Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 June 1894 — A TALE OF A BRIDGE. [ARTICLE]

A TALE OF A BRIDGE.

Buried, as it was. amid a sea of dense foliage, the little mill betrayed its presence only by the sound of churning water and falling spray. It sounded at a little distance like a melody with a sad rhythm to it that from time to time became suddenly bright with a thousand charming graces, and then returned again to the old melancholy song. The mill itself, with its roof of soft, red tiles, mingled its soft coloring with the tops of forest trees; and the background of poplars that shut it in behind and extended to the horizon only let through the ruddy glow of the sunset. To reach the sunset it was necessary to cross a stream which in one of its tortuous meanderings a little further on, flung itself with such sweet music against the revolving mill wheel. A bridge spanned it here and led up to the entrance, but a bridge whose beginning and end alone were in a serviceable condition. The middle consisted merely of a couple of movable planks which rested on the two ends, and imparted a springy motion to all who passed across them. But only foot passengers dared to trust themselves on these perilous boards, and the wagons loaded with flour and corn were obliged to make a long detour to reach the mill. And this little oasis so well protected, this little out-of-the-way corner, where human industry had made itself a home, was situated, as the rubicund visage of its portly owner indicated, in Bourgogne. This brave miller possessed but one fault and that a common one, namely an immoderate affection for dollars. He was a widower, and his daught ter Martha lived with him. She was a charming creature who busied herself with the household duties and was a treasure toward which many had already directed covetous eyes. For Martha was 18 years of age, besides which she had a lovelv mass of auburn hair, eyes of exquisite tenderness, and a thousand and one other attractions. It was known by all within a radius of twenty leagues that she would be rich one day; her father had saved money for years. But she, brave lass of Bourgogne, was as profoundly indifferent to the burning eyes that watched every Sunday in the church as she was to the passionate hand-pressure of the enchanted partners who led her away in the dances of the village fetes and festivals. Martha really had some love in her heart. There was a delightful innocence in the way she loved her cousin Thomas, who, for his part, was not a whit more enterprising in love matters than herself. Thomas possessed tastes that Bhowed considerable refinement. He was fond of reading and he played the flute. He was a dreamer of mild , characteristics. He loved nature too fondly ever to have robbed a bird’s nest, and he cultivated sweet-smelling flowers in every possible corner of the garden.

This native aristocracy of taste had always pleased his young cousin, Martha. But le pere Bernard looked upon his nephew as hopelessly stupid, and as, in addition, the lad’s parents had scrupulously neglected to bequeath to him a single sou, there was no chance that the two cousins would ever be united by the sacred bonds of matrimony. They both knew this, but despair sits lightly in young hearts, and they continued to live resignedly in the warmth of this impossible dream. They gave to each other the thousand little joys and attentions that are allowed between relations and, like true lovers, they found infinite sweetness in the most trivial incidents. Who can tell the value of a furtive pressure of the hand in the shady grove, the touching of the fair one’s hair with the yearning lips, the flower let fall from the pretty waistband and treasured ever after with trembling and heart-pangs? Those who like may sneer at these things, but they are, nevertheless, delightful, and he who has never experienced them is a thrice unhappy wretch. As Sully-Prud’homme says: “It is the little things that bear witness to the deepest love.’’ Thus Martha and Thomas lived side by side, not daring to think of a future which had in store for them a common love, yet happy at least that they were not separated for the present. One morning as Marthe came in from the yard where the sweet spring air had awakened the clucking of the young chickens, le pere Bernard came to meet her with an expression on his-face that was half laughing, half angry. He held in his hand three. letters that the postman had just left. “Here, read these, filette,” he said to Marthe, who, when she had opened all three, stood there with a look of great surprise, mingled with a little annoyance on her pretty face. The first letter said: “Mokbikub Bkrxakd : I love Mile. Martbe. and 1 have th* honor to ask of yon

