LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 453, 26 November 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LITTLE SHOES,

Translated from the French by Roger North, E.A.

{From the Argosy.)

On the 6th of January, 1776, the festival of the Epiphany, a scene occurred on the quarter-deck of the French ship Heron which is worth relating. All the officers not actually on duty were walking the deck, smoking and talking, when a young cadet ascended the ladder leading from the captain's cabin, and cried, ' Hats off, gentlemen. The Queen is coming !' And still Marie Antoinette had not yet quitted Versailles, and by the aid of the lame demon Asmodeus, or of second-sight, she might at this moment have been descried in a secluded portion of the palace, where, free from the etiquette of her deadly enemies, she was engaged in amateur acting in her family circle. Who, then, was this fair usurper, who, at a distance of twelve hundred miles from Versailles, assumed that sceptre which the rightful Queen was only too glad to exchange for a few moments for a shepherd's crook ? -We will only say, briefly, there was no crime in the usurpation, no injury to Majesty. The dignity to which the crew of the Heron paid homage was only the innocent and transient royalty of a day. The person on whom the distinction had fallen was a pretty little creole from the island pf Martinque, a relation of the captain, who, like the Virginie of Bernardin de St Pierre, wished tc push her fortunes in the chief city of the world under the protection of an old aunt. It was a pity that the young Queen held only a mock rank, for she discharged her duties with a decision and vivacity that Catherine the Second or Maria Theresa might have envied.

' On your knees, my pretty page,' she said to the young cadet who had announced her approach, ' Don't you see that I have dropped my glove? Here, my ministers of state, this way, and do not laugh, for the case is serious. I love my people, remember that, and I wish my people to love me. We must now decide whether, in order to secure their homage, blue bows would look better on my shoes than white ones.'

And so a thousand jests and a thousand childish tricks proceeded from her, till the honest tars laughed so heartily that they suffered their pipes to go out. An old Breton sailor, named Peter Hello, seemed most of all to rejoice in the triumph of the artless maiden. He was covered with more wounds than wrinkles, and had that day received a medal, as a tardy recognition of his long services. On this occasion the captain had invited him to the table at which the two ladies, his relatives, presided. Marie Rose—such was the young girl's name—would listen with amazement to the recital of Peter Hello's yarns. She had so flattered and caressed the rough old man that his heart, moved by such unwonted sensations, had beaten as quickly at the child's kindness as it did when he received the medal.

He alone waited upon her ; lie was almost her only protector; for her aunt, a good old soul who was chained to her chair by the gout, spent her whole day in the .perusal of St Augustine's writings, only varying her occupation by occasionally exclaiming, ' Come, Minette ! Come, Marie Rose !' whenever she detected her cat in the pursuit of a mouse, or her niece chasing a sunbeam. Marie Rose, however, as independent as most colonists' daughters, either did not hear or assumed deafness. At times she would amuse the crew with singing and dancing; then old Peter would be all attention : he seemed suddenly to be endued with understanding to appreciate the songs, and with taste to admire her animation.

The day succeeding her brief reign saw tho poor child in a very sad and pensive mood. The old sea bear posted himself in front of her, restless and silent as a faithful hound which sees its master weeping. She could not refrain from giving him her confidence, he looked so full of inquiring sympathy. An old negress, who commonly passed as a witch, and used secretly to bring bread to

Marie Rose when she played about as a child in the forests of her native islands, had once given utterance to a remarkable prophecy, winch had given the child food for much reflection. Part of it she remembered word for word. 'My good little lady, I saw a great condor in the clouds, rising higher and higher, with a rose in its beak. Thou art the rose ; thou wilt be very unhappy, then thou wilt become a queen ; then comes a great storm, and then death.' ' Yesterday I was a queen,' she murmured, ' and now I have nothing to expect but the storm which is to destroy me.' 'Have no fear, mademoiselle,' said Peter Hello. *eii the Heron does meet with a mishap, you have to do nothing but lay hold of the end ©f my jacket. With God's help and (the aid of my patron saint you would reach land as easily as a little schooner taken in tow by a three-master.' Marie Rose was a little pacified, and rewarded the old man by singing a song which no one had ever heard before. It was a farewell greeting from a young Creole friend, who, when the departure of her little playmate was decided upon, had put her lament into verse, and set it to music. But there is an age at which all sorrows are transient. The sorrow of the night disappears with the morning, as the dew yields its sway to the sunbeams. Marie Rose had not yet passed this age.

