LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1089, 26 December 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY LAST FRANC. By Ada Ward. [From “The Vagabond Annual.”! Gentle readers, pray do not think that I wish to force myself upon your notice as an authoress. I do not at all profess to be one, nor do I flatter myself that the simple tale I am about to write will greatly please you ; but the following is the reason for my rushing into print. A friend of mine was the other day sitting with me in my room at Sydney, when the conversation turned upon rats. I told him not to abuse these poor little animals, as there are many worse things in the world. We talked of the rat pies we had ate in Paris during the sieges, and of which we still retain pleasant memories. Then we rambled on to other reminiscences of that stirring time, and whilst mon ami was listening, an idea seized him. He said, write that tale down, it will make a capital story for my Christmas book.’ I at first naturally refused, but he pressed me so hard that it ended by my, womanlike, consenting. Many may have read in the “Australian Sketcher ” the story of my early life, and it is needless to repeat it here. It is sufficient for this tale to say that the convent in which I was a pupil was closed owing to the siege, and that thus thrown adrift I found myself one day almost starving, friendless, and alone in the streets of Paris. Without a sou, and without a friend to whom I could apply, I asked myself ‘ what shall I do ?’ At last I remembered the addresses of one or two people whom I had visited with some of my schoolfellows, and I thought * perhaps they will receive me for a few days till I know what I am going to do.’ I hurried off, for evening was coming on, and I had a frightful horror of being out in the streets at night, and in such a fearful time. The first place I went to was in the Rue de Rivoli, but to my great disappointment the house was shut up. I enquired of the concierge next door if he knew anything about the people I was in quest of. He intimated to me that no one knew anything of any body in those times, and that it was quite enough to get away safe without leaving one’s addresses behind. Disheartened, I made my way towards the Faubourg St. Honore, and with the same result. The house I sought was shut up, I began to get very tired and weary, for I had been walking since three, and it was then nearly seven. I wandered on and on not knowing or caring much where I was going. At last I found myself close to the Madelaine. I was thoroughly tired and exhausted ; it was pitch dark and beginning to rain, and I was thinly clad. Bleu ! I ascended the steps of the cathedral to take shelter until the rain had ceased, and then—what then ? To wander in the streets again, for who would give me shelter-, and how could I. ask it from strangers when I had no money to pay for my lodging. I sat down and must have remained in a stupor for about two hours, when I was aroused by a clock striking nine. It poured in torrents. Not until that moment had I fully recog nised what my true position was, A girl, without a sou in my pocket, the streets for my home, almost fainting for want of food. Many at my age would have begun to cry. I did not, for 1 thought it would not give me a bed to sleep on, or bread to eat. However, I was at least dry in my resting place. I was sitting on the top step with my head leaning against one of the pillars, and was quite out of sight of any passer-by. I thought of my mother (whom I love very, very dearly), and wondered whether she was thinking of me, and what she w-ould have said could she have seen her poor child sitting huddled up with a stone to rest her tired, weary head against. I thanked God from the bottom of my heart that she did not know this, and with that prayer on my lips must have fallen to sleep, for I remem bered no more until I awoke and found that it was broad daylight. My first feelings were that I was very stiff' and numbed; my second that I was exceedingly hungry. I was no longer.afraid, for the night had passed, and although it was cold, the morning sun revived my spirits. I got up, smoothed my dress, and tried to make myself look as respectable as 1 could, and then walked towards the tCuglish Embassy in the Faubourg St. Honore. The streets were still very quiet and few people were moving about. J pretended to walk very fast that those whom I met might not think 1 had slept in the streets all night, but that I was early

abroad on some errand. But I had a sort of guilty feeling that everyone who looked at me must know that I had passed the night on the steps of the Madelaine. In a short time I found myself at the top of the Faubourg. Till then I had not spoken to a living’creature, but turning the corner I saw a gendarme and addressed him. I felt a strange desire to hear my own voice—to hear another human voice speak to me. As an excuse I asked what o’clock it was ; the gendarme answered half-past eight. He had a pleasant face and voice. I thought ‘ If I could only open my heart to this man, perhaps he could advise me what to do.’ But no, I was too timid, too proud, so I only thanked him and walked on. My heart began to fail me ; I was sick for the want of food ; 1 saw nothing before me but to die in the streets of starvation. I thought of a thousand things, and at last resolved to appeal to the English < ’onsul. I knew where he lived, and as I always act upon impulse I at once made my way towards his house, hoping to find him before he went out. I rang the bell, and upon asking to see the Consul I was told to wait. In ten minutes’time I was shown upstairs into the presence of a gentleman who asked me to sit down and tell him my story. I related my case from beginning to end. When finished he said ‘ Poor child, I am afraid little can be done for you, but here is a pass for you to get out of Paris, and a hundred francs which will pay your fare to England.’ He then told me what to do—that I should have to give my name, who I was, &c., before they would allow me to leave, as the gates had been officially closed for two days and the regular trains were not running. I thanked him -warmly for his great kindness to me, and hurried off to the northern railroad.

When I got there, I saw a crowd of people outside - many evidently in great distress. Amongst them was a poor old English lady crying as if her heart was breaking. I went to her and asked what was the matter. She then said the trains had stopped running, the gates were closed, and not a soul was allowed to leave Paris. She had sent here two chidren on to Dover a week previously, while she remained behind to gather what little property she had before joining them. I tried to comfort her by saying, * Look around and see how many poor creatures arc in the same sad state as oursleves.’ In that moment I forgot my own troubles, and did all I could to try and make the poor old woman forget hers ; but it was no use—l could g t nothing from her but ‘My poor children, I shall never see them again.’ I told her crying was of no use, and if she would make me her friend, I would look after her as well as I could and as long as she would allow me. She became more calm, and I took her into the cafe al oecs by to have some breakfast.

It is strange how easily we can forget our own troubles when we see others suffer around us. I began to lose all thought of myself and to plot and plan for my new friend. She told me her history in a very few words. She was a midwife and a widow living in Paris, she had taken her two boys from school and sent them on to Dover thinking to join them there Poor old woman, I sympathised with her deeply, for her trouble was indeed hard to bear thus separated from her children. But I noticed through all our conversation she never asked me who I was, but once when she saw the tears come into my eyes she said, *Ah ! you have no need to weep, you are right enough,’ and she laughed in a way I did not like. I replied, ‘Am I ? I don't think so,’ and then I told her my story. She answered, ‘Yes, but you are a good-looking young girl; look at me an old woman—who will care whether I live or die ?’ I replied that I would, and promised to guard her faithfully. (To he continued.')