Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 86, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 April 1915 — Page 3

A Belgian

By PAULINE BRADFORD MACKIE

(Copyright, The Frank A. Munsey Co.) All night Maurice Beaujon was possessed with the certainty that Jean was lying, wounded, in the open field. He knew the lad trusted* him to come, so Beaujon tossed as a mother might and could scarcely wait for the dawn. He talked to Jean. The stars were paling. “There, so, Jean”—he reached for his boots —“so, Jean, keep up your courage.” He raised his flask and tasted of its contents: “So, Jean, a few drops, they put heart in a man.” He stuffed a loaf of bread into his knapsack. , "Now, & crumb, Jean —so!” He gathered up gause and dressing for a wound and thrust it into his knapsack. “So now, Jean, let us see. Ah-h-h-h, that is bad, but we’ll get you well. Let me tie on this bandage. They’ll do better for you at the hospital, but this will serve till, we get there.” He flung his knapsack over his back. “So, Jean, put your arms around my neck. Gently, gently; I’ll not Jar you. That’s better, eh?” .He laughed "The uhlans didn’t get you, Jean.” . It was gray when he went down the road. People had their houses open, but the shop windows were closed. At the city gate an oflicer talking with a sentry recognised Maurice. "Hello, Beaujon!” he called. "You have been promoted for bravery.” Beaujon nodded as a matter of course. He had fought like a demon to kill men; he must have yelled like a maniac; his throat was raw inside; he had risen to a kneeling position in the trenches to snatch a flag which had been shot away from Jean, and he had waved it high above his head to cover the retreat of his companions. And then the uhlans were on him again, but he was up and running with the flag, and he had escaped ; somehow he had escaped. It was a miracle. He never doubted Jean’s safety until the lad could not be found. "Where are you going, Beaujon?” "Fbr Jean,” Beaujon answered. —■ "Valles, he Is misßing?” the oflicer asked. “Have you been through the hospitals?” “He is not In them,” Beaujon answered. * This delay tortured him. He knew he could make his search better before the sun was up, for the gleam of the bayonets had dazzled him yesterday, and from the field they would flash'in his eyes again. Beaujon pointed. “Valles can’t be far,” he added. “We were right in those trenches, just back of those bushes.” ‘Well, go on, then,” said the officer; “but be cautious. Remember the wounded have been taken off the field. You won’t find him alive.” “Alive,” thought Beaujon Impatiently; “no, not if this talking keeps up much longer.” He saluted and burst away. He stepped out into the field. He had known he should see the rifles and the bayonets first, but they did not flash upon his eyes now. No, they were dull and gray like the sky. He gazed blankly into the zenith; his first Instinct was to look •way from the ground. There was still a star shining; it was yellow and very faint. He met its gaze. It looked at him steadily, blinked, and went out. The thought of Jean gripped him, and he forced himself to look down again over the field. There were spots on the bushes; ttiiw, slow streams furrowed the ground; as the light increased these sluggish trickles, these splashes, were scarlet This was a shambles; the world a slaughterhouse. Ail the panoply of war was gone; all that made it brilliant, all that goaded him on, was gone. Why had he been promoted for bravery? He was not brave now. His mind was confused; he must stop; he must be clear. There was a word which would help him if he could remember it He pressed his hand to his forehead, struggling for that word. Ah, he bad It! Sure. He must be sane. He strode firmly forward, < looking neither to the right nor to the left, his gaze on those bushes Just beyond the farther trench. He heard low moans and cries, but he did not heed them. Something moved in a heap of bodies. How dead men struggled! He passed on. There, out on a free space of ground, a dead Belgian was lying forward on his face. Beaujon paused. Clutched in the man’s hand was an arm. He stared. Then he saw that the man’s other arm had been shot off. His healt Jumped. _ Could that slender fellow be JeSn? He went forward and turned him over. When he face of a stranger he began to laugh. Now that the fellow did not prove to bo Jean, he saw how comical It was.