Next day she was dancing as gaily as ever, and the days and weeks passed without any termination being put to her cheerfulness. Her shoes, however, did not display the same endurance. One little slipper was sent to its last resting place by the final pas of a tarantella. Unfortunately, the ladies had brought a very scant wardrobe with them, as they wished to place themselves under the sway of the Paris fashions on their arrival. Marie Rose was soon compelled to sit quietly by her aunt's side. She concealed her shoeless feet under her clothes, and kept her head and body in a fever of unrest. The little queen wept like a captive princess in an enchanted tower, awaiting the arrival of some knight-earrant to free her. The knight-errant appeared in the person of Peter Hello. But although the poet has said ' desperation makes verses,' he has not said that desperation makes shoes. Peter Hello reflected for a long time. He searched and hunted everywhere; he turned everything over, and peered into every cranny of the ship big enough to shelter a mouse. At length he uttered a cry, such as proceeded from Harpagon when he recovered his chest of gold, or from Jean Jacques Rousseau contemplating the growth of his evergreens. It was no flower, no treasure which Peter Hello had discovered ; something far more precious—a boot! The boot of a soldier who had been killed attempting to board the ship. It had rolled into some corner of the vessel, and remained lying there ever since, as if mourning for its twin brother, which had been drowned in the sea, or buried in the maw of a shark. Peter Hello made use of his dirk as both knife and awl, and he cut and bored to such purpose that in less than an hour he had manufactured—l had almost said, a pair of shoes. Respect for truth, however, compels me to say they were neither shoes, boots, nor slipp ( rs ; neither top boots, gaiters, goloshes, nor even moccasins. They were a work quite peculiar in the annals of shoemaking, fantastic and romantic, things without a name. But these very nameless articles could, in a case of need, be utilised in shielding the human foot from the hard boards of the ship. The honest Hello ran at once to Marie Rose in her cabin, and after he had encased the tiny feet of the girl, undaunted by her loud laughter, in these droll coverings, and tied them up, he raised himself, crossed his arms on his breast with a triumphant look, and said, ' Now!' An hour later, the Bayadere once more danced, though with a weight attached to each foot, amidst the loud approval of the spectators. At last, after a long voyage, came a cry from the foretop of ' Land ! land !' A really touching scene ensued between Marie Rose and Peter Hello.

' I shall always think of you, an 1 keep the shoes as a memento; I shall preserve them as a precious relic,' said Marie .Rose, striving to console Peter, who brushed the tears from his eyes with the back of his horny hand.

' Ah!' he answered, shaking his head. ' You are going to Paris, where, amongst new friend 0 , you will forget poor Peter Hello ; you won't trouble yourself about him any more.'

' Always !' she answered, as she followed her aunt on shore.

He looked after her as long as he could. She turned about frequently, and even when she was out of his hearing, she stillcontinued to cry out, as she waved her handkerchief, ' Always, Peter, always !' Peter Hello had no means of knowing whether the young girl kept her word, for he seldom came on shore, and met his death in the American war. As to Marie Rose —

Here, however, my narrative is broken through by the.great stream of the Revolution. The raging depth of its abyss would make you giddy. Give me your hand,-iair reader; close your eyes, and let us s%ip over it.

