Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 November 1883 — PEER AND PEASANT. [ARTICLE]

PEER AND PEASANT.

“And you must leave us?” There ■was a ring of despair in the voice of the woman who uttered these words, and she raised her large, mournful, dark eyes appealingly to the face of the handsome young man who stood beside, leaning against a giant forest tree. “It is necessary, Victorine; and surely you would not have me stay forever in this little cabin, shut away from the world like a monk in a cloister ?” “You are not well yet,” said the girl, in a low, hesitating voice. “I am well enough to leave here, where I am only a burden,” was tlr§ rejoinder. The dark eyes filled with sudden tears. “You are unkind to say that, Hugo. What we have done for you has been done cheerfully.” “But your father is a poor man, Victorine. He cannot but feel the support of a stranger very burdensome. And he Refuses to accept any return.” “My father is proud,” said Victorine, "and does not wish payment for the favors he bestows. And the pleasure of your society has been worth much to him. He has often said that but for you he would have been very lonely. ” “What did he do for company before I came ?” asked the young man. “He has lived ten years in this hut, he Bays. ” “Ten very unhappy years, Hugo, The loneliness has seemed to him sometimes greater than he could bear.” “Well, has had no chance to be lonely lately,” said Hugo, in a tone of significance. Victorine’s face paled suddenly. “Tell me,” she said, laying her hand on her companion’s arm, “why do these strange men come here night after night ? My father will answer no questions. He says women should not concern themselves with such things, and he sends nie to bed that I may not hear what they say. But y<ju know all, Hugo. He contide3 in you, and you will tell me, I am sure. ” Hugo shook his head. “I would willingly do so,” he said, "but I promised your father that I would tell you nothing, and I cannot break my word. ” • ; “These are dangerous days,” said Victorine, “and there is a constant dread at my heart that my father will join the insurgents. Ledru Rollin, who leads the Bed Republicans, is always wanting more men, and the fact that these strangers corqe here so frequently fills me with alarm*.” “Then your sympathies are with our —with the throne, ” said Hugo, eagerly. “Yes; and yet I know how much cause the people b#Ve to' complain. They need help; bat can help come to them only through blood and riot ? Is 'there not some Other way in which their -condition could be improved?” “They have taken matters into their «own hands,” said Hugo. “It is too late to help them now,” and he sighed he»vA silence fell between them, broken only by the call of the night birds through the forest. was strangely still. A fetv yarns affigy Stood the Htfcle cabin which had* heel} Victor pipe’s home for ten long years, . Henri «Razi was absent, and therefore np light gleamed from the windows of Bis home. It stood dark and desolate beneath the tall forest trees which surrounded it. Moved by a sudden impulse, Hugo put out his arm, and drew Victorine close to his side. “The time has come for us to say good-by,” he murmured, brokenly. “Oh, do not forget me when I am far away, Victorine.” “You are not gping now!” she exclaimed. “Oh, HUgo, it cannot be possible that you aie to leave me so soon?” “I dreaded telling you of my departure until I could delay no longer, Victorine. My heart aches at the thought of leaving you, but I must be in Paris to-morrow. Business of importance calls me there. Give me your good wishes before I go. I shall think of you as I journey forward to-night, and picture you sleeping here, undisturbed by battle and carnage. She did not speak. With both hands clasped over her heart she stood like a beautiful statue before him, her eyes staring straight before her, and her breatli coming in short, quick gasps. “Must I leave you in silence then, Victorine ? Will you not speak a single word of farewell ?” asked Hugo, as he took in a warm, close clasp one of her cold nerveless hands. Still she did not speak. “You are angry, perhaps, and perhaps you have cause for anger,” a. quick sigh escaping his lips. y “Good-by,” she said, hoarsely, her face averted from his earnest gaze.“Only a single word, Victorine.? Can you part with me so coldly after all these weeks we have been together ? Ah,l see that you really care little whether Igo or stay. And I—l shall never forget you, Victorine, or the tenderness with which you nursed me back te health again. I remember what a ion of loveliness you seemed to me ■whew I opened my eyes and saw you feefieffy over me. I blessed my good fortune in having been found, after my fall by your father. Surely no other father and daughter could have been so kind.

