Democratic Sentinel, Volume 5, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 April 1881 — A RACE FOR A WIFE. [ARTICLE]

A RACE FOR A WIFE.

I have this story from a friend who was dear to me. He related it to me one day as we were talking on the hazards of life, more astonishing and more romantic a hundred times, than the inventions of fiction. He hod seen this little drama develop itself; he still knew the actors in it. “I will present you,” he said to me, “and we will go together to Mezieree, where we will find one of the heroes of this narrative still living. All the romance have not yet been written; the most marvelous have still to be published. And who knows how many romances each one of us takes away with him profoundly buried in the secrecy of bis conscience, painfully smothered under the tombstone?” Eugene Decary did not know how true liis words were, and the story of Jean Chevaucheux was the last that lie told me. It is he who will tell you the story.

My father used to live at Bethel, in the high street, in a house I can still see before my eyes with its slate roof and projecting beams, a hospitable house if ever there was one. Poor folks new the way to it. They entered with their wallet empty and went away with it full. We were all seated one night at the fireside; my father was smoking his pipe and watching the fire burn, my mother was ironing, and I was reading, when we heard vt noise at the door, and saw enter a boy with frightened looks. “What is the matter ?” “It is a soldier very tired who has just fallen exhausted before the door. ” My father loved soldiers. He rose brusquely, ran out, and there he was, before I had taken a step, coming in again with a young soldier leaning upon him, or, rather, my father had taken him up and was carrying him like a sack of corn. My mother hastened to draw the big arm-chair up to the fire. The soldier was made to sit, or rather recline in it, and my father said, looking at the poor fellow ; “Is it possible! Walking in that state?” The fact is that the soldier was very thin and pale, his hair flattened on hiS forehead, the veins of his temples big as your little finger, his face black with dust. We were then iu the month of October, and the weather was beginning to grow fresh, but the poor fellow was nevertlielesss sweating big drops as if it had been dog days. He must nave had a long tramp. His shoes were in shreds; you could see where the stones had torn the leather; the left foot was bleeding. The soldier did not move, but remained iu the arm-chair, with his head thrown back, his eyes half open and white as a Bheet.

My mother had already put some soup on the tire and a panful of wine. “Bah,” said my father, “the first thing to be looked after is the feet.” And, kneeling down, he began to tear and cut away the shreds of leather. The soldier’s feet, all swollen, and full of blisters, looked like the feet of the martyrs, swollen with pain and weakened by hard cords, which we see in the pictures of the Spanish painters. My father dipped liis handkerchief in vinegar and washed the wounds. “You,” he said to me, “make some lint. ” And I began to tear up some old linen that my mother had taken out of the big cupboard. Meanwhile the soldier had come to himself. He looked at us, at my father, my mother, and myself, and the two or three Neighbors who had come in, one after the other. His wandering eyes seemed to interrogate everything. It was no longer the road, the stones, the great deserted woods that lie saw before him, but a gay room, with a ceiling of shining oak, a cloth on the table, knife and fork laid, and a brown earthenware soup-bowl emitting a savory smell of cabbage soup. Then he raised himself up, leaning on the arms of the chair, and said to my father, with confused emotion: “Ah! Monsieur. But you do not know

me.” “Ah! well, that does not matter; we will become acquainted at the table. ” Vfe had already dined, but my father wished to bear the soldier company. He sat down to table opposite him, as it were brooding over him, and looking at the regimental buttons that shone on his cloak. The soldier ate, and ate heartilv; my mother served him. My father took charge of the wine, and the glasses did not long remain empty. “Well,” said my father, suddenly, pointing to the tin box that the soldier carried slung on a cord, “you have finished your time, for there is your conge. Then why do you kill yourself by toiling along the highway? I see how the matter stands. You have no money to pay for the diligence?” “I?” replied the soldier. “I have received my pay and my bounty, and my mother has sent me enough to pay for a place in the coupe, if I had liked. But I could not. ” “I understand,” said my father, who did not understand it all. Then he asked for another bottle of wine. When, the meal was over the soldier tried to walk. He tottered, uttered a smothered cry, and fell back into the chair. I then saw a tear in his eye. He was a young man, rather thin, but nervous, dark and with an energetic look. He was not a man to shed a tear for a little, and that tear puzzled me. “Ah,” he said with a movement in which there was a little anger and a good deal of grief; “I shall not be able to walk until to-morrow morning.” “Walk!” cried my mother, terrified. The soldier shook his head. “You don’t know, you, I must.” It was a vow.

