LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 622, 16 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

STRONGER THAN LOVE.

f Concluded .)

Herr Steinthal, on the first rumour of the German outbreak, had conveyed himself and his money bags to a place of safety, and the house had been occupied by the sick and wounded ever since the battle of Lutzen. Waldemar, however, found a small room where he could be alone. He had just been assisting to lay in the grave his two dearest friends, Eugene Delapierre and the tenderhearted young Ludwig Krone, killed in the melee when the explosion took place at the Lindenau bridge. Now, at last, Waldemar had time to give to sorrow. He opened the packet taken from the breast pocket of Eugene’s coat. The first thing that met his eyes was a beautifully executed miniature of Lucienne. There were the rosy lips he had kissed; there the dark eyes that had looked lovingly into his; there the abundant and glossy hair, a lock of which still rested next his heart. He raised the portrait to his lips. Alas ! never more would he meet the light of those speaking eyes ; never more bask in the sunny smile of which the pic iire gave a faint reflex. With a bursting sigh, he laid the minature by his side, and took up two or three letters that accompanied it. The sight of the well-known handwriting aftected him almost as deeply as the pictured face.

The letters were addressed to her brother; one seemed to be in answer to some question or expostulation. ‘ You ask me if I no longer love Waldemar Steinthal. As well ask me if I no longer breathe.’ So it ran. ‘ You m'en make sacrifices for your Emperor and your country ; we women have also sacrifices to make. You give your swords, we give our hearts; and mine lies torn and bleeding, broken by this bitter strife between all I hold dear. Sleeping or waking, I have ever one image before me— Waldemar armed against France; perhaps against thee. My prayers are distracted. How can I implore divine aid for one, while I weep to think of the other’s fall ? Do not think I blame Waldemar ;he could not have done otherwise. It is no wrong, but cruel fate, that has come between us. Speak to me no more of marriage ; henceforward I dedicate myself to my God, to the unfortunate, and to thee, my brother. ’ Waldemar read no more. The letters did but confirm what he knew before. ‘ Oh my country,’he cried aloud ; 'thou hast cost me much! ’ - Chapter hi. Fifty seven years passed away. Nature, ever young,, ever renovating the old, and restoring the lost, was fresh and fair as formerly around the chateau of the Delapierres, now owned by an aged lady, the last of her race. Deeply affected she haul been by the successes of the Germans, and the march of an invading army through the province, but she had opened her doors to the wounded indiscriminately, whether French or German. One evening, after a skirmish in the neighborhood, several wounded soldiers were brought to her well-known habitation. She came into the hall to receive them, and to give orders as to their disposal. Pale and sad she looked in her semi-religious dress of black serge, her silver grey hair put away under a close white cap, as she stood there, speaking words of comfort and encouragement to the poor fellows who had claimed her hospitality. And thus, in works of mercy, she found alleviation of the lifelong sorrow that was consuming her. Seven or eight had been thus received ; another had yet to come they told her. She waited. He was borne in on a litter, for he had been wounded in the knee. A handsome youth, with deep blue eyes, and fair hair and moustache. When Mademoiselle Delapierre caught sight of his face, she uttered a cry and tottered forward, but restraining herself with an effort, she ordered that he should be conveyed to her own chamber. ‘I myself will take charge of him,’ she said to the servant who awaited her orders. The woman, who had grown old in the Delapierres’ service, would have expostulated, knowing her mistress’ feeble state; but Mademoiselle Delapierre, with a movement of her hand, signified her determination. The young man was laid in bed and his wound dressed. It proved not to be serious; a simple fracture, that would scarcely produce permanent lameness. When Mademoiselle Delapierre entered the room to take up her night watch, he was able to thank her for her kind care. His hostess scarcely appeared to hear what he said; her gaze was fixed on his countenance. ‘ You are German,’ she said. ‘ I am, madame; I come from Leipsic,’ was the answer. ‘ And your name V ‘ Waldemar Steinthal.’ ‘ I knew it!’ Mademoiselle Delapierre exclaimed, clasping her hands. The youth regarded her with‘surprise. ‘ Your father—it must be —was once—that is, I once knew [him,” said Mademoiselle Delapierre, in broken accents. ‘Waldemar Steinthal, of Leipsic, you say !’ ""—s ‘ The same, madame.’ ‘ You are young to be his son ?’ *He did not marry till late in life, madame,’the youth replied. 'He suffered from some early disappointment, I have heard. ’ The old lady trembled more and more ; she sat down by the side of the bed. * Tell me more,’ she said. Have you brothers and sisters ?’ ‘ One brother, and one sister, madame— Eugene and Lucienne, French names, you see. But my father had tender recollections of France, he used to say.’ Mademoiselle Delapierre pressed her hand to her side. Her heart beat painfully. ‘And your mother ? ’ she asked. ‘ls an angel of goodness, madame,’ the young man returned. ‘She loved my father. She knew all, and was contented with his friendship. They were happy.’ ‘Were? You speak in the past tense, my child.’ ‘ Alas, yes ! ’ answered the youth. ‘My father has been dead some years. But my mother still lives; lives to bless you, madame, for your kindness to her son.’ There was a silence for a few minutes ; a fiood of tender remembrances overpowered her. Then the old lady rose, and opening a cabinet, took from a casket a locket set with—brilliants. She louchsd the spring. Inside was a knot of brown and black hair intertwined, with the initials and date, W. S. L. D., 1812. She stood for a moment as if lost in meditation, then closing the locket, she returned to the side of the bed, and placed it, together with the gold chain to which it was attached, in the youth’s hand. * When you return to Leipsic, give this to your sister,’ she said, faltering with emotion. * Tell her it is from Lucienne Delapierre.’ ‘ Madame ? You—— * 4 Hush!’ Mademoiselle Delapierre interposed. * You have talked enough. You must sleep now. I also am weary. Goodnight.’ She stooped and pressed a kiss on the young man’s brow. He felt a tear fa'l, and her lips were cold. She sank back in the chair-lounge that had been placed beside the bed, and soon the silence of night was only broken by the regular breathing of the wounded man. Early in the morning the old s rvant came in to relieve her beloved mistress from her watch. But the words she was about to utter were frozen on her lips. Both the inmates of the room were sleeping, the young soldier calmly and soundly, soon to awake to renewed life. Mademoiselle Delapierre slept still more calmly and soundly, a placid smile on her face, pallid as snow. Her waking would be in another world, whither her spirit had flown to rejoin his, the betrothed of her youth, loved so fondly in spite of all adverse influences. God had joined these two hearts together, but man, with his ambition his cruel enmity, had put them asunder. In Heaven there is peace.