We find ourselves in the midst of the Empire ; at Malmaison, in fact, the residence of the noble but unhappy Josephine, who had been declared by a legal separation to be the widow of the living Napoleon, still remaining an Empress, still reigning in the hearts of the French people, who adored her and were unwilling to ratify the separation. Seated at her piano, she was at this moment listening to a deputation of young girls belonging to her household, who shyly begged for permission to act proverbs. ' Certainly, dear children,' said Josephine. ' I myself will provide the dresses. Thanks to the generosity of the Emperor, my wardrobe is richly supplied. Look what they have just sent me.' She tapped her foot carelessly against a costly fur which lay on the carpet. It was so beautiful that Mademoiselle S. R., the youngest of the deputation, clapped her white hands and cried out, ' How nappy you are, your Majesty !' ' Happy !' murmured Josephine —' happy!' She sank into a deep reverie for a few mo-

ments, and her fingers glided idly over the piano. A few chords resounded ;it was the well known romance —

"My fleeting joy has passed away, And grief within my breast holds sway." Then shaking off the sad memories by which she had been oppressed, she got up. ' Come, ladies ; who loves me, follow me. You can select your dresses.' She led the way to the wardrobe. The joyous train followed her. The girls opened their eyes wide as did Ali Baba on entering the cave for the first time. There were diaphanous garments, so light that they might have flown away like gossamers, had they not been detained by ihe weight of the heavy jewels with which they were adorned. There were Spanish mantillas, Italian mezzoras, Odalisque wrappers all redolent of the fragrance of the East and of the powder of Abukir, and many other garments so gorgeous that our Lady of Loretto herself would only have put them on when making a pilgrimage to Paradise. ' Take what you want, children, and amuse yourselves to your hearts' content. I give all these pretty things up to you which you have admired so much, —all with one exception; something too sacred and too precious for me to allow anyone to touch it.' As she, however, saw the curiosity sparkling in the eyes of all, she said, ' I can at least show you my treasure.' One can imagine how fancy, the silly passion paramount in every fifteen-year-old mind, was suddenly aroused in the heads of all these children. What a marvel this must be which was not to be touched, when they were permitted to handle so many precious things at will! Perhaps a dress of fashionable hue, or of the colour of the sun or of the moon, as in the fairy tales. Perhaps the bird's egg which, according to the story in the "Arabian Nights," is composed of diamonds, and has the property of making one invisible ?

At last Josephine searched in a corner of the Imperial wardrobe, for she saw the impatient curiosity on all faces. She had, indeed, provoked it from a little innocent jnalice. Enough. She looked for and produced no gift of Napoleon's ; the work of no great artist; but simply the work and the gift of the old sailor, of old Peter Hello—the shoes given to Marie Rose. Of course you have long since guessed it : the Empress Josephine and the shoeless dancer were one and the same person. When Buonaparte's sword commenced to dissever Europe, Josephine Marie Rose Tascher de la Ragerie once more became a happy Queen. She reigned for a long time ; but one day a great storm arose in Europe, and the snow in Russia rose up in masses and covered the French troops like a white winding-sheet. Foes poured upon France from all the four winds, and in the flash of swords, the thunder of cannon, and the roar of battle, there was as fearful a convulsion as in an earthquake in the Antilles.

When the horizon had once more become clear, the prophecy of the negress had been fulfilled. The great condor, struck by lightning, had let the rose fall ; and the Creole from the three islands, twice a Queen, had perished in the tempest.

It is a well ascertained fact thai housewives are seldom out of temper on a washing day, if they get well on with their work. But if they have obtained inferior soap, and their hands are chafed therewith, there is generally a late tea, and the fireside is not pleasant until the children are got to repose. When purchasing soap, if you ask for the star brand, and see that you get it, there will be no fear of late washing or chapped hands, as the greatest care is taken when it is being manufactured to render it free from all injurious properties. Besides, it is the best, the bars are the largest, and it is the cheapest soap in the market. Try, and you will be convinced.— [ Abvt. ]