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(For the Sunny South.)
THE FIRST RAINBOW OF SPRING.
The Foft warm rain had feller all day—
The aky overhead was leaden and gray—
A rope-tree> bdantifal crimson treasure
]j»y scattered and stained at the Ham-King s pleacnre,
While Ihe lowlier violet that bloomed in his path.
By meekly yielding escaped his wrath.
I stood by a window and watched in vain
For the wished .surcease of the riotous rain.
At last it came. The sinking sun
A victory over the storm-clouds won.
All things into beauty and brilliance waking,
Cjystal drops into diamonds making,
Kissing to life the rain-beaten flower,
Sending a song from every bower.
And lo ! in the east a radiant how,
Spanning the cloud so dark below.
Bathing in splendor a distant spire.
Lighting a forest with colored lire,
As an end slopes down to its still, green breast.
While the other finds its shining rest
Behind a hill, far blue and bold:
And T tbinK of the tale in my childhood told,
That the rainbow’ ends in a pot of gold :
I wept when I found that it was untrue,
But now’ more sadly yet do I rue
That fancy no more her webs can weave,
That life has lost the power to deceive.
(For The Sunny South.)
Cosmopolitan Stories;
—OR.—
UNDER SIX FLAGS.
“Oh ! I t-hall be so glad lo see him again.
Don’t you think he is the most interesting per
son -we have met in our travels, Charles?”
“Yes, I believe he is,” answered the Doctor.
“ But my chatting -with yon makes me forget an
engagement I have this morning. So good-bye,
Mary.”
And he left her rather suddenly.
In due time Signor Marelli arrived, was re
ceived with unieigned cordiality by his old
friends, and introduced in the professor’s fam
ily and its circle of acquaintances, upon whom
the handsome and polished Italian made an un
usually lavorable impression. The most of his
time he spent in the company of the Doctor and
Mary, however, viewing the town and discuss
ing past events and future expectations; and
when he made his departure, after a sojourn of
five days, it caused great regret to his friends
and awakened a feeling of disappointment in
them, in whose society he had whiled away
many pleasant hours during his short stay.
Mary, who after Marelli’s departure was anx
ious to continue her German studies, which had
come to such an unexpected termination by the
disloyalty of her teacher, succeeded in prevail
ing upon the old professor in whose house she
lived to become her instructor, and resumed her
work with increased eagerness. But again her
old melancholy disposition, that had been par
tially dispersed by recent events, returned to
settle on her mind. She showed less and less
interest in wbat occurred around her, took not
so much pleasure in the social gatherings of her
friends as she used to do, and plunged deeply
into the Geiman literature with great ardor and
perseverance, to the delight of the old professor,
as if she wanted to take refuge among its rich
lore from some phantom that hunted and an
noyed her. She commenced to languish, the
roses on her cheeks faded, and her movements
lost their wonted elasticity, so that her friends
on several occasions anxiously inquired after
her health, which she, however, always declared
to be very good. When this state of things had
continued for some time, the Doctor, who felt
very anxious about her, decided to talk candidly
to her concerning the matter, and find out its
cause, if possible.
Consequently he said one day, when she
looked more pining and spiritless than useless:
“ Dear Mary, 1 have noticed with anxiety for
some time past that you have been suffering
under a depression of spirit from some cause
or other, which I have not been able to fathom.
Will you not relieve my solicitude by telling me
unreservedly what troubles you ?”
She blushed scarlet as she looked up at him
and answered with a forced smile, which could
not, however, conceal her confusion:
“What put such an idea into your head ? I
am perfectly well and happy, thanks to all your
kindness towards me.”
“No, Mary; do not let us dismiss the matter
so lightly. If your health is impaired in any
way, you surely would not hesitate to confide it
to your physician ?”
“No, I would not; hut I feel as well as ever.”
“Then it must he something that disturbs
your mind?”
“No, nothing that I know of.”
A silence ensued, during which the Doctor
was sunk in thought, and Mary looking at him
with a long, wistllul glance.
“ Ah ! well, well,” he said at last, “I suppose,
then, we must attribute it all to the excess of
mental labor with which you have applied your
self to your studies lately. You are very fond
of German literature ?”