In our Ardennes those primitive souls have respect and faith. I saw my father look at the young man in the face without astonishment, and with mute interrogation. “Yes,” said the soldier, “I will tell you the whole story. You have, perhaps, saved my life; I ought, at least, to tell you who I am. My name is Jean Chevaucheux, and my father is a wood-splitter at Mezieres. He is an honest man, like you, monsieur. Seven years ago, when I drew for the conscription, I was madly in love with Marguerite Servan, a good hearty girl and a pretty one. I had already asked her in marriage, and her father had not said no; but, you see, Pierre Puvioux had asked her in marriage at the same time that I did. Pierre Puvioux is a man of my age, who carries his heart in his hand, as the saying is; gay and well-looking. I ought to have detested him, and he has remained my friend. Well. Father Servan »i<J to me •f he held oat hie head;

“ ‘Ton are worthy to be my son-in-law, my lad; but first of all you must please my daughter. I will ask her.’ “Marguerite, when asked, said that she would gladly consent to be my wife But she said the same when they talked to her about Puvioux. She loved both of us, one as much as the other; she hesitated—she did not dare to decide. But still she could not marry both of us. “Time went on. When the time of the conscription came we drew lots Puvioux and I, on the same day. I had No. 3 and he had No. 7, and so we both of us became soldiers. For a moment I was in a state of great fright, I confess. People at Mezieree said that Puvioux had a rich aunt, and that she would buy iim oft If Puvioux did not join the army. Puvioux would marry Marguerite, and L, knowing that I should be obliged to go on. for I was poor. I thought I already heard the fiddler at the wedding, rending my ears and my heart. ” “I must tell you that Marguerite Servan has not her e<jual. If I lost her now, after having waited seven years for her, upon my honor, I think 1 should blow out my brains. “Luckily, Pierre Puvioux was not bought off. His aunt died, leaving debts instead of a fortune. He had not a penny any more than I had. We were obliged to shoulder our guns, and we were expected on our way-bill every moment. One night Father Servan took us each by the arm and led us to an inn, and this is what he said to us as we emptied a bottle of Moselle wine: “ ‘My boys, you are good and honest Aidennais, equal in merit. I love you with all my heart. One of you shall be my son-in-law; that is understood. Marguerite will wait seven years. She has no preference either tor you, Puvioux, or for you, Chevaucheux, but she loves both of you; and she will make happy the one whom fortune shall choose. These are the conditions on which one of you shall marry my daughter; you start on the same day, it is probable that you return on the same day. Well, the one who first comes and shakes hands with Father Servan,* and says: “Here I am, my time is out;” he, I swear, shall be the husband of Marguerite;’ “I was astonished; I thought that I had misunderstood. I looked at Pierre Puvioux and he looked at me, and, although we were sad enough at heart, we, were certainly ready to burst out laughing. “But Father Servan was not joking. He had discovered this means of getting out of the difficulty, and he meant to stick to it. I held out my hand, and swore to act neither by ruse or violence, and to let Pierre Puvioux marry MarSerite, if he returned to Mezieres be■e I «lid. Pierre stood up and swore the same, and then we shook hands while Father Servan said: “ ‘Now, the rest is your affair. The only thing is to escape bullets and to return safe and sound.’

“He filled our glasses once more, and we drank a parting draught. “Before leaving, I wished to see Marguerite. Just as I was arriving under her window—it was at dusk—l saw some one in the shade coming in the same direction. I stopped short. It was Pierre Puvioux. He seemed vexed to find me there. I was not particularly pleased to meet him. We stood there for a moment like two simpletons looking at the toes of our boots. Then with a movement ®f courage I said to Puvioux: “ ‘Shall we go in together ?’ “We entered and took our farewell of Marguerite. She listened to us without saying anything, but there were tears at the tips of her blonde eye-lashes. Suddenly Pierre, who was talking, stopped and began to sob and I to do the same. Then Marguerite joined in, and there we were all three shedding tears and pressing each others hands. “When the diligence that took us away from Mezieres began to rattle on the pavement the next day, I felt inclined to throw myself down from the imperial and get crashed under the wheels. The more so as there was a Lorrainer at my side who was singing in a melancholy voice a song of his country, and I said to myself: ‘lt is all over Jean, you will never see her again.’ “Well, you see, time passes. The seven years are over, and who knows? Perhaps I am not only going to Bee her again, but to many her.

