LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1092, 29 December 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY LAST FRANC. By Ada Ward. [From “The Vagabond Annual.”] ( Concluded .) I took his arm again, and we walked quietly towards the Pont Neuf. I hardly knew whether to dislike or be afraid of my companion. But I did not think he was a very bad man, although ha said such horrid things. His eyes seemed good, and he meant to be kind to me. He looked as if he would be kind to anyone. ‘You have been good to me to-day, Monsieur,’ said I, ‘and although you don’t believe I shall ask God to bless you in my prayers tonight. ’ He looked at me again in a curious manner, half quizzical at first, and then much milder, ‘ What is your name ?’ he asked. ‘ La, arc nr Ada.’ ‘ Very well, sister, to night I shall say, “God bless Ada,” and I reckon it will do you as much good as any prayers, for I shall mean all good for you ’ I didn’t know what to make of this American ; and when we got on the Quay, and I was near the hospital, I thought it best to tell him I would rather go home alone now. ‘ Very well, child,’ said he, in his exasperatingly paternal manner; * can I do anything for you ? No ! Let me see, there’s my name—the one I go by now, at least, and here, ’ and he wrote a few words on a slip of paper, ‘ there’ll be hotter work than this presently. If you are in danger send that to the Citizen Flourens —I mean Monsieur Gustave Florens —and he’ll put you through for ray sake. Good-bye ! I reckon we’ll see each other again some day and somewhere, if we get safe out of this.’ I wished him good-bye, not dreaming what he meant by his dark hints, but I knew afterwards he referred to the troubles which ended in the Co ntnune. I thought, too, that there was little chance of our meeting again, but we have, although, for a time, changed as we both are, we did not know each other.

I crossed on to the bridge, and here I was again seized with faintness. The few drops of cognac I had taken, and the careless talk of my late companion, had revived me for a time, and made me forget the pangs of hunger. I leant upon the parapat for support, and watched the river flowing underneath I thought of my mother and all my friends, and wondered how they would feel when the news came that I was dead, and if it would seem very dreadful to them that I died of starvation. But would they ever known what had become of me ? Might it not be that some day in the streets of Paris that I should fall fainting, and-be kicked aside by the rabble, or taken in a cart to the dead-house with none to claim me ? The idea was horrible ! Oh, my readers, none of you, I hope, have known what it is to be starving ! The dull, heavy, gnawing pain—the deadness of one’s limbs ! The weakened brain now full of phantasies ! My heart in its agony cried to God for help—l prayed to Him to give me strength to bear any trials, or at once take me to my rest. The moment before a cold hard despair had settled on my soul —for a moment with the bitter words of the American ringing in my ears I almost doubted - for a moment I thought of jumping into the black waters of the Seine Mowing underneath. But faith triumphed, I prayed, and was answered. The weight seemed to leave my limbs, hunger left me ; my heart was light once more, and with renewed strength I made my way towards the Hospital thanking God for his goodness. Now some of my readers may laugh at me, and others may think it very strange that an actress should write or feel thus, but I know that in this instance my prayer was answered. I believe thoroughly that all those who seek God are happier than those who do not. Some people say, 4 it is all luck or chance; ’ but no, it is Faith and Belief. I do not wish to pretend to be very religious. Some will say that I do not go to church often enough. I have had, since I went to the stage, to study my parts on a Sunday, and get my dresses ready for the next new piece. But for all that I believe in God’s goodness and that he will answer my prayers, 4 The Vagabond ’ on reading this will perhaps cut it out and say again— 4 God is not recognised in the Constitution,’ by which, I understand, that the United States do not as a nation pay respect to religion, for which I am very sorry. He may, and will no doubt, substitute a much more clever and amusing paragraph; but it will be fiction, and not the simple, honest, independent truth spoken from the heart of an actress.

But I am wandering away from my story again. When I reached Notre Dame it was late in the afternoon. I went to my department, and saw my Prussian patient Heinrich was not in his bed. Looking around I saw him coming towards me. He was partly dressed, and looked very pale and ill Pretending to be angry, I scolded him for getting up. He said, I thought you must be killed, no one has been near ms all day.’ tie staggered and sank on his bed. Alarmed, 1 ran for the doctor, for I knew that he should have been kept perfectly quiet, and X blamed myaeli' for leaving tlm fcospital.

When we returned we found Heinrich lying on his bed in a dead faint, and blood flowing from his wound. * What have you been doing ?’ said the doctor, ‘he is sinking rapidly.’ I was shocked and stunned at hearing this. I had come to look on this German almost as a brother, he was so gentle and kind and different to the rest of my rude charges. He was a gentleman, and I could tell him my troubles, and listen to his tales of his home in .Rhineland. And now he was dying I * * * Quietly, peacefully, and happy, like| a good brave man, Heinrich passed away. That night there was a sortie, and the ■wounded -were brought in, and the place resounded with their screams, and yells, and groans. The wind and rain outside were in accordance with these horrors. Sitting by his bedside, half dead with hunger and fatigue, I watched the last breath of this gallant Prussian Officer. # * * * Until peace was declared I lived, like thousands more in Paris, in a state of semistarvation. But the moments the gates were thrown open provisions poured in plentifully. New nurses w T ere appointed, and I was released from my duties. Mrs Gibson went away at the first opportunity without even saying good-bye. (Bless the dear old soul wherever she is !) I went round to my poor soldiers and bade them adieu. Many were fast recovering, which was some consolation, for I really felt parting from these men (rough and rude though they were) whom I had daily tended. The old doctor gave me his blessing, and prophesied all good fortune for me in my after life. Having in my possession thirty pounds that had been bequeathed to me by the Prussian officer, in a few days I was in England and in my mother’s arms. My simple tale is told, I hope when * The Vagabond’ comes for it, he will be pleased, and not judge its literary merits too severely, and I trust that all those who have taken the trouble to read this will give one kind thought to the authoress of ‘My Last Franc. ’ Ada Ward,