“ I love it”
“And very natural that you should, with
your cast of mind. But, my dear girl, you must
not allow this predilection to make a female
hookworm of you—a thing that might easily
happen in this atmosphere so impregnated with
scientific malaria. You must rouse yourself and
try to rise from out of this mystical and meta
physical quagmire in which I am afraid you are
slowly settling; and if you will permit me, being
your physician, to give you a prescription against
your malady, it would be couched in these
terms:
TiFrFTPT'V
*• Salt exhalations from the ocean,
Freeh republican breezes;
Antipoclial notions—(janrtftim salts.
Dr, Sr.—to he taken at discretion:”
or, in other words let us go back to America.”
This being the first attempt at a joke that Mary
ever had heard from her husband, it evoked one
of the hearty, silvery laughs which had con
stituted one of her pecultar attractions before
she became a woman of Ihe world, and learned
how to tone them down into smiles; and when
her own and her husband’s ideas had been
wafted on for seme time over the surface of un
restrained communication, ruffled by the gentle
breezes of an unwonted jocularity, they finally
landed on the shore of a eheerlul agreement to
leave the old world behind them as soon as cir
cumstances would allow.
Accordingly, they took leave of their friends
and,acquaintances shortly alter this decision,and
set out for Bremen, trom whence they intended
to go by steamer to New York.
Early in May, about a year from the com
mencement of their bridal tour, they left Bre
men, and Mary soon lound herself rocked on
the broad bosom of tbe blue Atlantic. The nov
elty of floating cn a little speck in tbe vast ex-
pause of sky and water, the tresh, exhilarating j
sea-breezes and the cbeeriul company of the pas- j
stngers caused an agreeable sensation in Mary j
that no other mode of traveling had been able j
to awaken, and made the days pass in rapid and |
pleasant succession. She had no time during j
the day to indulge in reveries, and it was only .
late in the evening, when all had retired and j
everything was silent, that she sometimes re- j
lapsed into her absent, musing mode.
Late one evening, when everybody had gone i
to rest, she was sitting alone cn the deck, with j
her chin resting in her hand, looking back pen- ■
sively along the silvery lnrrow which the vessel !
ploughed in the blue deep, the watery particles j
of which sparkled and glistened like diamonds j
in the bright moonlight, when her husband ap- I
preached Eottly end took a seat beside her with- j
out her perceiving him. He looked for some
time at the dreamy eyes and pale features, and
said at last in a low, gentle voice:
“Mary.”
She started and turned towards him with a
smile, but without giving any answer.
After a few moments of silence, the Doctor re
sumed:
“ I have been sitting here watching you for a
while, whilst your thoughts, probably, were far
away.”
“No, Charles,” she said, turning towards him
with an unusual expression of tender sweetness
in her fa«e; “ they were not very far away.”
Her husband gazed at her in mute admiration.
He thought he had never in his life seen any
thing so surpassingly beautiful in the shape of a
woman. Presently he said to her:
“ 1 lound you again this evening in one of
your sad reveries. If you knew how uneasy it
makes me to see you thus, dear Mary T , I am
sure you weuld tell me the cause of it, for it has
a cause—that you know as well as I now do.”
She looked down in silence.
“Can it be,” continued the Doctor, “that
your heart has awakened at last? Is it love,
Mary, that has worked* this change in you?”
Without looking up, stie answered in a soft,
scarcely audible whisper:
“Yes.”
A sharp pang shot through the Doctor’s breast,
(For the Sunny Souths
THE GALLEY SLATE.
Not far from the pleasant little town of Bien-
la-Gaillarde, in the southwest of France, is the
village of St. Prevenx, a hamlet of perhaps thirty
houses, the inhabitants of which support them
selves by wine-making and the culture of vege
tables.
In 1818, shortly after the return of the Bour
bons to France, there lived in this village one
Pierre Poisson, a young man about twenty-seven
years of age, formerly a non-commissioned ofli
pitchers filled with wine standing before them;
and while they did not neglect doing honor to
the wine, were discussing the news which the
Maire read to them from the Messenger de Cor-
rize.