“There are, indeed, strange chances in life,” continued Jean Chevaucheux. “Pierce and I started on the same day, and at the same hour, and we were placed in the same regiment. At first I was vexed. I should have liked to have known that he was far away. As you may imagine, I could not love him much. But I reflected afterward that if Puvioux was with me I could at least talk about her. That consoled me. Well, I said to myself, I am in for seven years of it. After all, one gets over it. “In the regiment I became a fast friend of Pierce Puvioux. He proved to be an excellent good fellow, and at night, in order to kill time, we used often to talk of Mezieres, of Father Servan, and of Marguerite. We used to write to Mezieres often, but each told the other the contents of his letters. It was a struggle, it is true, but it was loyal. When Marguerite or old Servan replied, the letter was for both of us. An equal dose of hope was given to each of us, and so we went on hoping. ‘ ‘One day the Colonel took it into his head to appoint me Corporal. I was vexed and proud at the same time. You see, I was no longer the equal of Puvioux. My stripes gave me the right to command him, and in the eyes of our Ardennais, that was no small advantage. But I did not glory in my rank; on the contrary, it made me ill at ease. I did not dare to talk to Puvioux any more. Then I reflected that there were more ways than one of getting rid of my next rank. I neglected my duty and was forthwith degraded. But who should be made Corporal in my stead but Puvioux. But Puvioux was not to be outdone; at the end of a week he resigned. After that there was no danger of any propositions being made to us to make any change in our uniform. We were con- ' demned to remain common soldiers. “ ‘So much the better,’ said Puvioux. ‘What luck!’ said I. “When we had served our seven years —for Ido not mean to tell you our history day by day—l said to Puvioux: “ ‘Well, now is the time to start, eli?’ “ ‘Ye?,’ he replieu, ‘we are expected.’ “ ‘You know,’ I said, ‘the game will not be finally won until both of us arrive at Mezieres, and until the loser has declared that the combat has been loyal. ’ “And so one morning, with good shoes on our feet and stick in hand we set out for Mezieres from Angers, where we were in garrison. At .first we walked along in company, not saying much, thinking a good deal, and walking above every thing. The weather was terribly hot and dusty. Half way on one of our marches I sat down on the roadside overwhelmed with fatigue. “‘Are you going to stay there?’said Puvioux to me. “‘Yes.’ “‘Adieu!’ he said continuing his march. ‘“Au revoir!’ “I watched him as he went on with a firm step as if he had only just started. When I saw him disappear at a bend of the road, and when I was once alone, as it were abandoned, I felt a great despair. I made an effort. I rose and began to walk again. That little halt had done me good. I walked, walked and walked until I had caught up with Puvioux and passed him. “ At night, too, I was well ahead, but I was worn out. I entered an inn to sleep a little. I slept all night. In the morning I woke up. I saw that the day was getting on; I was furious and called some one. “‘You have not seen ft soldier pass on foot?” r

“ ‘Yes, monsieur le militaire, very late last night. He asked for a glass of water.’ “Ah! I was outstripped in my turn! I started hurriedly. At three o’clock in the afternoon I had not caught up Puvioux, nor at six o’clock either. At night I took my rest while I ate, and started to walk again. I walked a good part of the night, but my strength had limits. Once more I stopped. I knocked' at an inn. The door opened, and there sitting in a chair I saw Puvioux, pale aa death. He make a movement of displeasure when, he saw me that was natural. We did not talk mnch. What could we say? We were both tired. The great thing was to know who should get m> first for the next morning. If was I. “The next morning was this morning. Since this morning I have been walking, taking a rest now and then, but only a very short one. We are getting close. Bethel is the last stage between Angers and Mezieres. I know my map ot France now. The last stage! Great heavens, if I arrived too late!” “And Pierre Puvioux,” asked my father, “ has he caught you up ? ” “No,*’ replied Cnevaucheux, “I am ahead. If I could start now, I should be saved. ”

“Start ? In this state ? Impossible ! ” “ I kn<sw —my feet are swollen and cut—and provided that to-morrow —” “ To-morrow you will be rested—you will be able to walk.” “ Do you think so ? ” said the soldier, with a look ardent as lightning. “ I promise yon.” My father then advised the soldier to g »to bed. Chevaucheux did not refuse. The bed was ready. He shook hands with us and went up to his room. It was ten o’clock.