I do ttll have it sewed on? Beaujon pursued his search, chuck-The-east grew rosy and a sweet, cool breeze blew against him. The day promised to be fine and clear. He was glad of that. Jean always liked to lie fiat on his back in an open field, staring up at the sky with eyes that were as blue. Mme. Valles was a. Genqan, and her eyes were like her sons. She wept because her sister had boys in the German army. Her own husband was a Belgian, and her sympathy must go with him; and Jean, her son —was he not fighting the uhlans as well as his father? But women took life hard.. He was sorry for women. He thought again of that fellow running off with Ms own arm before he collapsed. There was a saying in the Bible, “As one whom his mother comforteth.” The fellow had » probably started to run home to his mother. She must be proud of her big booby. He chuckled again. He had forgotten that word which had Impressed him so strongly—that word which would help him. He knew it was important, but he had forgotten it again.. He hummed a tune —a little, old, Alsatian tune —as he continued his search; the men whose faces he looked at made no impression on - him; he only knew they were not Jean. The sun flashed on the bayonets and sabers lying about; it was pretty as a sparkling sea. He bent over a body. Some instinct made him rise and whirl about on his heel. He was face to face with one of the uhlans. The German was on foot Each man was but a mirror of the other, so Identical were their expressions; each had believed himself alone searching for a friend. They stared at each other; they.turned; they ran in opposite directions as if pursued by demons. The fight was out of both of them. Beaujon dropped his rifle as he Tan, Horror was on his heels. He stumbled and fell and lay as if dead, then reached slyly for his rifle. As his hand gripped it he realized that it must be another man’s, for he had dropped his own He sat up -and looked over the field. The enemy had disappeared. He turned his head, and there beside him lay Jean. It was Jean’s rifle he held. He knew by the smile on Jean’s face that the lad was dead. Only dead men were happy like that; that is, the right sort of dead

He Chuckled Again.

men, not the kind who struggled to get back to life. Jean's blue eyes looked straight up Into the sky. Beaujon touched the boy's face. It was atm warm. Then he knew, that pale star which blinked at him and wpnt out was a signal from Jean. He wished he could lie down beside him, but he had promised to return. He had been promoted for bravery, this Beaujon; Who was the fellow — Beaujon, Beaujon, Beaujon. But he had promised to get back to him. He must find Beaujon again. He lifted Jean on his back and started homeward. It was strange that he was carrying Jean's rifle instead of his own. It was a message that he must fight for them both. He was grim but exultant .as he strode on. Where he had killed one man before, now he would kill two; it would be double the number always, double for Jean. The ground was uncertain and he Stumbled; then he realized he was trampling over the dead with his boots on. He laid Jean dowo-and took off his bdots, then'lifted his friend again and went on in his stockingfeet. When he came Into the city again no one offered to help him, for Beaujon was a glut in strength and he bore Jean as though he had been a girl He climbed the road and turned into a f?"* 1 ! hotel. Mme. Valles sat at the table with the guest the hotel; he W Beanjon's figure the doorway