At that time not three words could be spoken
about the current topics of the day without an
allusion to the campaigns of Napoleon, and the
the Marquis de Chambreuil”—Pierre’s face dark
ened at this name, but she hurried on without
noticing him—“at the inn, where he stopped a
few minutes with some gentlemen, say they
would have a hunt by torchlight to-night. Take
care, or you will meet them.”
“ Tranquilize vourself, ma chere," he replied.
“I thank you for your warning, but Pierre ....
Poisson is no child, and can protect his flanks, j same was the case on this occasion in the inn of
Has M. le Marquis communicated anything else j St. Breveux.
to you ?” | The Maire, as soon as the wine mounted to
Annette was mortified at this mocking ques- : his head, commenced a violent tirade against
tion. I the Emperor, who, he said, had been nothing
“I do not converse with the Marquis de Cham- but a bungler in military affairs, whom any lieu-
breuil,” she replied, and shut the windo w hast- tenant might have surpassed in generalship, and
cer in the Emperor’s Old Guard, and now a ily, while Pierre went on his way humming one | who had gained so many battles only by reason
quiet peasant who handled his rustic imple- of his favorite camp-songs, “Bon voyage, cher du \ of his compact with the evil one, whose repre-
plements with the same energy in the cultiva- Mollet," and was soon lost to sight. j sentative had been the Mameluke Kustan; and
tion of his vineyard and garden as he had dis- After having proceeded a short distance, he re- | wound up by declaring his firm belief that after
* ‘ ■ " ‘ ' ...... pented having asked Annette that question. It
is true, he had often noticed that the Intendent,
when riding by the house, would kiss his hand
to Annette, when she was standing at the win
dow. He had even surprised him once in try
played in the use of the musket on the battle
field, who was as good a farmer as he had been
a soldier, and who did his duty now as he had
then.
That he had been a good soldier was shown
not only by the red ribbon of the Legion of j ing to commence a conversation with her, when
Honor, which on gala days he wore in the but
ton-hole of his blue coat, but also by a broad
scar which extended across his forehead to his
left eye—the mark of a wound received at Wa
terloo from the sabre of a Prussian hussar, when
the few surviving battalions of the old and
she was standing at the door, waiting for her
his death he would be burning in hell to all
eternity.
Pierre, who was seated by the side of Ber
trand. had at first, in order to avoid getting in
to difficulty, feigned not to hear what the Maire
said, and had continued his conversation with
the former; hut his deep drinking and the man-
husband. Iteally, however, Pierre had no ground ner in which he moved about in his chair showed
and it was only after a few moments that he ! young Guards were still fighting for the honor
for jealousy of the Marquis, for, although An
nette occasionally was a little coquettish, still
she loved her husband too well to deceive him.
The clock of the village church struck eight.
“Zounds!” Pierre muttered to himself, “I
could compose himself sufficiently to continue ° of the French arms, although victory had be- j must hurry, if I want to furnish Papa Bertrand
• 1 come an impossibility. a roast for to-morrow. In a few minutes, the
Another circumstance no less honorable to i moon will be up, and then it will he *qui vice. 1
him than the red ribbon and the scar, was the j as on the advanced posts, for the huntsmen of
respect with which he always spoke of the valor j the Marquis de Chambreuil would rather catch
of his former enemies, the Scotch and the Prus- j Pierre Poisson than any other game.”
sians, as well as old Marshall Blucher, who, he | While thus soliloquizing, he had arrived at
stoutly maintained, had fought with the same j the edge of the woods adjoining his vineyard.
without agitation:
“ May 1 know w'bo is the object of your affec
tion ?”
Mary now looked up at him and said, with an
expression of solicitude not unmingled with
pain:
“ Charles, I have never yet had a secret from
yon in my innermost heart, but please let me
make an exception for this once. I will tell you
his Dame before long.”
“ Well, let it be as you wish. I shall never
revert to this subject again, unless you volunta
rily reveal who he is. But are you sure that
your affection may not fade ? Are you sure that
you love him from the depth of your heart?”
“ Sooner shall the sun change its course than
I my love !”she exclaimed, with enthusiastic de
votion. “ He is far, far dearer to me than my
life.”
“ I see the the die is cast,” rejoined the Doc
tor, seriously, “and I shall be true to my word.
But it is getting late, Mary ; so good night, and
happy dreams."
