Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 March 1893 — SISTER GABRIELLE. [ARTICLE]

SISTER GABRIELLE.

A Reminiseense of SI ax O’Rell During the Frauco-Prusslan War.

BY HIS WIFE.

When the Franco-Prussian war broke out I was a young girl, and the awful news of the commencement of hostilities made a profound impression upon me. When, four years later, I met and married my husband, it was one of my great delights to get him to tell me “all about the war." Of the many reminiscences of his soldier days, none, perhaps, interested me more thau the story of a sweet nun who nursed him in St. Malo Hospital. This is the story just as I beard it for the first time many years ago. I hope it will not lose too much by not being told in Fren’ch, aa it was then given to me. We were sitting by the bridgo of Neuilly, near the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris: “There,” said my husbuud, “is just about the spot where I was knocked over. We were fast getting the better of the Communards, and my men were warming to the work in grand style, when the piece of spent shell nit me, and some of the fellows carried me off to the hospital. I remember being puzzled that there should be relatively no pain in a wound of that sort; but the pain came soon enough when the fever set in. The doctor of the Versailles Hospital was a rough specimen, as army doctors often are—in France, atony rate—and you may fancy that the groans and moans of the other wounded were not soothing either. One day the doctor told me I should soon Le able to be removed to a oountry hospital. That was after I had l>een under his treatment for six weeks. * ‘The sights, sounds and smell of the

rlace bad grown so sickening to me that think I could have kissed him when he talked of sending me to St. Malo. He came in one morning, and, in his brusque way, said, as he probed the wound for bits of shattered bone: “ ‘We shall be able to pack you off in a few days. You would like to get transferred to St. Malo, would you not? You come from that part of the country, don't you? The air will suit you.’ “He was a brute, but he had awfully good cigars, and he used to make me smoke one when he was going to have an extra go at my wound. I suppose he hoped the goodness might prove infectious. I used to call him strings of bad names while he was digging away at his work on my arm. Somehow it relieved me, and, truth to tell, he took it all in good part. “In a few days, then, I saw the last of him, and he of me; and glad enough was 1 to find myself In the clean, quiet, nunattended hospital in the dear old Breton town. There I had a room to myself, as each officer had ; aud to lie there in that sweet, sunny room and hear no groans hut my own was almost like being in heaven. The daily cleanings of the wound, still pretty painful, were recommended under the hunds of another surgeon, who proved to be a very good fellow. He and I struck up quite a friendship after a while. “Well, life was, if not exactly rosy, at any rate OBce more worth living. The brightness and calm were very sweet after the horrors of the Versailles hospital, and a serenity filled the air, like an echo of organ tones brought in by the

nuns from chapeL “The nun who attended to me was an angel. Don’t be jealous. 1 was there in St. Malo three months. Before one month had passed I hud grown to love her as I should have loved my 6ister. if she had lived. 1 loved the sound of her voice, and the touch of her deft, gentle bands. I would have gone through the surgeon’s probings without a groan, if she might have rebaodaged the arm afterwards. But Dr. Nadaud always did that himself. Sister Gabrielle—that was what they called her—would come directly he had done with me, and would try the bandages to make sure they were not hurting, arrange the pillows afresh, and smooth out the wrinkles in the counterpane, and my brow at the some time, sympathizing with me all the while in the sweetest fashion possible. Her voice was a great part of her charm: very low, and yet Hie clearest voice in the world. She had a way of looking at one all the time, too, with a gaze that was almost like mother's caress, and that wrapped one around with a delicious feeling of security and well-being. Sometimes she would sit and talk with me about the battles, and lead me into chats about my mother, who was ill herself at this time, and not able to come and see me. “ ‘How old was Sister Gabrielle?* Oh I suppose she must have been about twenty-four or five then. She had the Norman blue eyes, and a fair complexion, which the white wrappings about her face seemed to heighten and irradiate. Is it the white lawn, or is it a beauty that the self-denying life lends to them, which makes the faces of so many of those women look so lovelyf I called Sister Gabrielle an angel just now, but you must not fancy there was any celd