her hand. I shall come for yoor answer this very night at 9 o’clock.” The second ran: “Mqksieub, the Miller : I adore your daughter and I burn to be her husband. To-night at 9:30 o’clock I shall have the pleasure of asking you for your consent.” And the third was as follows: “The undersigned, madly in love with Mile. Bernard, begs respectfully to inform her father of the fact. To-night at the stroke of ten he will present himself to learn whether he may De agreeable as her fiance.” The first letter was signed by Jean, the second by Martin and the third by Jacques, with the surname following: the surnames, if you please, of three of the best and wealthiest families of the neighborhood. “That’s what I call a joke in bad taste,” said Marthe, shrugging her shoulders and casting a reassuring glance toward poor Thomas, who was white as a sheet and trembling like a leaf. “If it is a joke,” growled Bernard, “ the first of these brave fellows that comes will get a reception calculated to prevent the other two from following his example.” Talking to himself in the manner of all peasants who are absorbed with a single idea, he grasped Thomas by the hand and led him away. “ You may be sure of that Thomas, hein?” Thomas would infinitely have rather remained there by the side of his cousin who seemed to him more charming now than ever.

And now I imagine you would not be sorry to learn the triple solution of the epistolary puzzle. Know then that Jean Monnoreaux, Martin Bondois and Jacques Moulinot were three good friends, who, in the course of conversation one night, learned that they one and all found the daughter of the miller very much to their taste. All three loved with honest purpose, and all three were able by kindness of fortune to aspire to the hand of the Miller’s daughter. The knowledge of this had allowed to grow up between the three of them a certain sense of awkwardness. They found themselves noting the smallest advances of each other, laying little plots and pitfalls in each others’ wuy and spying upon one another in the most wretched manner. Jacques, whose heart was of gold, felt the position of affairs very keenly and it was he who, weary with it all, brought about the reconciliation of the three friends. “We shall end by quarrelling altogether and separating,” he said to them, “and after being like brothers ever since childhood, that would be a great misfortune. Why should not each of us write to M. Bernard to let him know of our wishes? Why not each of us go, with short intervals between our calls, for his answer? All the better for him whom Mile. Marthe chooses. Let us swear to bear him no ill will, and to be friends, as we always used to be.” Martin went to get three sheets of paper, and you now know the secret of the three letters received by tiie miller. Jean was the first to face the fire. The three friends had cast lots and Jean was the fortunate one to act as leader, if not as victim. For it was evident that if the miller took the thing seriously, the first arrival would have to bear the weight of his bad humor, and the miller was well known to have a swift and heavy fist.

It was a night without a moon. The air was moist and redolent of hawthorn trees. A few stars, like flowers in the gurdens of the sky, threw a fitful and uncertain light upon the sleeping earth* Jean did not feel particularly brave. The creaking of the planks as he crossed the bridge seemed to him all the more sinister that the deep shadows of the poplars engulfed the stream beneath him in a degree of darkness that even concealed the fringe of whitojdancing foam along its rocky banks. When he had crossed the bridge he sat down for a moment on a low bowlder, overgrown with moss, to mop his forehead. The moment’s rest seemed to inspire him with bad counsel, for suddenly a wicked and disloyal thought found its way into his mind. “What,” he thought to himself, “if I were to prevent my rivals’ coming to the mill at the arranged hour? There will be more time for me to plead my own cause and the miller will imagine that it is they, not I, who played the joke on him with the letters.” But how? Nothing simpler than to remove the two planks that rested on the banks and alone made the bridge passable. In the darkness of the trees, where it was almost necessary to creep along on tip-toe, it would be impossible to see the chasm thus yawning at their feet. Unfortunate Martin and poor Jacques, who knew the path and could find it w r ith their eyes shut, would assuredly take the plunge like thoroughbreds. True, there was ten feet of water at least; but then both of them knew how to swim and there could be no risk to their lives.