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

and his shadow fan across the two women. Mme. Valles raised her hands. She was going to cry out, but somehow she did not. Instead she managed to get to a door; it opened into her bedroom. “Put him here, Maurice. Can you get a doctor?” Beaujon laid Jean down on his mother’s bed. Ho patted Mme. Valles’ cheek so softly in his pity. “No. Jean does not need a doctor, Mama Valles.” He went out, closing the door on the two. There was a stranger in he dining room, and he remembered Mme. Valles did not like curious eyes. He sat down in the first chair he reached, exhausted. The guest in the hotel was an American—Miss Dewey. She had expected to join friends in Berlin. She kept saying to herself that she had never expected this war when she went abroad. When she saw Beaujon’s pallor she ran to the kitchen and called Marie, the young* girl who assisted Mme. Valles as a kind of underhousekeeper, to bring bot coffee at once. “They have brought home ,Mme. Valles’ son dead,” she exclaimed, “and I think the man who brought him is iIL He looks so white.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Marie. Her hand shook so she kept pouring the coffee into the saucer instead of the cup. “Here,” said Miss Dewey, “I will attend to that.” She seized the coffee pot and poured the coffee with a steady hand. “Now you bring a basin of waam water to wash his feet They are,bleeding and his stockings are cut in shreds.” " “Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Marie. "Please tell me—where is Jean?” “His mother has him in her room. She has shut the door. Hurry with that basin, Marie.” Miss Dewey went back to Beaujon. “Try to take a little of this coffee. It will do you good.” Beaujon lifted his heavy eyes to her face. “Thank you.” Marie came hurrying in with .towels and a basin of water and, kneeling down, peeled off the ragged stockings with tender fingers. She - was young and dark and richly colored. Suddenly she pressed Beaujon’s bare feet to her bosom, sobbing, while she murmured: “My Jean, my Jean!” . She was to have married Jean Valles in the autumn. Beaujon’s brows contracted with pity. “Poor Marie!” he said. "Poor Marie!” His mind seemed entirely clear again. The coffee helped him. He watched her as she sat back on her heels, letting his feet drop into her lap and looking up pitifully at him. “Now, I shall have no husband.” He saw her poor, little, drooping mouth, the woe in her eyes. It was more than grief for Jean. It was desolation come upon her. The issues of life were cut off. She would have no husband, no children. Why was Bhe left a woman? This was what war did for women! Beaujon spoke with difficulty, for his throat was tired. “Marie, if I live I will return and be your husband.” When she saw the kindness on his face she bent forward and laid her face against his breast, sobbing. He patted her shoulder until she grew quiet Then he said: “Now, I must be going.” > Miss Dewey was crying, too. She ran out to get him another cup of coffee. “What a good man,” she thought Marie knelt and dried his feet andput a pair of clean stockings on him. They were Papa Valles’, as were also the boots, she brought Papa Valles had gone to the war, too; and he was a big man like Beaujon, not slight like Jean. Jean was so pretty— like a girl. Her tears fell more gently. Beaujon pulled on the boots. He rose and shook hands with Miss Dewey. “Good-by,” he said. “When you return to your own country remember us.” She stood on the steps of the hotel, while Marie followed him to the road. "Wait,” he said; “I was forgetting something.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth a big key and gave it to Marie. "It is the key to my shop. If r do not come back all is'yours.” She took it as a child might. “Yes.” She kept her eyes fixed wistfully on Beaujon’s face. “Good-by,” he said, and bent to Mss her cheek; then suddenly drew her into his arms and kissed her mouth. “Good-by, my wife!” The blood coursed freely through his veins once more. That kiss—so fresh, so sweet—had revived him. It was as though Marie had become a stranger whom he had fallen in love at first sight. Their love sprang new born from this moment; it had no past. He went off down the road with a swinging step, his shoulders squared. The good God meant well by man. His hand must be over this somehow —yes — over It all. “Where Is his shop, Marie?” asked Miss Dewey. "The fourth one down on that side, mademoiselle,” answered Marie. “Oh, that beautiful lace shop!” Miss Dewey exclaimed. “There are some Wonderful rose-pieces in the window. I noticed them day I Was in town. So he is a lacemaker?” • . , . "Yes, mademoiselle.” x Beaujon reached the top of the road. He turned and waved his cap. Then he disappeared down the hIH. “He is gone,” said Marie. She clasped her hands on hpr breast. “Think, mademoiselle, how one hour can bring me two sorrows It Is war!”

AT THE FRONTIER

By Perley Poore Sheehan

(Copyright. The Frank A. Munsey Co.) he can keep on following us,” said Mlsb Draeon. “There’s no law against it, I suppose—not over here.” The tea, the music, even the clothes she wore, were all well calculated to soothe a feminine heart —especially one that could not have been more than twenty years old; but, as she gazed out over the terrace of Armenonville, with an elaborate pretense of recognizing no one in the fashionable throng, there was a dangerous sparkle in Miss Dracon’s eye. * „ . Her mother, a personification of American dollars and well preserved youth, looked at her with an indulgent smile. “His title is perfectly good,” she purged. “I looked it up—in the Almanach de Gotha, where only royal and—” “Look out! He’s coming over.” It had required no very keen vision on the part of Prince Frederick von Hohenstaufen to see the Dracons, mother and daughter. An omniscient head waiter, in the first place, with an eye to a ten-franc tip, had placed them at a table where all might see. And, in the second place, they were not the sort of people who escape observation. Great wealth, sagaciously used, stamps its possessors with an imprint as unmistakable as the sterling mark on solid plate. Prince Frederick was likewise noticeable, but otherwise. As he made his way, with a queer mingling of eagerness and anxiety visible in his face, through the perfumed, well-dressed, gayly chatting swarm of Parisians and foreign notables who were enjoying themselves in the Bois that afternoon, he suffered badly by comparison, in spite of his youth. So Miss Draeon thought. His features were smug and homely, giving his clean-shaven face an expression she associated vaguely with grocers or grooms. His skin was fresh enough, but exposure to the sun had

"Look Out! He’s Coming Over.”

