LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1675, 3 July 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

NINON’S PRINCE. It was the siege of Paris. Eugenio had fled from the Tulllerios, and the Provisional Government had been organised under Trochn. All Paris was in a state of wild alarm, and the Prussian army were steadily making their way towards the city, investing one point after another, and rapidly cutting oil all communication between the besieged city and the surrounding country. Winter was coming on ; food and fuel becoming scarce; business was entirely suspended ; the boulevards were filled with idle, aimless loungers, gazing with sad and hungry eyes upon the long lines of troops before them. The heavy rumble of the artillery wagons echoed through the streets, and the ambulances formed a sad procession, with their terrible suggestions of the dead and wounded for whose conveyance they were prepared. The air was heavy with sadness, Paris shuddered at the thought of the suffering it must encounter, and a bitter wail arose from the lips of the poor. Into the quiet and aristocratic precincts of the Faubourg St. Honore the grim ghosts of famine and bloodshed had not made their way, and the luxurious entresol of the fashionable hotel where Ninon, the gay little Baronne de Valcour, took up her usual abode daring the gay Parisian winters, was all alight with sunshine and flowers. Ninon herself was the dullest thing amidst all the brilliant glitter of ormolu, gilding, and looking glass. She was leaning back in her cushioned fanteuil, with the toes of her slippers extended toward the fire and her head thrown wearily back, looking the very picture of ennui. ‘Would madame eat her breakfast?’ inquired Fifiue, with solicitude, as she arranges the inevitable rolls and coffee on a small table by her mistress’s side. Ninon opens her eyes and shuts them again, and the coffee grows cold, Fifine knows her fate. If tbia ooffaA u spoiled, in half an hour she will be called upon to prepare a fresh cup, so Fifine ventures another suggestion.

‘ Madame has no appetite ?’ • Fifine, you bother me. Go away.’ Fifine departs, but returns again in the space of two minutes. ‘ Madame, voloi monsieur.’ Madame turns her pretty little head and takes a comprehensive glance at the tall young officer in the uniform of the National Guard who enters the salon and makes his way to her side. • The Prussians have not eaten you up yet ?’ inquires Ninon, with a yawn that she does not take the smallest pains to conceal: • Not yet. Would it be a great source of relief to Madame if such an event were to take place ?’ • Rather.’ • Don’t you care for mo at all, Ninon ?’ « Don’t be silly, my child. Tell me what his Excellency General Trouohn is about, and when you propose to stain that elegant uniform with Prussian gore.’ « Poor Paris 1’ The young officer sighed and shook his head. • Paris is very nice—all but the Prussians ; and no one is giving any parties. That annoys me.’ ‘ Ninon, are you as heartless as you seem?’ » Just about. What do you want me to do ?’ , ‘Tell mo you love me, ’Ninon, just a little.’ • But I don-’t.’ The boyish lips trembled, and a great wave of sorrow spread ilaslf over the fair, fresh countenance. Then he knelt down by her aide, and a single tear fell on the little hand that he stooped.to kiss. • Ninon, Ninon, won’t you love me ?’ ‘ You are a great, stupid boy, and you must go away, or I shall never eat my breakfast. You are a very nice boy, Armand, but you look as if you wore going to cry.’ • Ninon I* The word sounded like a cry of pain, , Then he kissed her hands again, and turning away to leave her. _ _ ‘ I shall not come again, Ninon. Madame le Baronne disfigured her pretty mouth with an incredulous little moue, and the door closed upon her boyish lover. _ Paris was in a state of siege—a city of two million inhabitants surrounded by the forces of a powerful enemy, and all supplies cutoff! Daily the distress and destituion increased. Famine and disease reaped a rich harvest among the poorer inhabitants. The short winter days wore grim and cold, and the scanty supply of fuel, of food, grew less and less every hour. The streets wore filled with a gaunt and hungry crowd of desperate men and despairing women, Emeutes broke out in all parts of the city, and the useless bayonets of the National Guard were turned to destroy their own follow-citizens. The sounds of distress and suffering began to make themselves heard even in the luxurious quarters of Faubourg St. Honoro, where Ninon de Valceur wore out her days wailing over the .dullness and dreariness of the gay capital. The high prices demanded even for the neoesdties of life began to exhaust even the princely De Yalcour revenues. The establishment must be reduced, and Baroness Ninon awoke but of b r long dr am of h xwry and laziness to face life for the first time seriously. The days wore on ; and dreary Christmas was approaching, and the bitter cold steadily increasing. The wild eyes of the swarming populace grew hungrier and hungrier; the weak died, and the strong lived only to suffer. Terrible reports of the distress and misery about her made their way to Ninon. Her friends gathered around, but their discourse was only of the horrors of the siege. . . One among Ninon’s friends was missing—the quick, eager tread of Armand de Rochecoeur sounded no more in Ninon’s saloon. The boyish form of the young officer, with his untarnished uniform and unused awotd, appeared no more among her guest p, And

