Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 February 1893 — A REGISTERED LETTER. [ARTICLE]

A REGISTERED LETTER.

(SROM TIIE FUESCn .) “A wild night, Marcaille,” said the postmistress to the letter-carrier who had just come in. “Wild, indeed, Madame Lefevre,” replied Marcaille, “ ’twill be bad going to the midnight mass.” As he spoke, he shook out his old cloak all white with snow, while the postmistress sorted the letters. “There! that is done,” she said. “But warm yourself before you start onfc.” Marcaille threw down his leather bag black and shiny in spots, and came close to the roaring stove. Me was a little, wiry, tough-looking man. His face, browned by sun and wind, was as wrinkled as an old apple. His nose was a thought too red, his eyes sparkled, his mouth was smiling; it was a good face that called forth friendly words and cordial haudgrasps. His mustache had a military ferocity, and on his blue blouse with its red collar a worn scrap of yellow and green ribbon told all his past—drawn in the draft, seven years of service, re-enlisted, petty officer, wounded at Alma, wounded at Solferino, honorably discharged. Then Marcaille had-been given the place of postman on the Champaghole route —400 francs a year, pension of 100 francs, making a total of 500 francs. And for ten years, for 500 francs, Mardiite made twice a day, morning and eveving, his round—Cize, Philemoine, lo Vaudoux, Chatelneuf, Maisotineuve and Biaac, a circuit of seven leagues in all weathers. With his 500 francs lie took care of a wife and four children; the eldest was six. But Marcaille had acquired the bad habit of a little “taste,” as he called it. In every village he had old acquaintances, almost friends. In every house he found, in exchange for the letter lie brought, a glass of wine, that seemed to him to put strength into his heart and liis kg*. llis nose grew a little redder; it even happened once that he had lost a letter, not a very important one fortunately, but it might have taught him a lesson. “Here they are, Marcaille,” said Madame Lefevre, “two letters for Cize, one lor Pillemoine, one for le Yaudioux—nothing forChatelneuf.” “That's good,” said Marcaille. That “nothing for Chatelnauf” spared him a league and a half of rough walking. “For Siane.” went on Madame Lefevre; “pay attention! A registered letter.”

“It is not the first.” “No. but ” and Madame held up a great envelope, bristling with stampsund notices, beside which spread out, like blots of blood, five enormous red seals. “ That’s worth caring for,” said Marcaille, laughing. “Whose is it ? ” “For monsieur, the Mayor.” “ Well, it will go through his hands, never fear.” “ Not any more than through yours,” said madame. “ No, but more of it will stick to his.” With this philosophic reflection, Marcailie dropped the letter into his leather tag, which he buckled carefully. He put on his cloak and opened the door. “And above all,” cried madame after him, “ don't begin Christmas eve too soon 1 ” “ Don’t be afraid! ” and Marcaille was in a moment out of sight. The cold pinched sharply; the piercing wind blew up little whirlpools of fine, dry snow. Marcaille jogged along briskly, muttering: “Not much Christmas I A mouthful for six and a glass of water ! But, after all, there are those who have nothing.” Hullo, Marcaille ! ” cried suddenly a rough voice. Marcaille turned. “A glass of wine?” said the voiefe. “Hmn,” grumbled Marcaille to himself, “attention, registered letter!” Then, •loud, “ I’m late now; no, thank you!” The window of the “Pineapple” public house, which had opened, closed again, and Marcaille, proud of the victory over himself, went whistling out of the village. This was indeed courage. To refuse a glass of wine in such weather, when he had still three good leagues up the mountain before him. But how light he felt when he proudly resumed his jams*. He felt light, but his bag asamed heavier than ever. Never had it weighed so upon his shoulders. “This rascally bag," be grumbled.

