LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1750, 29 September 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A Q7EEE STORY. The Amnestied Communist, ‘And so Roblard is going back to Prance,’ remarked one of the circle of exiles who w.-re discussing the amnesty at the Cafe du Nord of Geneva. 4 He will never set foot on French territory again,' responded another, with a shake of the head. ‘But he has been pardoned,’ said the first speaker, taking up a copy of the morning paper, and scoring a mark with his thumb under the name of Antoine Roblard. 4 No matter,’ was the answer, given with more emphasis than before. 4 Roblard has been amnestied by the Government; but he must get pardoned by other persons before hia exile can end; and the persons in question are not forgiving. If Roblard returned to France, he would be murdered.’ 4 What are you saying there ? ’ chorused all the Communists round the table ; but the speaker, a journalist named Vuillenx, finished his absinthe and took leave of hia company with a wink, having vouchsafed no explanations. The next moment a slim, sallow, and careworn man entered the cafe with some books under his arm, and was demonstratively, almost affectionately, greeted by the men whom Vuillenx had just left. He was hailed by his name of Roblard, and congratulated upon his pardon, 4 Well, Antoine,’ cried one, 4 1 suppose you will be leaving ns in a day or two ? ’ 4 Yes,’ answered Roblard. 4 and glad I shall be to get back to Paris after eight years of absence.’ 4 It is to Paris yon are going, then ? ’ 4 Yes, to-morrow morning by the first train ; so I shall wish yon good-bye on leaving this place presently-’ 4 Say to ns 4 Au revoirl ’ cried one of the Communists, lifting his glass. 4 May the day come when we shall all meet in Paris and take our revanche of 18711 ’

‘Au revoirl ’ answered Boblard gravely, as he raised his glass of beer to his lips. He half-emptied it, and then sat down and chatted for half an hour on the political topics of the day. He was known to be writing a ‘ History of the Commune, 1 and he remarked that he was glad his exile was going to end, chiefly because he wanted to have again access to the public libraries of Paris. After this he expressed his opinions cheerily about Grevy, Waddington, and Qambetta, stated his belief that he —Boblard —should soon find a seat in the Chamber of Deputies, and that he would then ‘pitch into the Moderates ; ’ finally he shook hands with every one of the exiles, saying a friendly word to each, and took his departure. When he was gone a discussion arose between some who contended that there was an unusual look about Boblard, and others who maintained that they had found him just the same as ever. One of these latter, meeting Vuillenx, the journalist later In the evening, said— * You were all wrong abont Roblard, he is going back to Franco fast enough. He starts to-morrow.* ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Vuillenx, with a slight arching of the eyebrows. ‘ Then he. will be a dead man before a month Is over.’

' You are alluding to some projected duel, I suppose,’ rejoined the other. ‘ Perhaps you mean to kill him yourself. 1

* Boblatd will not die in a duel,’ replied Vuilleux, significantly, ‘ but he will die within a month. Yon mark my words.’

Twer ty-fonr hours after this, just as dnsk was gathering over Paris, and the policemen at the Prefecture de Police were lighting up that big establishment with gas, a cab, loaded with luggsge, which had arrived from the Lyons railway station, drew up on the quay that skirts the Palace of Justice, and Antoine Roblard alighted from it. He passed quickly under the archway which leads to the Prefecture, and entering the first open door in the office, asked if he could see Monsieur A . mentioning one of the chiefs of the political department of the police. The inspector on duty took his card, and handed it to a messenger, who disappeared for a few minutes and then returned, begging Roblard to walk upstairs. The pardoned Communist followed bis guide, who conducted him up a broad flight of stairs thickly carpeted with cocoanut matting, and ushered him into an office, where a grayhaired functionary wito a very firm month and a pair of keen eyes, whose brightness was concealed by a pinre-nez, sat writing. Monsieur A was a Republican, and he and Roblard had known each other intimately in old days when they had been fellow journalists together on an Opposition paper, which made a trade of ‘ramming’ at the Government journals. The police official did not affect to be unmindful of this bygone acquaintanceship, but held out his hand to the returned exile, saying—‘l am glad to see you back, Roblard ; what can we do for you V * I want you to save my life,’ said Roblard, sitting down unbidden, and lowering his voice *lam in danger of assassination.’ * Explain tho matter,’ replied Monsieur A , incredulously ; and he narrowly watched the Communists’s features. The pale face, was such as may be often seen in melancholic madmen, laboring under a fixed hallucination. Roblard noticed the glance that was being fixed upon him, and caught the tone of his doubt in the interlocutor’s words, but he paid no heed to them. ‘ Yon know what was the crime alleged against me ?’ he asked. ‘ Yes; yon were sentenced to death contumaciously for having instigated the shooting of the banker \ under the Commune. . . However, as you had

escaped to London before Paris fell into the power of the Versaillists, you were never arrestsd; and on the whole you have escaped pretty cheap.’ ‘ Well,’ continued Boblard, speaking lower than before, and looking Monsieur A steadfastly in the face, ‘I have been accused of shooting Y from motives of private malice, and for the purpose of robbing him.’

* Who accused yon— the prosecution ?’ ‘No, our people—some of my fellow Communists,’ replied R-.blard with a kind of gasp, which was meant to be one of indignation, but which sounded more like fear. ‘ I had been in London about a month, when one night three men called upon me at my lodgings They were Dorrielle, Paucher, and Vuilleux. all three my enemies. My landlady and servant were out, so I was all alone. Paucher, who is a kind of revolutionary fanatic, began to abuse me, saying I had brought disgrace on the Communist oause, and had been playing tho game of the Bonapartists by shooting Y , who knew all the ins-and-outs of the Mexican expedition, and held documents damaging to the Empire, which he would have published had ha lived. Then Dorrielle spoke out, taxed me with having seized all Y ’s securities and valuables, and having appropriated them to my own use ; just as if Y—— would have been silly enough to keep his money within reach of looters nnder such a regime as onrs.

‘By tho way, was it really you who had Y shot ?’ inquired tho police official carelessly. ‘ That is beside the question,’ answered Roblard. on his guard. ‘ All 1 can say is, that these three enemies cf mine took it for granted I had done so, and when they had done so, and when they had finished abasing me, Yaillenx palled a rope ont of his pocket.’ ‘ A rope! What was that for ?’ *To hang me with,’ rejoined Hoblard hoarsely, as if the mere recollection of the affair strangled him. * They announced that they had sentenced me to death, and that they would hang me out of hand. My death, said they, would look like a suicide. * * Well, they did hang me. * *' * Come,come,’expostulated Monsiur A , doubtful whether the Communist were romancing or speaking from hallucination, yet bethinking himself that somehow the man might be saying the truth after all. ‘They did hang me,’ repeated Roblard impressively. ‘lt was all in vain that I struggled, screamed, and prajedfor justice ; I was forced on to my knees and a handkerchief was stuffed into my mouth. Then those three butchers passed a halter over my neck and strung me up to a curtain rod. I suppose, however, that they must have made off pretty fast, for less than a quarter of an hour afterward (having lost consciousness in the meanwhile) I was cut down by my landlady and the servant, who had returned. Both these poor women concluded I had tried to make away with myself.’ (To he continued.)