Be offered her his hand, which she held
firmly for a few short momentB as if she wished
to retain him, but then let it go and turned away.
Dr. Blackburn did not sleep very well that
night.
The next day and the days following passed
without any notable events, and after a smooth
and agreeable passage the vessel soon arrived in
New York. Here new objects attracted Mary’s
attention and diverted her thoughts, when, after
a few days of sight-seeing, the Doctor asked her
what impression this metropolis had made on
her. She answered:
“ It looks very much like an English city, on
ly the people are leaner and seem to be in a
greater hurry.”
They did not remain long in New York, but
continued their journey to the South, according
to their programme. When they had crossed
into Virginia, Mary remarked that it seemed to
her as if she bad come back to Europe, the peo
ple walked so muen slower and steadier, and
showed so much more courtesy and refinement
in their manners. The open and frank cordial
ity with which they were received in Kichmond,
the courtly, eliivalric elegance that met them in
Charleston, and the hearty and sincere welcome j
they found everywhere throughout the Southern
country, made Mary express a wish to live and
die among its people.
They traveled through several of the Southern
States, and at last reached New Orleans, where
they took passage on a steamer up the Missis
sippi. Afterwards they established their head
quarters in Indianapolis, that city being a cen
tral point from which they could make excur
sions through the adjoining States and on the
great lakes.
gt Their time was mostly spent on those excur
sions, and they were often accompanied by Mr.
Evans, a courteous, gentlemanly American,
whose acquaintance Dr. Blackburn had made
shortly after his arrival in the capital of Indiana.
Mr. Evans had enjoyed a liberal, collegiate edu
cation, hut turned his attention to mercantile
pursuits after his course was finished, and was
now a well-to-do merchant, highly respected in
his community.
By-and-by it became evident to the Doctor
that Mary’s attractions had a great deal to do
with the increasing frequency of Mr. Evans’
visits; but as he showed his attentions in a del
icate, respectful manner, and was besides a great
favorite of the doctor; the latter had never at
tempted to raise any impediments to his suit.
It was now nearly two months since the Doc
tor and Mary had arrived in Indianapolis, when
Mr. Evans one day paid the Doctor a visit, and
asked him, in a frank, straightforward manner,
if he would grant him permission to address
Miss Blackburn. The Doctor answered that he
would cfo so cheerfully, but added that he in no
way would try to influence his niece’s choice.
With this answer Mr. Evans was perfectly sat
isfied, and he and the doctor parted with a cor
dial shake of the hands.
When twilight fell that evening, Mary was
standing at a window of her and her husband’s
sitting room, when the latter entered and took
his place at her side.
“Mary,” he said, “I have some important
news for you this evening.”
“ Ah ! and what may that be, Charles ?”
“Mr. Evans has asked me to-day for permis
sion to sue for your hand.”
Mary turned to him in utter surprise.
“Yes,” the Doctor continued, “and I think
he is a worthy man, whom any woman might
be proud to call her husband.”
“Charles, I have told you once that my heart
is no longer my own. I love one man devoutly,
and all others are less than nothing to me.”
The Doctor felt a spasmodic stroke contract
ing his heart, hut mastering his emotions with
a strong effort, he said calmly:
“Is he in America?”
“Yes, he is in America.”
“I think I can guess who it is.”
Mary shot a quick glance at him. After a
minute’s pause he resumed:
“And so your love is irrevocable?”
“Irrevocable!”
“Well, then it only remains for me to fulfill
my premise. I will go to a lawyer immediately
and take measures towards effecting our divorce,
which is easily obtainable here, so that all ob
stacles may be removed when the object of your
choice, who I have no doubt is worthy of yon,
once makes his appearance.”
The Doctor, with an expression of acute pain
bravery as his idol Ney, “the bravest of the j and after having put fresh powder on the pan
brave,” who had been shot at Paris ten years be- ! of his carbine, h# squatted down behind a
fore our tale begins. clump of bushes, keeping a sharp lookout in
This shows that Pierre Poisson’s heart was in j the direction from which he expected the ani-
the right place. Sometimes the Maire or the
field-guard or the gensd'arme reproached him
with not being a faittiful subject of the old royal
house, because he had on his mantelpiece at
home a small plaster bust of Bonaparte, and no
likeness of King Louis or the Count of Artois.
