Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 March 1883 — NINON’S PRINCE. [ARTICLE]

NINON’S PRINCE.

It was the siege of Paris. The Empress Eugenie had fled from the Tuileries, the Provisional Government had been organized under Troohu, Paris was in a state of wild alarm, and the Prussian armies were steadily making itheir wav toward the city, investing one point after toother, and rapidly cutting off all communication between the besieged city and the surrounding ■country. Winter was coming on; food and fuel becoming scarce; business was entirely suspended; the boulevards were filled with idle, aimless loungers, gazing with sad and hungry eyes upon the long files of troops that marched before them. Into the quiet and aristocratic precincts of the Faubourg St. Honore the grim ghosts of famine and bloodshed had not made their way, and the luxurious entresol of the fashionable hotel where Ninon, the gay little Baronne de Valcour, took her abode during gray Parisian winter was all alight with sunshine. Ninon was leaning back in her cushioned fauteuille with the toes of her slippers extending toward the fire, and her head thrown back wearily, looking the very personification of ennui. “Fifiine, you bother me. Go away.* Fifine departs, but returns again in the space of twb minutes. “Madame, vici monsieur. ” Madame turns her pretty little head and takes a comprehensive glance at the tall young officer in the uniform of the national guard. # “The Prussians have not eaten you up yet?” inquires Ninon, with a yawn that she does not take the smallest pains to conceal. “Not yet. Would it be a great source of relief to madame if such an event was to take place ?” “Rather.” “Don’t you care for me at all, Ninon?” “Don’t be silly, my child. Tell me what his Excellency Gen. Trochu is about, and when you propose to stain that elegant uniform with Prussian gore ?” “Poor Paris!” The young officer sighed and shook his head. “Paris is very nice—all but the Prussians ; and no one is giving any parties. That annoys me.” “Ninon, are you as really heartless , as you seem?” “Just about. What do you want me to do?” “Tell me you love me, Ninon, just a little.” “But I don’t.” The boyish lips trembled and a great wave of sorrow spread itself over the fair, fresh countenance. Then he knelt down by her side and a single tear fell on the little hand that he stooped to kiss. “Ninon, Ninon, won’t you love me?" “You are a stupid boy and you must go away or I shall never eat my breakfast. You are a very nice boy, Armand, but you look as if you were going to cry.” “Ninon!” the word sounded like a cry of pain. Then he kissed her hand again and turned tn leave her. “I shall not come again, Ninon.” Madame d e Baronne disfigured her pretty lips with an incredulous little move and the door closed upon her boyish lover. Paris in a state of siege! A city of 2,000,000 inhabitants surrounded by the force of a powerful enetiy and all suppb'es cut off! The streets were filled with a gaunt and hungry crowd of desperate men and despairing women. The sounds of distress and suffering began to make themselves heard even in the luxurious quarters of the Faubourg St. Honore, where Ninon, de Valcour wore out her days in wailing over the dullness and dreariness of the gay capital. The high price demanded for all the necessaries of life began to exhaust even the princely De Valcour revenues. The establishment must be reduced, ,avd Baroness Ninon awoke out of her long r dream of luxury and laziness to face life for the first time seriously. One among Ninon’s friends was missing. The boyish form of the young officer, with his untarnished uniform tod unused sword, appeared no more among her guests. At first she smiled at his absence, then insensibly she began to watch for his coming, and, as the days passed one after another, Ninon grew anxious. It was the evening of the 24th of November. Ninon was sitting alone when a quick, hurried tread sounded behind the chair, and the clanking of a sword startled her. “Armand!” she exclaimed, as she turned and encountered the excited glance of the young officer. “Yes, Ninon! At last Paris is aroused. To-morrow there will be a grand sortie. With 100,000 men we shall leave Paris, march upon Cbampigny—on to Villiers. Ducrot has sworn to re-enter Paris only victorious or dead. I have come to say good-by. Before to-morrow night Prussian ball or bayonet may have quieted forever tiie heart that loves you so passionately. Kiss me, Ninon, and God bless Ninon lifted the brown hair from the fair young forehead; a moment her lips rested there, and she murmured, “God Wess you, my Armand!” And then he