saintliness about her; in fact, if was her very ready sympathy with all my accounts of my young life in the outer world that drew my heart towards her. It was her very womanliness that set me wondering who she could have been, and what had led her m shut herself away from the world. There was little to do, lying there in bed week after week, and hundreds of times as I looked at that sweet woman moving about the room, I pictured her without the-coif, and said to myself that if she were not then a beloved wife, with a husband’s protecting arm around her, and children climbing about her knees, it was not because the love that should have led to this had been wanting, but certainly because some marring cnaDce bad prevented the realization of such happiness. It amused me to ‘make a pretty history to myself,’ with Sister Gabrielle for the heroine. A woman with a voice like hers, and such a smile, was bound to have loved deeply. Sometimes, when she was not speaking, her eyes had a sad, far-away look. I can only compare it to the look of an emigrant who was toiling a hot, dusty high road to embark for a new country, might turn and give to the dear spot that he had said a long good-bye to. But that look never lasted more than a minute on Sister Gabrielle’s face. It was as if the traveler settled his burden afresh on his shoulders, and with fresh, vigorous resolution. stepped on into the long expanse of road that went stretching atfay to the horizon. “One day—l coukl not help it—l broke into one of those little reveries of hers. ‘My sister,’ I said, ‘sweet and beautiful as you are, how is it that you never married?’ “With lifted finger, as one speaks to a too daring child, she said only: ‘Ssssh!’ “Then with the movement of the emigrant readjusting his knapsack, she added: l AUons ! half past ten! Dr. Nadaud will be here before wc are ready for him!’ “From that day Sister Gabrielle avoided sitting by my bedside. She watched over me just as tenderly as before; but our tulks were shorter, and I never ventured to repeat my question as you may imagine. Nevertheless, lying thete through the lofig days, it was impossible not to go on wondering what had sent this beautiful woman into the quiet life where I found her.

“One day I discovered that Dr. Nadaud came from the same town as herself, and I fell at once to questioning him about her. All that I could elicit from him was that her name in the world had been Jeanne D’Alcours, and that she came of a good old Normau titled family. I did not learn much by that; it was not Deccssary to hear that she was noble, for she had the stamp of nobility in every line and in every pose of her body. For a talkative fellow, I thought Nadaud had remarkably little to say about his former townswomau; and, after gently souudiug him once or twice on the subject, I came to the conclusion that it was useless to look to him for enlightenment, but I also came to the conclusion that Sister Gabrielle hail a history. “August came. I had been three months in St. Malo Hospital, and now the time for leaving had arrived. It was early morning. A fiocre stood at the gate, with my luggage upon it, and Sister Gabrielle had come to the doorway which led into the courtyard to see me off. Early as it was, the sun was already well on his day's journey, and perhaps it was the strong glare from the white wall that made her shade her eyes so persistently with her left hand while we were saying ‘Good-bye.’ As for my own eyes, there was something the matter with them, too, for the landscape, or so much of it as 1 could see from the St. Malo hospital door way, had taken on a strange, blurred look since I saw it from the window ten minutes before.

‘“Adieu, mon lieutenant! Adieu!’ cried Sister Gabrielle, in a voic- meant to be very cheery. “ ‘Adieu ma seeur! May I come to see you and the old place, if ever I find myself in these latitudes again f “ ‘Yes, yes, that is it; come back and see who is in your little bed under the window. Take care of the arm!’ touching the sling that held it, ‘Dr, Nadaud will expect a letter from you in copperplate style before another month is over. Allons! We will say, Au revoir, then, not Adieu. Bon voyage, mon lieutenant, bon voyage!’ “Another handgrasp, and I made my way to the cab, feeling a strange intoxicated sensation at being once more on my legs in the open air after sucb a long stretch between the blankets. Away we attled down the steeD stono-paved street, past the queer old high houses that, as the window-shutters were swung back, seemed to open their eyes and wake up with a spirited relish for another day's bustle and work. Very different, my dear, to the lazy drawing up of rollerbiiud in England is the swinging open of a pair of French persiennes, whiffs of new bread and freshly ground coffee floated out from the open doorways of the baker, and the earliest risers of St. Malo, Bnd presently the pungent, invigorating odor of the sea made itself smelt in spite of the mixed odors of the street. It was new life to be out in the open air again; and I was going to see my mother. But I could not forgot Sister Gabrielle.” Several years passed before my husband saw again the old steep streets of St. Malo. These years brought great changes to him. His right arm being no longer capable of using a sword, he retired from the army, took to journalism, and eventually accepted an engagement iu London, in the English capital he made his home, marrying and settling down to a quasi-English life, which possessed great interest for him from the first.

One summer (six yeara after the war) we began to make a yearly journey to a town on the borders of Brittany* and always landed at St. Malo to take train for our destination. Trains ran there only twice a day, and so there was generally time enough to climb the dirty, picturesque street to the hospital and see sweet Sister Gabrielle, whose face would light up at sight of her old patient, and whose voice had Still the same sympathetic charm. When the now Englishlooking traveler presented himself, it was alv.avs the Mother Superior who came to him in the bare, cool room reserved for visitors. And then Sister Gabrielle would arrive with a sweet grave smile playing about her beautiful mouth, and there would be long talks about all that he had been doing; of the pleasant free life in England, of the Euglish wife he had married, and of Bobe, a regular little Norman, whom he had promised to bring and show her some day. But that day never came. One hot August morning, just seven years after he had left the hospital with his arm in a sling, my husband pulled at the clanging liell, and asked to see Sister Gabrielle. He was ushered into the shady waiting-room, and stood drinking in the perfume of the roses that clam - bered about the Often window. Presently the Mother’s step approached, but when