when she found he did not come, Nino a began to miss him. At first she wondered at his absence, then insensibly began to watch for his coming, and as the days passed one after another, Ninon grow anxious. Sometimes she would sit alone in the twilight—the lovely little baroness, rich in everything but love —and the sweet lips would murmur, ‘At least he loved me, le babe!’ Then a deep, far-off look would come into the brilliant eyes. 1 Where is the prince ? ’

It was the evening of the 29th of November. Ninon was sitting alone, watching the slow motions of the hands of the clock as they pointed to eleven, when a quick, hurried tread Bounded behind the chair, and the clanking of a sword startled her. ‘Armand!’ she exclaimed, as she turned and encountered the excited glance of the young soldier. ‘ Ves, Ninon. At last Paris is roused. To-morrow theie will be a grand sortie. The order has been given. With a hundred thousand men we shall leave Paris, march upon Champigny on to Villiars. Ducrot has sworn to re-enter Paris, “only victorious or dead.” I have come to say good-bye. Before to morrow night Prussian ball or bayonet may have quieted for ever the heart that loves yon so passionately. Kiss me, Ninon. Say, God bless you !’ Then he sank down at her feet, and laid his head upon the little hands that rested on her knees. Ninon lifted the brown hair from the fair young forehead; a moment her lips rested there, and she murmured, “God bless you, my Armand !” Then he pressed her for a moment passionately against his heart, and left her.

In the morning the troops were in motion. Paris thronged the streets and crowded the windows on eaoh side to watch the ssd procession as it passed. Cheer after cheer rent the air—“ Vive la France 1” "A la Viotorie!” sounded from the throats of the lookers on as the long file wound its way to the gates. The well drilled men marched silently along, their oounntenaees grave and severe. They were about to make a last effort for Paris —for France. With stern and set determination they moved forward, looking neither to right nor left lest the sorrowful faces of the women they loved should unnerve their hearts and unsteady their hands. After them followed the artil> lery, the wagons loaded with provisions, and —O, sickening sight!—the ambulances that would convey so many of the brave men back again within its walls wounded, helpless, and dying. At the bead of his company rode Armand de Rochecoeur. With head erect, and lips firmly compressed to avoid their trembling, ho led his men past the windows of the boulevard where Ninon de Valcour stood watching the exit of the troops from the city. He did not tarn his head, but the hand that held the bridle-rein shook as the haavy tread of his powerful hnrae bore him slowly beyond the gaze of the bright eyes that looked down upon him. Quietly Ninon watched him go, steadily she looked after his retreating form. A soft mist clouded the flashing eyes, and as the distance hid him from her view she murmured, gently, “ Armand, God watch over thee!’’

All day long, that terrible 30th of No vember, the incessant roar of cannon echoed back into the stillness of the city’s streets, Paris held her breath in anguish. Her best, her bravest, and her noblest were fighting for her deliverance, in deadly peril, just out; side the city walls. Outside the walls the sickening drama of battle, with all its horrid accompaniments of tumult, noise and bloodshed ; the no less horrible torture of suspense, as those left behind waited, with blanched laces and bated breath, for news from the scene of conflict.

Among the foremost in the strife on that terrible morning rode the boyish officer, Armandfle Roohecoeur. The pure blood of his Norman ancestry courses wildly through his veins to-day. Franca was his life, and he would give his life for France. His hatred of the plebeian Bonaparte*, of the odious republic, were all forgotten when for the first time he found himself face to face with the foreign foe who dared to attack the very capital and strike at the v. ry heart of his sacred land of France.

Early iu the afternoon Champigny yielded to the passionate attack of the fresh French troops. Amazed at their defeat, the Germans fell back to recover from the bewilderment produced by this—their almost first reverse. Then, rallying from their surprise, re-enforced with fresh troops, and protected by their batteries, they felljupon the" French with a sadden fury. Dismayed by the unexpected attack, weary with a long day’s fighting, the half-disciplined French soldiery fell back With % feeling, half fury, half despair, Armand saw the line give way. ‘ Cowards, ’ he murmured, below his breath. Then, turning suddenly, to his men, he cried ; * Courage I ’ Will yon go back to your women and tell thorn you fled before Prussian guns ? ’ Then he rode forward ; but the terrified, panio-strikeu men were deaf to his call, and suffered him to go alone. With his right arm uplifted ho rushed toward the Prussians line. With the cry still on his lips, a fragment of a shell struck his powerful right arm, shattered it as if it were the rottou branch of a tree, and tore its way across the fair, boyish forehead just above the eyes. Prone on the earth lay the powerful form of the brave young officer. A cry of admiration rose from the lips of the men behind him. Then they turned and fled, and left him to his fate.