“Moreover,” Jean reflected, “they will never dare present themselves to their loved one—to their future wife —like dripping dogs just coming out of their baths and shaking water-from their coats with every movement of their bodies.” Jean persuaded himself that love excuses everything in this world, and even if it was a little mean he would put the plan into action. He dragged the two planks onto the bank without losing a minute more—for 9 o’clock had just sounded from the village church—he approached the mill and rang the bell. His heart was beating rather wildly, but he felt no remorse in his soul and proved that he possessed a nature well hardened against the prick of the holy needles of conscience. “Ah, Mr. Badjoker,” said the miller angrily. “Here you are at last!” He had sent Marthe into an adjoining room in case the visit should have a violent termination. “Why do you speak to me like that, Mr. Miller?” asked Jean with the most natural manner in the world. “I suppose you made a bet among yourselves, hein?" continued the burly miller, gruffly. “How—a bet. M. Bernard?” “Eh bien. with those inseparable

friends of yours, Martin and Jaoques.” “ I don't understand what Martin and Jacques have to do with this conversation." “ What, you don’t know that they are coming here, too, in a short while?” “I cannot believe for an instant that they would play such an unkind trick upon me.” “ I tell you that Martin has announced himself for 9.30 o’clock and Jacques for 10 o’clock, both of them to ask me for my daughter’s hand.” “It's a shama!" cried Jean, "an unqualified piece of treachery! Because they found out that I love Mile. Marthe, they are jealous of me. Listen, M. Bernard, if these fellows come at the hours indicated, you may believe I am their accomplice. But if they do not come, you must see that they have made fools of myself as much as of you, and that they certainly are not in love with your daughter.” That sounds plausible,” thought le pere Bernard. "Let us spend the time meanwhile in conversation.” “That was exactly what Jean wanted. He began at once to enumerate with much complaisance the various qualifications he possessed for a suitable son-in-law, and while he talked the face of his listener began to show evidence of benevolence and reassurance.

Crash! heard Jean, who had kept his ears well open for any sound from the direction of the bridge. A minute later the half hour sounded. Completely satisfied with Martin’s fate, the rogue continued to enumerate the advantages with which kind fortune had overloaded him, until at length Father Bernard commenced to think that after all this fellow might be the son-in-law of whom he had so often dreamed for his daughter. Crash! heard Jean a second time in the same direction. It was Jacques landing on his head. Ten o’clock sounded almost immediately afterward, and the miller looked at his watch as if he were already convinced. “You were right,” he said, putting the watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “ Neither one nor the other has come. They alone are the guilty ones, and I shall not forget them easily nor their villainous joke. Meanwhile, I hawe discovered that you improve marvellously upon acquaintance and, my faith! I'll agree to it. It is a bargain!” “But, Mile. Marthe,” stammered Jean, “ will she approve?” His good fortune began to trouble him. “My daughter will do what I wish. It is agreed, I tell you, son-in-law. ” Jean was crazy with joy. When the Miller had embraced him and called him his son-in-law he went out of the room backward, scarcely knowing what he was doing. Once outside he could no longer contain himself. He began to jump for joy and to cut capers like a child. It was while cutting these capers, and skipping, about that he reached the beginning of the bridge wjthout being aware of it. In particular he had fprgotten quite that he had taken away the two planks. "Greeting to thee, sweet abode,” ho sang, turning with a hop, skip and a jump for the last time toward the beloved house that was so soon to be his own. Cr&sh! he went in his turn and remembered too late. The water was a little cold and Jean reached home shivering. Next day he had developed a beautiful pleurisy. His illness was a severe one, for it kept him in bed two months, nursed by his excellent friends, Jacques and Martin, who had never suspected him as the author of their triple misfortune. As soon as he was well again he ran to the mill and met le pere Bernard holding his two hands out toward him and crying for very joy. “Mon brave ami 1” he cried, “my daughter is going to bo married in a week. She is to be the wife of Thomas, who has been left a splendid fortune by one of his relations. They loved each other, these two children, what more could you wish ? Will you be best man ? ” “Grand mercl,” cried Jean, who was simply astounded at the news. For my part I judge his discomfiture to have been thoroughly deserved. May it thus be to all who are not loyal first and selfish afterward.—[From the French.