she saw him die hud do longer in her voice the cheery notes with which she used to greet him, nor did she offer to send Sister Gabrielle to him. In a few sad words she told him his sweet nurse was dead, that she hod diqd as she had lived, beloved by ail who were privileged to be near her. There was no positive disease, the doctor had said, but some shock or grief of years before must have undermined her hrelth, and the life of self-sacrifice she led had not been calculated to lengthen the frail strand of her life. Gently and without struggle it had snapped, and she had drooped and died with the early violets. Touched and saddened, our traveller turned down the steep street to the lower town. More than ever he wondered what had been the history of the brave beautiful woman who had nursed him sevon years before. Turning the corner of the Place Chateaubriand, he ran against a man. “Pardon, monsieur!” “Pardon, monsieur!” The exclamations were simultaneous. Looking up the two mep recognizod each other. “Ah, my dear Doctor 1" exclaimed my husband. “Sapristi, my dear Lieutenant! What are you doing in St. Malo?” The young man having properly accounted for his presence in the old Breton town, and made known to Dr. Nadaud how glad he was to see him again, the two went off together to lunch at the Hotel de Bretagne, where M. Blout [“Max O’Rell”} had left his luggage. Having refreshed themselves with a light French dejeuner, the doctor and his former patient strolled out of the long dining-room into the central courtyard of the hotel, which the sun hod not yet made too warm; and there, installing themselves nt a little round table, under a huge laurel, they smoked and sipepd their coffee. "I will telll you all I know,” said the doctor, in reply to a question from his companion. “It seemed almost a breach of confidence to tell you Sister Gabrielle’s story while she lived, for I knew that she had come away out of the world on purpose to work unknown, and to bury all that remained of Jeanne D’Alcourt. When she first come she seemed not at all pleased to sec me; no doubt because my presence reminded her of’Caen, and of the scenes that 6he had turned her back upon forever.” “Well,” continued Dr. Nadaud, “the D’Alcourts had lived for gencratfons in a fine old house on the Boulevard de l'Est, and it was there that Jeanne was born. Next door lived my sister and her husband, M. Leconte, the chief notary of the town, and a man well considered by all classes of his townsmen. It is the old story of affection knotted together in the skipping rope, and proving to be as unending os the circle of the hoop. My sister had a girl and a boy. The threo children played together, walked out with their nurses together, and were hardly ever separated, until the time enme for Raoul to go to Paris to school. The boy was fourteen when they parted; Jeanne was only eleven; but the two childrens’* love had so grown with their growth that before the day of parting came, they had made a solemn little compact never to forget each other. “Eight years had passed, during which Jeanne and Raoul saw little of each other.

“The first time the boy came home he seemed to Jeanne no longer a boy, and the shyness which sprang up between them then deepened with each succeeding year. “ The boy was allowed to choose his profession, and he chose that of surgery. News reached Jeanne from time te time, through his sister, of the promising young student who, it was said, bid fair to win for himself a great name some day. “At the age of twenty-two Raoul left Paris. His parents, who were growing old, wished their son near them; anu steps were token to establish him in a practice in Caen. “Time passed on, and Raoul hod been six months in partnership with old Dr. Grevin, whom he was eventually to succeed, when Mme. D’Alcourt fell ill of inflammation of the lungs, and so it happened that the two young people often met beside the sickbed, for the eider partner was not always able to attend the patient, and his youug aide was called upon to take his place. “By the time that Mme. D’Alcourt was well again, both the young people knew that the old love of tholr childhood had smouldered in their hearts through all the years of separation, and was ready to burst into flame at a touch. But no word was spoken. “it was RaouW fond hope to be one day in a position to ask for Jeanne as his wife, but bo knew that by speaking before lie was in that position he would only destroy all chance of being listened to by her parents. "The touch that should stir the flame soon came.

“One day in the summer following, a hasty summons from Mme. D’Alcourt took Dr. Grerin to Jeanne's bedside, and a few momenta’ examination showed him that the poor girl had taken diphtheria. After giving directions as to too treatment to be followed, he said he would return late in the evening, or would send M. Leconte. “It was Raoul who came. “With horror he saw that the case was already grave, and a great pang went through nim as he spoke to June. D’Alcourt of the possibility of its being necessary to perform tracheotomy m the morning. When morning came, in all next day, Joanne hoped with a deep, longing, passionate hope. ‘The day after, howevar, it was evident that nothing could save the girl but the operation, and was quickly decided to try the last chance. “The rest is soou told. In that supreme moment, as Raoul made ready for the work, the two young people told all their hearts’ secret to each other in one long greeting of the eyes, that was at once a ‘iiaii!’ and a ‘Farewell!’ “The operation was successful. “All went well with Jeanne, and in two days she was declared out of danger. “But Raoul, unmindful of everything except Jeanne’s daager, had not been careful for himself, and had receieved some of the subtle poison from her throat. ” In the cemetery of Caen, high up where the sun first strikes, can be seen a gravestone with the inscription:— Gi-git Raoul Leconte, Decede le 18 Juillet, 1819. And this is why Sister Gabrielle’s path to heaven led through the wards of a hospital.