But this could not be counted as a great crime
in one of the Old Guard who never had seen
King Louis with his velvet boots or his rolling
chair, and more than a hundred times had seen
the “Little Corporal” on his white horse, un
disturbed by the horrors of the battle-field.
Howbeit, the best of men have their faults,
and Pierre Poisson was do exception to the gen
eral rule. He had two bad habits, which more
than once subjected him to great inconvenience.
When on Sundays he found himself in the vil
lage tavern, it was his wont to entertain the as
sembled peasants with his personal reminis
cences. He told stories of the Emperor, of Wa-
gram, of Smolenski, and of Moscow, and
warming with his theme, would carry his glass
of Limage wine to his lips oftener than was nec
essary to moisten his tongue, and coming finally
to the misfortunes of Leipzig and Belle Alliance,
the glass was emptied at a draught, and filled
again as long as a drop remained in the jug. At
such times the scar on his forehead would
darken, nor was it advisable for any one to trifle
with him then, though generally he was good
nature itself. This bad habit could at the
worst only involve him in a quarrel with some
saucy fellow who might indulge in a feeble
witticism at the expense of the “Little Cor
poral;” hut the other was more dangerous. Of
his former habits, he had carried with him
into his new sphere an ineradicable .passion for
shootiDg. As he confix no longer blaze away at
the enemies'of the Ei^s-erar, Xing Louis being
on the best ot tern)® with the conquerors of
France, nothing wak left to him but to kill the
king’s rabbits, which abounded in the neighbor
hood. This passion involved him in frequent
troubles with the rangers and game-keepers, who
called his sport by/ the ugly name of poaching.
Pierre called it “ carrying on war on a small
scale,” and said as he could not fight the Bour
bons, the friends of the enemies of France, he
had at least the satisfaction of warring on their
game. He was not, however, driven by lust of
gain to take down his carbine from its peg, and
then away to the forest to carry on his little war,
for he never kept the spoils for himself. These
were always given away to the poor of the vil
lage. Many a peasant who, perhaps, had seen
no meat on his table for a whole year, found in
the early morning a hare or pheasant thrown by
Pierre, into the house or yard when on his re
turn from some nocturnal excursion.
While buying his powder and tobacco at the
grocery store in Bieve-la-Gaillarde, Pierre had
been smitten with the charms of the storekeep
er’s daughter, Annette, and as she at the same
time discovered his good looks and excellent
character, they soon became man and wife. An
nette was a charming young woman, with bright,
black eyes, cheeks blooming as roses, a slender
waist, and feet and hands that a princess might
have envied; and as Pierre was a remarkably
handsome man, they suited each other in that
respect most admirably.
But there was one drawback. Annette was
rather too proud of her pretty face and graceful
form. A number of young noblemen who came
occasionally to hunt with Monsieur de Cham
breuil, the Intendant of the royal forest, gener
ally breakfasted at the “Dauphin,” in St. Pre-
veux, and the little coquette enjoyed their ad
miration of her rather more than was compatable
with Pierre’s peace of mind. Whenever he saw
their admiring looks, he fulminated terrible im
precations against these powdered and pomat
umed Marquises, “who,” said he, “entered
Paris with the Cossacks, and are beginning now
where they left off in ’89, trying to seduce the
wives and daughters of the citizens and peas
ants.”
At such times, Annette kept as still as a mouse,
for his face wore a gloomy look and the scar on
mal to come. Five, ten minutes passed, but no
buck made his appearance. Pierre became im
patient, and cautiously raised his head, but could
not discover anything.
Meanwhile, the moon had risen, aDd threw a
clear, silver light over the surrounding country.
Pierre’s sharp eye could easily distinguish every
object at a couple of hundred paces distance.
Suddenly, he hears a crackling in the under
growth on the edge of the wood. He raises his
bead, and the barrel of his carbine, and sees,
hardly twenty paces distant, a splendid buck,
just entering the clearing. At this sight, his
eyes sparkle, he scaacely dares to breathe, and,
putting his carbine to his shoulder, takes aim.