Eressed her passionately against his eart, and then he left her. In the morning the troops were in motion. With stern and set/determination they moved forward looking neither to the right nor left, lest the sorrowful faces of the women they loved should unnerve their hearts and unsteady their hands. At the head of his company rode Armand de Rochecceur. He did not turn his head, but the hand that held the bridle rein shook as the heavy tread of his powerful horse bore him slowly on beyond the gaze of the bright eyes that looked down upon him. Quietly Ninon watched him go, steadily she looked after his retreating form. A soft mist clouded his flashing eyes, and as the distance hid him further from her view she murmured gently, “Armand, God watch over thee!” All day long, that terrible 30th of November, the incessant roar of cannon echoed back into the stillness of the city’s streets. Paris held her breath in anguish. Outside the walls the sickening drama of battle, with all its horrid accompaniments of tumult, noise and bloodshed; inside the no less horrible torture of suspense, as those left behind waited with blanched faces and bated breath for news from the scene of conflict. Among the foremost in the strife on that terrible morning rode the boyish officer, Armand de Rochecceur. The pure blood of his Norman ancestry courses wildly through his veins today. France is his life, and he would give his life for France. Early in the afternoon Champigny yielded to the passionate attack of the French troops. Amazed at their defeat, the Germans fell back to recover from their bewilderment produced by this almost their first reverse. Then, rallying from their surprise, reinforced by fresh troops and protected bv their batteries, they fell upon the French with a sudden fury. With a wild feeling, half fury, half despair, Armand saw the line give way. “Cowards!” he muttered below his breath. Then, turning suddenly to hifl men, he cried: “Courage! Will you go back to your women and tell them you fled from Prussian guns? Onion! Conqueror die like Frenchmen!” Then he rode forward; but the terrified, panicstricken men were deaf to his call, and suffered him to go alone. With his right arm uplifted he rushed toward . the Prussian line.

Ninon has listened all day to the sound of that terrible cannonading, waited all night in frightened suspense for news from the scene of battle—for tidings from Armand de Rochecceur. In the morning no word has come. Dark circles have appeared under the brown eyes, and their brilliancy is all faded, gone out in that long night of watching. Restlessly Ninon paces the long salon. Finally a sudden impulse seizes her, “I will go and find him.” She finds him at last. As she approaches his bedside she trembles. She looks upon the white bandages that lie upon his eyes and shudders. Then she speaks to him, and the glad smile that flits across his lips reassures her. His single hand goes out to meet hers, and he tries to speak. A warning gesture from the nurse attracts Ninon’s attention, and she whispers: “Do not talk, Armand; you must get well first.” From an old soldier who watches over him Ninon learns the history of the sortie. As she listens to the story of how bravely the young soldier bore himself on that dreadful day, there is a look of newly-found happiness in the brown eyes. Suddenly they fill with tears, and her lips murmur softly, “I have found him, the Prince.” The Sister of Charity comes and whispers, gently and pityingly, “Madame, he will be blind.” “Armand, mv love! God help you!” Then she lifts her tear-stained face, lit up with its wonderful light of love and pity, and looking at the sympathetic countenrnce of the poor sister, whispers, “He shall see with my eyes.” The sister looks into the depth of the lovely eyes raised to hers, and thinks, “ He is not much to be pitied, the brave man.” Through long nights of fever and days of weary restlessness Ninon watched by her lover’s side. Strength returns to the crippled body, but the sorrowful eyes always wear that helpless, vacant expression peculiar to the blind, and the strong right arm is represented only by an empty sleeve. He is not forbidden to speak now; and one day, as he hears Ninon’s footstep by the bedside, and the soft rustle of her dress as she bends over him, he says, “You are always with me, Ninon, are you not, or do I dream it ?” “I am always with you, Armand.” “What brings you here?” “Because I love you, dear.” “Love me ? —but I am a cripple and blind.” “Yes, Armand. Your right arm and your eyes you have given to France. Will you give the rest to me?” “Ninon!” and the left arm, the only one he has, draws her quickly and passionately to his side. Her soft breath plays against his cheek, and as his lips meet hers she whispers, “Armand, my Prince, I love you. ”