made it red in spots instead of giving it the even tan possessed by most of the other men she knew. And his clothes! They also reminded Miss Dracon vaguely of grocers and grooms, dressed up“Ah, Mrs. Dracon; again! Permit me to salute you." The prince had taken the tips of Mrs. Dracon’s fingers and lifting them ever so slightly, was performing the acrobatic feat of bending forward from the hips without flexing the knees. He had touched the fingers with his lips. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth!" He repeated the salute. “Sit down here with us, dear prince," said Mrs. Dracon. “Or, are you with friends? When did you leave America?" The heir of Hohenataufen dropped into the chair that a waiter had already poshed into position, gave one meaning look at Elizabeth Dracon, then turned once more to the older woman. “As soon as I learned you had gone, then I left," he said. Elizabeth bit her lip, while her mother smiled e&sily. “A coincidence,” said Mrs. Dracon. "A coincidence," conceded the prince, “but designed by me." He looked from mother to daughter. Mrs. Dracon was listening Intently, no doubt, although she had the air of one who is rather preocupied with something else. The daughter's eyes met his with ,the suspicion of a challenge in them. ; .ii Hadn't they settled this, once and

posed to her over to Philadelphia? “You see,” he said, with an effort at lightness, "I got to thinking over what Miss Elisabeth said to me about international marriages. I don’t see how It applies to ns. I know, that she is not crazy for a title—other than her own high-born name; and me, I’m not after—after money.” The red-coated band, responsive to a frenzied leader, was zinging and banging through a Hungarian rhapsody, giving promise that it would still be safe to talk about private matters for a long time to come. “Elizabeth told me that you had done her the honor*—” Mrs. Dracon began. , “Perhaps I should have spoken first to you,” said the prince, talking rapidly. "But I said, ‘This is America, where there must not be too much formality.’ Besides, I was crazy—crazy with love —as I have been ever since first I looked at her.” "No scene, please,” cautioned Elizabeth steadily. The band zinged louder. Her remark drew blood apparently. “It is true that I have debts,” the prince went on; "b|t they are the debts of my ancestors. I pay interest on them. No one expects more than that. They are like state debts—what you call national debt. A national debt 1b never paid. But why mention such things? It is you I love. You I followed again back to Europe.” "Will you have cream or lemon?” asked Elizabeth, suddenly remembering the tea things. “So why—why—will you not have me?” “Shall I go over it all once more?” asked Elizabeth, smiling but cruel. "I’ve seen enough of tlfese international marriages to make me sick. If I ever marry—which I doubt—l’ll marry an American. I’ll marry a man who can take care of me, just as though I didn't have a cent in the world; one who will work, accomplish something, be someone by his own efforts. Since you owe so much, by your own admission, why don’t you work and—” “Elizabeth!” Mrs. Dracon was scandalized, as she often was by this ultra-modern daughter of hers; but the prince was listening, sober, intent. "I can’t work, the way you mean,” said Prince Frederick' with bated breath. “I’m a Hohenstaufen. I belong to the empire. If it were not for that, there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to show you—show you how I love you. Even now, could I do so with honor, I’d blow out my brains—” "I’ve dropped my fan,” said Mrs. Dracon. The prince recovered it for her with a little laugh just as the music, with a succession of rippling, scales suggestive of a flight of butterflies, went up into the air and was silent.

Silent, also, for most of the time were Mrs. Dracon and her daughter as they drove home a little later through the high-arched allees of the Bois. They were stopping at the Bristol, would be moving on soon to one of the German spas, Wiesbaden most likely. And they were both willing to pretend that it was this approaching departure from Paris that kept them a little restrained, a little blue. Finally Mrs. Dracon spoke. "Don’t you think you’re a bit brutal with him, Beth? Young Germans have been known to kill themselves—” "Oh, he’ll show up again,” said Elizabeth. Baris was like a pond overstocked with goldfish—filled with the rich and idle from the four quarters of the world. Came the end of Grand Prix week, and it was as though some mighty hand had opened all the sluices of the pond. The goldfish scattered. The Dracons lingered longer In Paris than they had expected—a matter of new gowns—and then floated on, with other goldfish, to the German resort. But still there was no sign of Prince Frederick von Hohenstaufen. It troubled them both a little secretly. He wasn’t acting in accordance with form. Generally when an impoverished prince once fixes his attention on a dazzling bait like Elizabeth Dracon—handsome, educated, immeasurably rich in her own right—-he becomes as a ravening pike. So they both thought. They were not without experience. But they said nothing about it. Not until one night It was the night that followed a hideous day. From early morning they bad been crowded with strangers whom they feared and distrusted in the tiny, suffocating compartment of a third-class railway carriage. All day the train had crawled and stopped, then crawled again, like a wounded worm, while other trains rushed by with lordly authority. Soldiers, helmeted, brusk, impersonal, had jerked the door of the compartment open at. times, had stared and talked among themselves, but had answered no questions. Even more lugubrious was the deepening night. It had begun to rain. Then, finally, as though the wounded worm was completely exhausted, the train came to a halt and moved no more. There was another hour of stifling misery, then once more the door was jerked open and there came the order in the clipped, military German of Prussia: "All passengers get down!” It was almost panto as the shuddering civilians—men, women and children, Dutch, Belgian, French, English, Americana-clambered out; but information somehow got about that here they were to remain until mobilization was complete, that therq»was a hotel in the neighborhood that was to be theii temporary prison. *Ahd what is the name of the