Forgetting everything about him, he sees only
his prey, which comes nearer and nearer. The
buck is now hardly ten paces from him, on a
line with the muzzle of his carbine, and he is
in the act of touching the trigger, when a hand
is put on his shoulder, and a loud voice ex
claims :
“Ha! fellow, you are meddling with our
trade!”
As if struck by lightning, Pierre remained
kneeling about a minute without turning round
to see who it was that had thus surprised him.
Then, suddenly jumping to his feet, he turns
towards the speaker, whom he immediately rec
ognizes, and towards his two companions, and
says:
“ Yes, Monsieur l’lntendant, I was meddling
with your trade, in order to put a roast on the
table ot a poor devil of a comrade, who has been
sick for three weeks, and cannot earn a sou.”
“ For this humanity you will nevertheless
have to suffer in prison. You know, the King’s
attorney at Brive-ia-Gaillarde, is a very particu
lar friend of poachers,” sai$l Monsieur de Cham
breuil, in a sneering tone.
“ But the law requires that poachers, as proof
of their guilt, must be carried with their guns
in their hands before the Maire of the nearest
place.”
“You are quite right, my good friend,” sneered
the Intendant, “and therefore you shall have
the honor, this very evening, of being intro
duced to the Maire of St Preveux. And now,
advance, my brave fellows !” he shouted, turn
ing to the foresters, who had thus far remained
mute spectators of the scene, “take away the
carbine from that lubber, for whom a flail is a
fitter instrument than a gun.”
The contemptuous language and demeanor of
the Marquis de Chambreuil made Pierre furious,
and leveling his gun he shouted to the foresters
who were advancing upon him:
“If you advance another step I shall fire, and
then you will find out that Pierre Poisson knows
how to handle a gun somewhat better than a
flail.”
“Oh! you are Pierre Poisson,” the Marquis
exclaimed, not quite as sneeringly as before.
“ You are the husband of pretty Annette, yonder
at St. Preveux; well, that is excellent, Now, I
can make your acquaintance likewise.”
Somewhat astonished, Pierre looked at the
Marquis, who, turning to the two foresters, or
dered them to withdraw. He then approached
Pierre, who had lowered his carbine, and said
to him, almost kindly:
“You know, Pierre Poisson, that after all it
would not be necessary for me to carry you be
fore the Maire with your gun in your hand; my
deposition and that of my men would be suffi
cient to send you to jail for a couple of years.
However, I shall be silent for the present if I
find you sensible in regard to other matters.
But go home now to your wife (to whom you
may give my compliments) before my company
arrive; some of these days I will pay you a
visit, and see whether you know how to be
grateful. Till then, adieu.”
With these words he turned his back upon
Pierre, and in a few moments disappeared with
his attendants. Pierre looked after him for a
while, and then he stamped on the ground with
the butt of his carbine and muttered:
I understand you, Marquis de Chambreuil;
son knows how to defend his honor perhaps
better than many noblemen.”
He then slung his carbine over his shoulder
and, with quick strides, hurried to the village.
his forehead darkened as when he spoke of i 1 understand you; but take care ! Pierre Pois-
Leipzig or Waterloo. 1 — u l '"~ Ju; ° ^
It was in October, the time of the vintage and
about six weeks after their marriage, that Pierre
came home from the vineyard in excellent humor
and took down his carbine, saying to his wife:
“ You will have to eat your supper by your
self to-night, mon chere. I saw a fat roe-buck
this afternoon in the wood close by the vineyard.
You know the Maire yesterday levied on the
goods of Father Bertrand, yonder in the village,
for the paltry sum of ten francs, and I think a
piece of roast venison will be a rich treat for his
sick wife and poor little children. It often hap
pens they do not see any warm food for days
together. ”
Annette pouted at this, for she hated to see
Pierre with a gun in his hand.
“What need you care for Bertrand, Pierre?
plainly that his calmness was only assumed.
Bat on the Maire finishing his harrangue with
the words, “Bonaparte and his soldiers were
nothing but a band of robbers,” Pierre could
stand it no longer, and, jumping up, he shouted:
“Guard your tongue, Babillard, and speak
more respectfully of the Emperor and his sol
diers, who fought for you while you were pull
ing your nightcaps over your long ears !”