“It Is that letter. What can be in It? If it should be bank-notes, judged by the weight, there should be a fortune. This rascally bag!” And still grumbling, “The rascally bag!” and whistling at intervals, he went down toward Pillemoine. Below him stretched the valley, lost in the shadow, dotted here and there with lights, for the night was almost black. But he knew every village and every house, and in the blackness he recognized far away the house of the ironmaster, with every window lighted up. The joyous scene “Yes, yes,” murmured Marcaille. “There are some lucky people iu the world. They have money, all they want, and with money one can do 'anything. Just get a little ami it's like a snowball, it rolls up bigger and bigger. Some have all and others have none. There they are by the tire, and I, out here in the snow. And what they spend for thair amusement to-night I couldn’t earn iu a year. And yet they say God is just!” Why did these ideas come to him? He had never envied any one. Why then did he stop and gaze fiercely at the lights shinning below him? He shook himself together. “Forward, Marcaille,” he cried, “forward, march.” But the wind whistled and moaned in the pine trees like a crying baby, and Marcaille passing iu thought from the ironmaster’s house to his own, saw his four little ones gathered around their mother, by a scanty tire of fagots; he saw them searching iu the cupboard for a forgotten bread-crust; he saw them going to sleep, all four on the same little wretched straw mattress. Oh 1 poverty, poverty, it is hard 1 And to think that light here, iu his bag “.Registered letter!” lie thought. “If it should be bank bills! Imbecile! It is for the Mayor. It comes from the prefecture. It is probably only papers and they register it and put on tiiese big seals for a grand effect. Yes, but—if it should be bauk bills!” His face flushed red at the thought that had crossed his mind. “I haven’t drunk anything either,” he murmured, with a shudder. He eutered Pillemoine. At the door of a peasant’s house he knocked. A window opened. “Oh! It is Marcaille. Come in!” lie went in. “What ails you?” asked the man. “You’re pale. Have a glass of wine.” “No, no, thanks.” said Marcaille, iu a dull voice. Iu rebuckling his bag he had felt the registered letter brush the tips of Iris Augers. The mau had taken a glass, he held the bottle all ready to pour. “No," repeated Marcaille. And without another word lie hurried out. The cuds of his fingers seemed to burn at the remembrance of the red seals. Bauk bills, as many as there were there, how many things one could buy witli them! lie began to whistle, his breath failed him and he felt his legs tremble benenth him. Without intending to, without wishing to, he had unbuckled the bag, he had taken out the letter and iu the half-light reflected from the suow he saw, like drops of blood, the live great red seals.

Quickly he took the letter and felt it carefvlly to find out its secret. But the envelope was thick and hard; the paper crackled under his lingers with a little dry noise tbqt sounded formidably loud, while the night wind whistled in his ears: “Thief! thief! thief!” “Who said Marcaille was a thief?” he cried, with a fierce gesture. Then, seeing that he was alone, he came to himself and fell at the side of the road, crouching, his head in his hands, and murmuring; “This is frightful 1 But I have drunk nothing.” Slowly he re-opened the leather bag and slipped in the letter; slowly he rose; slowly still he crossed the road. It seemed as if an implacable, invisible band held him fast to this spot from which he would have hurried away. The road to Siane was straight before him; a half hour more and he should have finished his round, the letter would be given to the Mayor and he would be safe. Then he put the letter back in the bag with an angry gesture, and inarched on with a measured step, striking with his heel and counting as he used to do in the regiment when the march was long, “One, two; one, two.” The regiment 1 Ah 1 how far away it was at that time. How poor they seemed to him uow, the brave joys of the soldier, which had made his heartbeat for fourteen years. What a fool he was to enlist 1 Fighting in the field, hard fare in the camp, suffering in the ambulance. His medal! Great things indeed. A bit of ribbon on his blouse. How much better he would have done to start out, like his brother, to seek his fortune.

“It was by this road he went,” t hought Marcaille, as he started across the great road to Geneva, whose white length to his right stretched along by the forest of Siane, “by this road.” That long white road, he had only to travel along it—and he stopped, “The frontier,” hethonght, “is quite near. Ten leagues, what is that ? Taking time to go for the wife and babies, one could be there to-morrow morning. And once there, one is safe. The Mayor is not expecting this letter. If people missed us to-morrow, they would think something had happened to me in the night, that I had fallen into a hole or something, and that my wife was looking for me. Suspect me f Oh! no. Marcaille is an honest man, an honest man !’* The sweat stood on his brow. Panting, with his eyes fixed on that white line which lost itself iu the night, he repeated in a low voice, “ An honest man.” His hand slipped under his cloak, unbuckled the leather bag, and trembled as it touched the fiw» reu seuls. “Yes; but if I were wrong,” he muttered; “if there were only papers in it.” “Come, Marcaille,” he cried, “on with you! ” But no, he remained there motionless on that cursed road that led to the frontier. And for the third time, carried away by irresistible temptation, he drew from the bag the registered letter, saying: “ I must know what is in it.” Very cheerfully with the point of his knife he raised one corner of the envelope enough to slip in his finger, and draw up one of the papers it contained. The task was a delicate one, he must go slowly, very slowly, in order to tear nothing. If it were only papers! The night-wind whistled in his ears, “Thief ! thief ! thief !” But he did not hear it. He thought only of one thing, to know what was iu that letter. He had only one fear, of not succeeding or of deceiving himself. At last he got hold of a corner of the inclosure, lie took a match, lit it, and by iU light saw—a bank note. It was really, bank notes. His head swam. The envelop*) was heavv, the sum must be enormou lie was shouts.