Nowhere else could I have been nursed so tenderly. And after ten weeks of intimate companionship you bid me good-by as you would a stranger of yesterday.” Still she did not move or speak, and the band he held remained unresponsive to his clasp. “You may never see me again, Victorine,” he continued. “Our paths lie far apart. Let me hear you say. that you do not regret having known me.” “Why should I regret it?” she asked, turning suddenly and facing him. “ You have been here ten weeks, but in that time you have told us nothing of yourself save that your name is Hugo Lascelles. You say we have been kiud to you, but you have not rewarded our kindness by giving us your confidence. Do you think I owe you lasting remembrance ? Do you think that you deserve that.l should carry your image here?” laying her hand on her heart. The young man appeared to hesitate; then he said slowly: “It is as well, perhaps, that you should forget me. Forgive me if my reticence has wounded you. I dare not attempt any justification. But it grows late. Farewell, Victorine. When the sun rises to-morrow I shall be far on my road to Paris.” “Farewell,” she said, coldly. She heard him turn and walk away, but mad? no effort tp recall him. She stood where he had left her, silent, motionless, her head bent forward on her breast, the long, silken fringes of her eyelids resting on her pale cheeks. It was only when the sound of his footsteps had died away that she raised her head and looked about her. “Hugo! Hugo!” She breathed the words rather than spoke them. “Gone! gone! Never in this life shall me meet again!” She went into the cabin aryl lighted a candle. As she did so she perceived a sheet of paper lying open on the table. She picked it up and found upon it a few lines from her father : “I have gone away, and cannot tell you when I may return. You are safe in the cabin. Remain there until your provisions give out. Then raise the fifth board in the floor, counting from the fireplace, and take the bag you will find there. It contains sufficient money to last you several years.” “While I talked with Hugo, he came and left this,” she murmured. “His daughter is as nothing to him compared with his desire for power. He has left me alone to live or die, as the good God may see fit. And, had I only dared to speak, I might have won both love and station. One word would have bridged the gulf between Hugo and me. Oh, father! father! your secret has proved my doom!” As the last word left»her lips she threw up her arms with a bitter cry, and cast herself prone on the floor, her face downwards, no tears in her eyes, but hoarse, gapping sobs tearing their way from her breast, and her white, slender hands buried in her long, dark hair. For a long time she lay thus, making no effort at self-control, giving free license to the wild emotions of her burdened heart. But at length she grew quiet and lay motionless, as if utterly exhausted with the force of her strange passion. The moon rose slowly, and shed its calm, cold light upon her, the wind sighed through the forest like a lost spirit, the hours wore on, but still she stirred not. She lay there like a dead thing, and the cold, gray light of morning found her position unchanged. * * * On the morning of Friday, June 20, 1848, the city of Paris presented a scene of horror'Seldom equaled. In the eastern half of the city, every street had its battle, and every stone of the barricades was spotted with human gore. Each window was a loophole from which flashed the leaden death. The fight raged from house to house, from chamber to chamber. Men fired at each other from parapets on the roofs, and the dead bodies fell heavily on the streets below. Every atrocity of civil war or known among savages was perpetrated on the prisoners by the insurgents. Beaten from barricade to barricade, they were nnable to guard -their captives, and condemned them to die as fratricides. The young men of the Mobile Guard, nearly all natives of Paris, the heroes of the barricades of the preceding February, were treated by the insurgents as traitors. Some of them were decapitated, and their heads stuck on pikes, and, surmounted by the military hat, served as banners on the heights of several barricades. In the Pantheon, near the tomb of Voltaire, a Mobile Guard was crucified. At other points they were disombowled and placed in front of the barricades to strike their comrades with horror. Nothing was heard but the discharge of the musketry, the thunder of the cannon, the roll of the drum and the shrieks of the women. The combatants uttered no cry, but pursued in silence the work of death. The beautiful city presented a most changed appearance from what it bore before the beginning of the uprisal. And the palace of the Tuileries, with its magnificent furniture, its velvet and satin-covered chairs, its soft Turkey carpets, its tapestried chambers, its luxurious apartments of every description, was turned into a hospital. In the Quarter St. Jacques, on the Rue Sorbonne, the battle had raged for seven long hours,' and the dead, and dying lay in every direction. The troops had moved on, and a few of the Red Republicans were engaged in removing their wounded to the-hospitals, when, making her way slowly through the scene of carnage, came a young girl, alone. Her long, dark hair hung in wild ccmfupiqH oyer Shoulders, her dress, torn &u^ soiledjj ber shoes were broken and worn, find' ready to fall with fatigue. \fa«|l*i<Sll .fine Yeati'.on,' her largeM^M^eq|icJf|fc,lith, * l(5&h ofYrorrorxhe blood-stlinea, smokebegrimed faces jnptuined to the, sky. She appeared to be searching for some one, and paid no Attention to thernde.glances ea&trupoti heri •* *<•' sbe.gaYe a wild, unearthly, ary, and fell* nan. ,vber knees beside the of a yotteg f ifiain drtsssai ifcPthe •PmpriAjtf lihoyasSfalist. , a „ t ■ mt** vision of my dream!” •.***•*•**»« She tore aside the coat, and pressed her hand to the young officer’s heart. “It beats l” she cried. “Oh, my God!