At these words the peasants burst into laugh
ter, and the Maire, scarlet with anger, started
up and made for Pierre, shrieking:
“ What! you dare insult me, the Maire of St.
Preveux, and to defend Bonaparte, the usurper.
Must we suffer that, Roquet,” turning to the
gensd'arme, “from that brigand?”
“ Unsay that word, scoundrel! unsay the word
brigand !” yelled Pierre, furious at this renewed
insult, and took the Maire by the throat.
“Ho, there! stop in the King’s name!” ex
claimed Roquet, the gens d'arme, bristling with
importance and lifting up the scabbard of his
sword to strike Pierre. Bat Bertrand arrested
his arm, saying:
“Strike the Maire, who commenced the quar
rel.”
The other peasants had meanwhile arisen,
crowded in between Pierre and Babillard, and
separated the antagonists, partly by force and
partly by persuasion. A friend took Pierre by
the arm and led him outside the door, to pacify
him in the open door.
While they were standing there, Colas, Pierre’s
neighbor, came up the street, and seeing Pierre,
called out to him:
“Zounds! what are you standing there for?
Do you not know what fashionable company
there is at your home ?”
“ What do you mean, Colas?” asked Pierre.
“What do I mean?” Colas answered. “Noth
ing but that the Marquis de Chambreuil, with
two servants, drove up to your house about a
quarter of an hour ago. “You can see the car
riage at your door. ”
At these words Pierre changed color, disen
gaged himself from his friend's arm, and rushed
towards his house, in front of which the Mar
quis’ carriage was still standing. With savage
violence he burst open the door and entered the
room, just as the Marquis was putting his arm
around the waist of his weeping and struggling
wife, softly whispering:
“But, my dear, I have told you that one ser
vice deserves another, and do you regaad it as a
trifle that I did not send your husband to jail ?
Will yon not give rue one single kiss for it ?”
“Monsieur le Marquis,” thundered Pierre,
trembling with passion, and flinging him away
from Annette, “every honest man pays his own
debts; however, we are even now, I believe.
You found me,” he added, laughing bitterly,
“trespassing on your ground, and now I have
caught you on mine.’’
The Marquis had been amazed by the sudden
intervention of Pierre, but, soon regaining his
presence of mind, and opening the window, he
called his servants.
“Jean, George, come in, you rascals.”
The door was opened hurriedly and the two
servants rushed into the room, whilst Pierre,
who had taken his wife’s hand, was endeavoring
to calm her agitation.
“Take hold of that bumpkin,” commanded
the Marquis, “who has dared to lay hands upon
me, the royal Intendant, and give him a sound
drubbing to teach him better manners.”
“Alonsieur lTntendant!” Pierre exclaimed,
beside himself with passion, “ leave my house
immediately with your attendants, or, by the
Almighty, I will do some mischief!”
“I believe, on my soul, the fellow dares to
threaten me !” shouted the Marquis, full of fury.
“By St. Louis, you shall pay dearly for that V’
With these words, he seized his riding-whip
and advanced on Pierre, who, on seeing this
motion, quickly grasped his carbine and said:
“A shot for a blow ! Marquis de Chambreuil,
beware!”
“For mercy’s sake, stop !” screamed Annette,
falling at the feet of the Marquis; but the latter,
regardless of consequences, roared:
“What, scoundrel! you dare to speak to me,
as if you were my equal ? Take that 1” and lifted
his riding-whip for a blow.
“You will have it so!” thundered Pierre, and
discharged his carbine at the Marquis.
The room was filled with the smoke of pow
der, and the Marquis fell backward into his ser
vants’ arms, exclaiming:
“ The wretch has killed me !”
The report of the shot had startled the entire
neighborhood. From the inn and from the
houses, men and women came running and
crowded into the room.
Pierre, with his carbine still in his hand,
stood like a statue, not noticing anything that
passed around him, and looking fixedly at the
Marquis weltering in his blood, and at his wiio
who was lying on the floor in a swoon.