The evening 'shadows fell over the battle plain, quieting the noise and strife; the fighting ceased. The Prussian guns were silent, and the French troops retired sullenly back towards Paris. On the battlefield dusky forma came flitting about. With sable uniforms, relieved only by the red cross of Geneva, they went silently about on their merciful errands. Two of these ministoring spirits bend over the form of Armand de Bocheooeur. * Dead ? Poor fellow ? ’ asks one. ‘No, he breathes.’ Then they lift him gently upon the ambulance ; and the brave young officer, who rode out from the gates of Paris that morning, full of life, and health, and courage, isbornebackagain blind, maimed, the light gone out of his eyes forever crippled. They lay him on a narrow bed in a crowded hospital. The gentle hands of a Sister of Charity dress the terrible wounds, and as she looks at him she murmurs, pityingly, ‘ Poor follow, he is blind.’ Ninon has listened all day to the sound of that terrible cannonading, waited a’l night in frightened suspense for news from the scene of battle—for tidings from Armand de Bochecoeur. In the morning no word, has come, and the suspense grows more_ and more intolerable every moment. Dark circles have appeared under the brown eyes, their brilliancy ia all faded, gone out in that long night of watching. Bestlessly Ninon paces the long salrrn. Finally a sudden impulse seizes her. ‘ I will go and find him.’ It is a long and weary search. They direct her from one place to another. The streets are filled with a hurrying, eager crowd, each intent upon his own affairs, and it is long before she can find any one who can tell her w'here look for him. At’ait they direct her to the hospital where he ia lying. Ninon passe! betwem the long rows of beds, sees the suffering faces of the men that fill them, listens to the groans of the suffering and dying, and the tears fill htr eyes and roll down upon her blanched cheeks. “It is too much for madame to witness,’ suggests a surgeon. ‘ No, no; if they must suffer it, w T hy should I not see it,’ aud the spoiled child of luxury braces up her nerves and goes on to meet the sorrow that lies before her.

She finds him at last. As sho approaches hia bedside she trembles. As she looks at the white bandages that He upon hia eyes, she shudders. Then shej speaks to him, and the glad smile that flits across hia lips reassures her. His single hand goes out to meet hers, and he tries to speak. A warning gesture from the nurse attracts Ninon’s attention, and sho whispers, ‘ Do not talk, Armand. You must get well first.’ From an old soldier who watches over him Ninon learns the history of the story of how bravely the young soldier bore himself on that dreadful day, and how he fell when, goaded to fury by the desertion of hia men, he rushed forward alone upon the Prussian line, Ninon's heart swells with a new and sweet emotion. The lovely mouth wears its happiest smile. There is a look of newly found happiness in the brown eyes. Suddenly they fill with tears, and the little lips murmur softly, ‘ I havej found him, the Prince.' Then the Sister of Charity comes and whispers, gently and pityingly, * Madame, he will bo blind.’ All the horror contained In that dreadful sentence sinks into Ninon’s soul, and with a voice whose uttera’ ce is choked with sobs

she cries out, * Armand, my love 1 God help you I’ Then she lifts her tear-stained face, lit up with its wonderful light of love and pity, and looking at the sympathetic countenance of the poor Sister, whispers, “ He shall see with my eyes.” The Sister looks into the depth of the lovely eyes raised to hers and thinks, “He is not so much to be pitied, the brave man.” Through long nights of fever and days of weary restlessness Ninon watched by her lover's side. Strength returns to the crippled body, but the sorrowful eyes wear always that helpless, vacant expression peculiar to the blind, and the strong right arm is represented only by an empty sleeve. He is not forbidden to speak now, and one day as he hears Ninon’s footsteps by his bedside, and the soft rustic of her dress as she bends over him, he says, “ You are always with mo, Ninon, are you not, or do I dream it ?’ ‘ I am always with you, Armand.’ ‘ What brings you here ?' ‘Because I love yon, dear.’ ‘Love mo! But I am a cripple, and blind.’ * Yes, Armand. Your right arm and jour eyes you have given to Franco. Will you give the rest to me ?’ ‘Ninon 1’ and the left arm, the only one he has, draws her quickly and passionately to his side. Her soft breath plays against his cheek, and as his lips meet hers she whispers, * Armand, my prince, I love yon.*