placer’ Elizabeth asked a mammoth Belgian, who, with his wife and four children, had been their cellmate, throughout the day. Said the Belgian: -. w |S« “This la Hohenstaufen!” A moment later she and her mother! were leaning against each other for: mutual support. Very stiff and straight in a new nnhj form, surrounded by officers who were! showing him obvious respect, then* stood under the yellow shimmer of the station light some one whom they both had instantly recognized—Prince Fred*

Slid Off With Them Into the Night.

erick himself. Almost at the same instant he saw them, started toward! them. “Ah, Mrs. Dracon; again! ' Permit! me to salute you.” He took .the tips of her fingers, bent forward from the hips without flexing his knees. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth!” He repeated the salute. Bat his ridiculously short hair was now concealed by a helmet which hadn’t been displaced. “I regret,” he said, as he straightened up, “that you have been made to suffer. But while you are in Hohenstaufen you will, at least, be my guests.” “We want to get to Belgium:—to London,” said Elizabeth, by now on the verge of tears. "We’ve lost our baggage—everything,” said Mrs. Dracon. They were speaking softly, as civilians and military passed and repassed. The officers who had surrounded the prince had turned their) backs, pretending not to notiee. “I am master here,” said the prince quietly; “but not beyond the limits of the principality." He turned to Elizabeth. “Have you forgotten that I love you?” “What then?” “Marry me.” Elizabeth looked at him with unflinching eyes. “You have us in your power—to. compromise us, disgrace us, if you wish—” A change of expression in that prince’s face made her-pause. “I spoke to you once of shooting myself," he said; “but my life was not my own. I still have it—Gott sel dank—to give for my country. As my wife, or even as my fiancee, you could have—” He made a gesture of despair. “Mrs. Dracon,” he resumed, “farewell. A military motor will be here in a few minutes, in charge oft one of my orderlies, who will see that you and Miss Dracon are conducted In safety to the Belgian frontier. Elizabeth, if I never see you again—” "Kiss me good-by,” she whispered in panic. ▲ gray-painted motor, with two men in uniform on the front seat, Mid off with them into the night. Prince Frederick von Hohenstaufen had not been there to see them go; but every now and then, as they stopped at garrison towns and scattered poets where all was wakefulness and feverish activity, one of the men on the front seat showed a paper hejcarried, whereupon there would be a murmured “Recht!” and a salute. “What is on that paper?” asked Elizabeth after one of these halts. The orderly looked surprised. "That thh high-born young lady,” he said, “is thV promised bride of his highness, Prince Frederick.” They came Into a sleepy Belgian frontier post at dawn- In aa hour a train would be carrying them to Dieppe, with London and New York, it seemed to them, thoroughly exhausted though they were, just beyond. Elizabeth demanded the paper that had brought them thus far in safety, and then, while her mother and the men who were there looked on. she wrote something on it with a borrowed pencil. “Take this back to his highness,” she said, “with our love and gratitude.” The orderly saluted. The gray car snorted and was off again on Its return Into Germany. Not until it waa at a safe distance did the orderly dare look at what the fair American had written. At first he saw nothing, as the paper flattered in his hand. He came to the words, “promised bride," and then ha saw There had been written here the cite word “Recht!”—and this ted been signed with the nam» of Sftsabetfe Dracon. « . . . .. _.. . .... - —^.- —lr— *i-r.-r-r*'jr r-v* '■'-Ml'i—iilßXnrirnnttE