LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1763, 14 October 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE VIOLET FLOWER. On a low, miserable cot in a small, dingy room, under the roof of a crumbling tenement, a, woman was dying. The shadows of night were falling over the little village situated in the Ardennes, and the sufferer turned her glazing eyes from the window and looked for a moment on the figure of a young man kneeling beside her, 'My son,' the womanjgasped, 'listen to me, I am dying." ' I hear yon, my mother.' ' You have always been a good son,' she went on, feebly; • you never cost me a single tear.' ' I did my best in all'things.' ' And you will not forget me when I am gone! You will remember your duty always ?' 'I shall remember you as long as I live.'

* And you never will forget the last words which your mother speaks? Keep from evil companions, and let nothing stain your honor. Promise me this, my son.' ' I promise, mother.' ' When I am no more, bury me In our own little churchyard, and plant a bunch of violets over my grave. Every year in the Spring time you will come and gather two of the modest blossoms and repeat the vow you make to-night.' ' I shall never fail.'

•That is all. Love France for your mother's sake, and do not forget the violet flowers Promise again, Pierre.' ' Mother, I swear.' Ten minutes after, Widow Valore had ceased to breathe.

They were stirring days, those of 1798, when the great Napoleon began his memorable campaign in Egypt, and the soldiers came in swarms to answer his call. Pierre Valore stood among the very first volunteers. It was a strong arm and a willing life he offered for the glory of his native country. He feared neither the broiling sun nor the enemies fire; and a weary march had no terrors for him, and he gave no thought of the perils he would have to enoounter. Such courage could not long go unrewarded ; he rose rapidly ; before half a year he found himself a Captain, honored and respected by the men as viell as by his superior officers. The winter passed, and the skies were growing pure again, when Pierre's brow became clouded, and an occasional tear would roll down his bronzed cheek.

' General,' he said one day to the commandant of his detachment, ' I should like to be spared for a few days.' 'Spared, Captain Valore?' echoed the General, with a look of surprise. ' That is quite impossible. We start on Friday, and I could not think of sailing without you.' • But, General, I must go.' 'Must?' repeated the veteran, smiling. • That is not a soldier's word. Is it your sweetheart you wish to kiss farewell ?' ' Sir, I have no sweetheart,' replied Valore, proudly. ' I want to visit my mother's grave.' 'ls that all ? Well, my man, take my word for it, your mother's bones have no intention of running away. You are the best man in my brigade; you are indispensable ; is not that complimentary enough ?' ' But only a few days.' ' Come, do not ask for that what is impossible. Go back to the ranks, and let your mother sleep on in peace.' Valore hesitated for an instant at the entrance of the tent.

' Then, General, you refuse ?' he said, turning back again. ' I must do my duty, Pierre, and I refuse.' Friday came, and the men embarked. But Pierre Valore was not among them. ######

The Battle of the Pyramids was unavoidable. The enemy was anxious and strong, and Napoleon no less eager to measure his forces with those of his foes.

A regiment was quartered on a little plain at the edge of a clump of studded trees, and drawn up into a hollow square. In the centre of a small platform, raised a few feet off the ground, were six officers, seated on drum heads, and a seventh standing before them, his arms crossed, listening with apparent coldness to the decree which had just been read. He had heard the death sentence of a deserter, who was to be executed then and there, the doomed man being no other than himself. Behind the platform, three men were silently digging a shallow grave in loose sand.

When everything was ready the accused came forward, and an orderly from another division advanced with him.

'lt is useless to question this,' said the condemned in a firm voice. ' I confess my crime.'

' You, Valore,' exclaimed the Colonel; ' you always were a brave soldier. Have you anything to say ?' ' Nothing, except that I find all very just. But I would do the same thing to-morrow all over again.' 'Will you let us know why you did it, Pierre ?' continued the officer, kindly.