“ I will wake you at five o’clock,” said my father. It was not yet daylight on the following morning when my father, already up, looked out of the window to see how the weather was. While he was at the window he heard some heavy footsteps on the road below, and in the obscure twilight that precedes daybreak he perjeived a soldier who was walking in the direction of Mezieres. “Up already ? ” said my father. The soldier stopped. “Well,” continued my father, “are you off ? ” The soldier locked up and tried to make out who was speaking to him. “You are Jean Chevaucheux, are you not ? ” asked my father.

“ No,” said the soldier ; “I am Pierre Puvioux.” And as if that name of Chevaucheux had been the prick of a spur, he resumed his walk more rapidly, and was soon lost in the obscurity. When my father could no longer see him he could hear the noisG of his shoes on the road leading tc Mezieres. “All! ” said my father to himself, “ Chevaucheux must be sharp if lie means to catch up that man.” And he went straight to the room where Jean had slept. He was already up and looking at his feet by the light of a candle. “Victory !” he cried, when he saw my father *; “ I feel fresh and strong, and I suffer no more. En route ! ”

“And quickly,” replied my father. “Puvioux has just passed through Bethel.” “Pierre Puvioux?” “I have just spoken to him. He passed uuder our window going along as if the devil were after him. ” “Ah, mon Dieu !” exclaimed Chevaucheux, as if he had been struck down. He repeated once more: “Ah! mon Dieu?” Then lie buckled on his knapsack, and cried: “After all, what you have told me gives me courage. Let me be off.” In tlie room below, my mother, already up, was filling a wallet with provisions for Chevaucheux. But he refused. He was not hungry. Nevertheless he lei her fill him a flask of brandy, and putting on a pair of my father’s shoes he started, blessing my mother and leaning on my father’s arm to take the first step. Three or four years after this we had heard no news of Chevaucheux. We used often to talk of that evening when the soldier had come into our house bleeding and weary. What had become of him? What bad been the end of that romance of love so strangely begun? One day my father had to go to Meziers on business. Ho took me with him. At Mezieres lie wished to enter the first barber’s shop that he saw td get shaved. On the door-step a little child was sitting with its legs apart, and smiling at the sun. “Will you allow me to pass?” asked my father, laughing. “No, I won’t,” replied the child with a little lisp. At that moment the door opened, and a man in liis shirt-sleeves appeared—the father—and took the child up in his arms, saying: . “Pierre! Pierre! do you want to drive away the customers ?” 1 recognized the voice, and so did my father. We looked at the barber. The barber looked at us. It was Jeau Chevaucheux ! He laid the child down at once and held out his hand. His face was all red and beaming with pleasure. “What, is it you? Ah! and to think that I have never written to you. Ah ! you don’t know. It is I who married her; I arrived first. ” And rushing into tliebnck shop: “Marguerite! Marquerite!” he cried, “Come, come! ” He was wild with joy. A young woman appeared, blonde, pretty, blue-eyed, with a pensive and gentle air, a little sad. “You do not know?” said Chevaucheux to her. “It was this gentleman who took care of me so well at Bethel the night before I arrived at your father's house. * * * I have often and often talked to you about him. * * * This is the gentleman. ” Marguerite fixed her large, calm eyes upon, saluted us and thanked us softly: then, as her husband continued to evokt the past, she looked at him tenderh with a look that supplicated and was not without reproach. But Jean sa* nothing. “Ah! it is to you that I owe all nr happiness, monsieur! My child, m; little boy, look at him, my little Pierre It was my wife who wished that h* should have that name. Isn’t he a Sm boy, and strongly built? And my sho i is going on first-rate. My wife! I ador< her! And all this I owe to yon! ” “And the other!” asked I, imprudently.