he Is alive! Men! men! give me help to beat him to a place of safety.” “Help to bear a monarchist?” cried the men in answer. “You ask too much.” “Let me put him where he’ll need no help.” said a rough-looking fellow, springing forward with a bayonet in his hand. “Vive la Republlque Sociale!” But before he could strike the blow his murderous heart dictated, the girl had covered the body of the young officer with her own. * “Coward!” she cried; “to seek to kill a fallen man!” There was the sudden sound of a horse’s hoofs, and an officer, on whose breast glittered the star of the Legion of. Honor, drew rein'before the prostrate woman. “What does this mean?” he cried. “Put up your bayonet, man! Would you strike a woman ?” The girl sprang to her feet. “Help me, General,” she cried, passionately. “God will forever bless yon, if you give me aid now. There lies one whose life is dearer far to me than my own. Protect him; let me remove him to a hospital where I can nurse and care for him.” She looked so beautiful, so brave, as she stood there, her dark eyes wore a look of such passionate appeal, that the General’s heart softened. “It shall be as you desire,” he said. “I will act as your body-guard, my brave girl. Half an hour later the young officer so miraculously saved lay in a comfortable bed in the house of a kind American, tenderly guarded and cared for by the dark-eyed girl who had dared so much for his sake. But it was many days before he knew anything of what was passing around him; days in which he lay in the valley of the shadow of death, deaf to the tender words whispered in his ear' blind to the anguish in the face of his sweet nurse, unconscious of the tears which fell fast on his face as she bent over him. “Where am I?” the pallid lips asked, faintly. “With me, Hugo,” answered the nurse, bending over him, a world oi gladness in her lustrous eyes. He smiled as if well content. Too weak to .make further inquiry, he was satisfied with the knowledge -that Victorine was near him. It was from the doctor that he learned how his life had been saved, and how unfaltering had been the courage and care of the girl he had thought never to see again when he left her in the desolate cabin in the forest. “Victorine,” he said, one day, when he was feeling almost well again, and was sitting by the window with his gentle nurse beside him, “I haven’t spoken to you yet of what I owe you. I wanted to wait until I was strong enough to talk with you about it. Tell me, why did you come to Paris ?” Victorine shuddered, and her cheek paled. “The night yofi left me I had a vision,” she answered. “I saw you lying in the street, wounded and helpless. About you were soldiers, removing the dead and dying. Suddenly you raised your head and uttered the single word, ‘Come.’ Then all was blank about me. I saw no more. But I lost no time. I knew that heaven had sent a message, and that I must obey it. I set out on foot for Paris, and reached here five hours before I found you; I knew from the first that my search would not be in vain.” “Victorine, I have a confession to make. From the first hour I met you I loved you, I think. But between us was a gulf I feared to cross. lam not plain Hugo Lascelles; lam a Marquis, the son of, the Duke de Villars, and my blood is among the oldest in the land. I feared my father’s displeasure should I mate with one so lowly as the daughter of a poor peasant. I determined to leave you before my heart mastered my reason. But the longing to know if my love was returned proved too great for resistance, and I sought, on the evening of my departure, to learn your heart. I became convinced that you did not care for me. You were so cold and even unkindA So I left you and came to Paris, eager to help my friends in this conflict. It was from your father that I knew of the fresh rebellion which was to shake all Paris. He was a bitter insurgent.” “He is dead,” said Victorine. “My poor father! He had suffered many wrongs at the hands of the monarchy. Victor, I, too, have a confession to make. I knew from the first who ypu were, for you told your secret in your delirium. ” “And you did not reveal it?” cried Hugo. “Victorine! that was noble; for you know your father’s hatred of all connected with the throne!” “My father was not a poor peasant, Hugo, but a noble, exiled fifteen years ago because of his political opinions. He found life unbearable out of France, and returned, disguised as a peasant, and secluded himself in that forest.” “Victorine! Ah, then, my father will not refuse to give you a daughter’s place in his heart. Be my wife, dearest—my sweet, devoted wife! Ah, cannot you love me? Victorine, your coldness was not genuine when we parted ?” ‘ “No; I dared not permit you to know my feelings. I knew that as long as you believed me the daughter of a peasant your filial duty would not permit you to marry me. But my father’s death has unsealed my lips, and, Hugo, I am yours for time and eternity.” He drew her to his arms, and, with a bear# too full for words, pressed on her lips-the seal of betrothal.— Frank Les- < lie's Monthly. vy ====== A *an named Dubois, of Portland, Mfc>, fcs responsible for the first English sparrow brought to this country, in '*■ * *" ' ‘ '• M loWA nas increased her stock 130,73*1 last year, while in Ohio, there ha* beea,*a decrease of 14,671 head. ■ - -JpliGH medical authority denounces >fcii*hefi3 upon horses as useless, ugly AttrtfJriful to the sight. New York city has a French population of 75,000.