to tear ft open to count It, bat agali. be stopped. “Let me see, let me see,” he thought, “I need not hurry. I must plan oul everything. A trifle spoils all sometimes. I will go home. I will tell Genevieve tint we are going away. Sho will begin to ask questions. She will want to know everything. Bali! I will make up a story. I will tell her but shu will not believe me. Would she consent? Yes, yes, she must. To be rich, isn’t that before everything? Are there not hundreds and thousands whom all the world bows down to, who begun jurt this way? Not to be caught, that is all. We will put the babies into the little cart. By daybreak we will be at the frontier. The gendarmes? Weil, don't the gendarmes know me? Don't they know that ' Marcaille is an honest man?” He folded the registered letter, and •instead of replacing it in the leather bag, slipped it into his pocket. It was his. T hen with a strident voice he cried out, “Forward, Marcaille, forward! you are a rich mau.” But he had hardly taken a step forward when his voice died in his throat. Behind him on the road he had just left, he heard voices, clear aud piercing. It was like the indistinct murmur of a crowd. “Christmas?” cried the voices. “Thief?” replied the sombre depths of the forest. Terrified, he tried to leave the voices behind him, running faster and still faster. Aud then a dizziness seized him. He knew not why he inn. Some one was after him, that was all. But who? His conscience or the gendarmes, he knew not which. Where was the danger! Everywhere. In the shadows, to the right and to the left, he saw everywhere vague forms whicli followed him; the branches bent low over his head like arms to stop him. Terror at all these strange visions strangled him. Wildly he ran along, the blood throbbing in bis temples; then suddenly fell heavily in a dead faint. * * * » * * When he came to himself, he was lying before the tire in his own room. Genevieve and the children were kneeling crying around him. He did not see them. The people of Siane, who, coming from the midnight mass, had found him, were there also, lie did not see them. “The lettei 1 the letter!” he cried. With one bound he sprang to the leathei bag, which had been thrown on the ground in a corner. It was empty. “The letter! the letter!” he cried, Then he remembered, nud drawing from his pocket the big envelope with the five red seals—still unbroken—he rushed out like a madman straight to the Mayor's.

“A registered letter!” he cried. “Oli! indeed,” said the Mayor, laughing, “What a state you are in. One would think you had come to ask pardon for a condemned criminal.” “Well they might,” said Marcaille, “But take the letter first. It is a little soiled—l fell down—l—l” His lie strangled him. “A drop too much,” said the Mayor. “No, I had drunk nothing,” said Marcaille quietly, “and it is just for that reason that 1 have brought you my resignation.” The Mayor had broken the seals, examined the bank notes and glanced over the accompanying letter. “ Your resignation?” said he. “Well, I should think so-1 can understand that.” “Ah 1 you know ” “I know you are rich, my good fellow.” Was this a joke? or had- the Mayor in some way looked into his conscience and read the whole story ? Marcaille became pale at tbe thought. “Rich?” be murmured. * ’Why, yes, there is no doubt about that. This letter tells me of the death of your brother, Jean Marcaille, who died at Toulouse, where he resided, on the Bth of this preseet mouth. According to his last wishes all he possessed lias been disposed of by Michael Dulac, notary of that city, who sends to me the amount of twenty-four thousand francs, which I am instructed to turn over to you.” “Ah!” said Marcaille, overwhelmed, as he took mechanically intohishand the big envelope that the Mayor offered him, “ Jean indeed, and lam rich ? ” • Then after a moment of silence, “it makes no difference,” he murmured, so low that the Mayor could not hear him, “ I should have been a thief, just the same.” Then turning he added, loud enough this time. “ But I am still au honest man, thank God!” “ No one ever doubted it, Marcaille,” said the Mayor. “But take my advice and be more careful. A glass of wine too much goes to your head, and you might fare worse another time.” “ You are right, sir,” said Marcaille, and he went off whistling, with his head in the air. Was Marcaille an honest man? I should say, yes!