Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.” nireMLHood 133