly and watonly
mangled. The argument is destroyed,
and even sentences are mutilated. A
more deliberate scoundrelism was never
perpetrated in any campaign, and it is
no wonder that the most rigid scrutiny
fails to develop the authority under
which this most infamous document was
published.
A curious case is on trial in the New
York Surrogate Court. The will of the
late John D. Lewis, who was thrown
from a carriage in Central Park and
killed some two years ago, is contested
by a newly discovered brother. Lewis
drew his own will, which is so peculiar
that it can be easily set aside should a
legal heir appear. This claimant appears
now in the shape of a negro from Cana
da, who with his sister represents the
deceased as their half brother. Lewis
always passed as a white man, and was
singularly reticent about himself, and
suspicious o( others. Lewis’ mother was
a slave in West Virginia, and escaped
with two children to Canada. There she
“took up with” a buckra man by the
name of Lewis, to whom she bore an
other child, who was the deceased
These facts, as they are stated, combine
to make a curious and complicated case,
the issue of which will be looked for
with interest. It is a strange revelation
that iu a community so quick to scent
African blood as New York is, that Lew
is could have lived and died uhquestion
ed, even if suspected. His will pro
vides a variety of legacies, all of which
will lapse in a most disappointing man
ner if the claimants from Canada sue
ceed.
—— ■■■ ■
In 1852, £60,000 of the surglus of the
Great London exhibition of the preced
ing year was invested in 20 acres of
land at Kensington-gore. Not long ago
less than two acres of this land sold for
£103,000.
<♦<&>♦-
The girls of Santa Cruz are never al
lowed to bealune with gentlemen.
mUi
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Ist class per term of G months s3l 00
2d “ “ “ “ 22 00
3d “ “ “ “ 16 Oo
One-half payable m Advance.
When not paid in advance ten per cent, will
be added to these rates.
No deduction made for absence except for
providential causes
Board, including room, lights and fuel, in
good families at 12.50 per mouth.
P E. DAVANT, A. M., Principa
MONUMENTAL BITTERS
The Only ISHHirs in (lie If, S.
made from Pure Liquors.
BiMirasiiaiii
OR MEDICAL DISCOVERY.
Wanaitled a (line for Empcrc
KSlood and Kindred PEseascs.
For Sale by H C. EDMUND Elberton, Ga
0c6,6m W. II.PAGE & Cos ,Hartwell.
EEECEEITOX FKRSA i.C
COLLEGIATE INS I ITUTE.
The exercises of this r stitution
will begin Monday, the 17lh of January,
1876, and coutinue six months,
FACELTY.
MRS. S. E. CAPERS, - - Principal
W. A. SCOTT., A.M., Prof Mathematics & Clasics
Miss M. F. DILLARD, Teacher of French. Calis
thenics and Fancy Work
MUSIC DEPARTMENT.
MRS. T. J. HESTOR, - - - Principa
Tuition in Primary dep’t, se s. of 6 mos , sls 00
Intermediate “ “ “ 21 00
*• Collegiate “ *• “ 30 00
“ Music, including instrument, 30 00
Course of Lessons in Calisthenics, - 100
Incidental expensess 25 cts. per month.
Board in good families at $lO per month.
Half the tuition is due when the pupil is en
tered, and the balance at expiration of half ses
sion ; but arrangements can made for deferring
the time for payments.
It is earnestly recommended that pupils enter at
the beginning of the term
No deduction except in case of protracted
sickness. jans,3m
Those that are due us after January
Ist must settle, for the business must bo
closed. They can settle with Mr.
Swift or Mr. Arnold. Both aro ready
and anxious to settle.
T. M. SWIFT.
McALPIN A ItNOLD.
Postponed Executor's Sale.
BY virtue of an order from the Court of Ordi
nary of Elbert county, will be sold, on tho
first Tuesday in March next, at the court
house door in said county, between tire legal
sale hours, the following property, to wit:
One tract of land in said county on the waters
of Cedar creek, containing 200 acres, more or
less, joining lands of estate of Win M Almond,
Wm ti Wilhite, Janies Almond, and others.
Sold as the property of the estate of Wm M
Almond, dec'd, to pay the debts contracted for
thesupportof the widow and family of said
do eased.
Jan 4,’76 BENJAMIN T. ALMOND,
Ex'r of Wm. M. Almond, dec'd
BflOT-GPNS. RIFLES, BKTOLTEBS.
Or unhand every kind. Send Rtiunp
<ol Cantloguo. Art,lrena Cr.-.t Wctani Gan
•nd Pl>to( Works. PO TS UL'IIUU.