The peasants stood there mute, and with deep
concern expressed in their countenances. The
silence was at last interrupted by the entrance
of the gensd'arme and the Maire, who was in
vested with the badge of office. When the ser-
A week had elapsed since the occurrence in
the forest, and the Marquis de Chambreuil had
not shown himself in Pierre’s house. The latter I vants of the Marquis saw these persons making
had not mentioned hi3 meeting with the Mar- their way througU the assemblage, they set up
quis to Annette, but had only told her, in case a great cry, and denounced Pierre as the ran?
that Monsieur de Chambreuil should come to derer of their master.
the house during his absence, to dismiss him j rhe officers of the law approached the unfor-
politelv, but firmly and decisively; whereupon i tunate man, and taking the carbine from him,
Annette regarded him with astonishment, and I the Maire addressed him sneeringly:
asked him what the Marquis wanted with them, j “Did I not say so—that all of you who served
Pierre, however, feigned not to hear her ques- j under Bonaparte were a pack of robbers ? AV ell,
tion, and left the house whistling a tune. ; y° u will come to a robber s end. Come on,
Bat from that evening he did not go to the ! Koquet; carry Poisson to the lock-up.”
He is only a poor carpenter who works for j forest, and his loaded carbine remained stand- j .The, gensd'arme obeyed, and having bound
thirty sons a day. You need not be so anxious j ing unused in a corner of the room. When j Pierre s hands -to which proceeding the latter
i to fall into the clutches of the law for his sake.” j eight more days had passed, and nothing had i quietly submitted—he carried him, accompanied
w BL-uic uam i This daughter of a grocer, with her dowry of j be'en seen of the Marquis, Pierre’s secret uneas- | by a few peasants, to the village lock-up for
cn his features, which he could not whollv sub- I a few t . honsand francs, was a little high-minded, I in ess gradually disappeared, and he became safe-keeping until he could be sent on to the
due, walked slowly towards the door. When he I an ^ did not admire Pierre’s familiarity with I again as cheerful as he had been before. He i Distriet Court at Brive-la-Gaillarde.
had reached ihe middle of the room he heard a I those low P eo P le - 1 had had a prosperous season, and on the last The Marquis was carried off in his carriage
trembling voice Ircm the window utter almost “Annette,” said her husband, in a tone of j market day had brought home from Brivet-la- j after his wound had first been dressed by the
in a whisper: ’ ; grave rebuke, “do not speak disdainfully of i Gaillarde nearly a thousand francs, the proceeds j village surgeon, and a few kind neighbors re-
“Charles !” ! our old sapper-sergeant, Bertrand. But for him, j of the sale of his produce. mained to take care of Pierre s unfortunate wife.
He turned around and confronted Marv. She 1 stoul d have perished with cold at Wilna; and j The following day was Sunday. Pierre, who j The majority of the peasants, however, who had
advanced two or three steps, and then stopped now *d*ey have stopped his pension because, ! was one of the notables of the village, had of- ; lost all inclination to return to the inn, dis-
’ ’ ’ ’ ' - ■’ ■- — - forsooth, he marched with his Emperor in To.” [ fered to treat his neighbors in the afternoon at ; persed quietly and sadly to their homes, while
Then more cheerfully, he added: “But I must I the village inn to a keg of Limage wine. On j Bertrand, the carpenter, on leaving the ill-fated
be off before the morn rises. Good-bye, ma j this occasion the Maire and gens darmes, sta- ! house, said with a sigh:
chere. I shall be home by ten o’elack.” I tioned in the village, were present. They did ! “Poor Pierre ! the W hites”—by that name the
i • He had gone but a few paces, when his young j not like Pierre on account of his adherence to j partisans of the Bourbons were called—“ the
7 "* | wife called him back. i the Emperor, yet did not disdain to drink his j A) hites will never forgive you for this.”
That man is a philosopher and a hero who, ; “ What is the matter?” he asked, impatiently, j wine.
when his wife calls him a brute, has the courage “Pierre,” she whispered, “take care. I had; The peasants were seated around a large round Truth would be popular with ns if it pronosed
to sing “Call me pet names, darling.” j nearly forgotten it; but this afternoon, I heard ' table, smoking their clay pipes, with large stone only to correct the faults of others. ^
aBd locked him full in the face. She was "pale
as a ghost, and remained motionless lor a few
moments.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
DISTINCT PRINT