• Yes, if one cares to hear. My mother died five years ago. At her bedside I swore to live an honest man, and to avoid evil companions. To remind me of my pledge, she made me promise to plant a violet over her grave, and every year I was to pluck the first bud that blossomed among the grass. Four times I had sought the little churchyard, and gathered the tender flowers that grew above her sainted bones. At the time of my laßt visit, the regiment was leaving France. I asked for leave of absence, and was refused. There was but one way left, for I must obtain the violets at any cost —I deserted. When I had found the flower, and pressed it to my lips, the enormity of my crime arose with all its shame before me. I had vowed never to forsake my duty, and I felt that my oath was broken. There remained but one thing to do —rejoin the regiment and deliver myself up to justice. I oame here and surrendered. The rest is known, I have been condemned justly, and I am ready to meet my doom. It is a heavy price—life for a single flower !' •Here is the chaplain,' whispered one of the men; ' shall he approaoh ?' • By all means,' said Valore ; • I have made my peace with God, sir,' he added, to the clergyman, ' and I am prepared to die in charity towards all men. I have nothing more to say except fatewell, and bless you, every one.' Then, bowing to the chaplain, he walkod to the scaffold with as firm a step as if he

had been marching past tbe General, in ordinary times, at a review. The men turned sick in the ranks, the drummers' haDds trembled as they beat the terrible 'tattoo,' and the file of soldiers detailed for the execution hung their heads for shame, as though they were murderers instead of promoters of jnstioe and discipline. 'Farewell, friends, all!' shouted Valore, taking his position, and the Adjutant gave the word that all was ready. But at that moment there was a cry—a low, murmured cheer among the men—as they separated to let a horseman advance to the centre of the column. He looked neither to the right nor left, but made straight for tho platform, and dismounted within a few yards of the condemned man. As he stepped gracefully from his horse, and stood beside the deserter, both officers and men held their breath, watching with anxiety the movements of the master they had learned to respect so highly and love so well.

It was Bonaparte, he of the Pyramids, who appeared before them. Without a word, the ''Little Corpo-al" walked up the platform, and placed himself directly in front of the disgraced man. ' Pierre Valore,' he said, in his clear pure voice, ' your crime has been known to me only a short time. Prom yonder clump of trees I have just heard the whole story. If the life which you so freely offer to the memory of your mother is a burden to you, give it to me. You have still another mother, kinder, better than the one you have lost, and who needs the help of her noble sons. Give me your hand ; you are a free man ; if you have a life to spare, keep it for her. For France is your mother.' Pierre Valore fell upon his knees, and seizing the delicate, wax-like hand.carried it reverentially to his trembling lips. 'My life is yours,' he said, between his tears. ' I wish I had ajiundred lives to give as willingly.' The men were too excited to cheer, and maybe it was this mute admiration which honored the commandant most. He waved his hand graciously, and mounting his horse again, rode away. Two days later they were fighting. The " Little Corporal " was everywhere in the thickest of the fray. Just where the shot flew fastest, where the furious cannon raged fiercest, the three-cornered hat was visible, always ahead, like a charmed being, leading them on to glory, to triumph and destruction. The clarion voice shouted the order " Charge!" which was re-echoed by every captain along the line, and the vast sea of men, sweeping down like a huge tide wave, plunged headlong into the redoubt before them. The contest was man to man, sabre to sabre.

He certainly must have been invulnerable, bo mary times to escape what seemed inevitable death. For the twentienth time he was surrounded by a band of yelling Arabs, who defended with fiendish avidity each foot of ground that was taken from them. •SJMenwhile, a few yards distant, fought Pierre Valore. His trusty sword flashed here and there among the howling crowd, dealing death in all directions. There was no time for words or smiles, but in his mind he set down a decoration, should they meet at a later day. Again and again they were hemmed in, with a hundred infuriated savages at their very faces. One tall chief, maddened with despair, hurled his lance with terrific violence at the breast of his fearless opponent. The " Little Corporal " saw it come, and in one second prepared for his death. But in the supreme moment he was spared. A man sprang up and almost dragged him from his horse, receiving as he did so the lance in his own chest.

' General!' cried Valore, for the man was he, ' my life belongs to you and France !' and he fell with the iron through his heart. It was over—the day was won. With a mighty cry of triumph, the victorious army swept over the plain, leaving the dead and wounded upon the blood-soaked field. In his tent, Europe's conqueror was thanking Heaven for its favors and dreaming already of new worlds and new people to subdue.

The day will never be forgotten; its victory and multitude of slain will be remembered as long as history lives. But there were deeds of valor performed on those Egyptian sands that deserved loftier monuments and louder praise than were sung oyer their naked bones by the hyena and carrion bird.

Among those obscure heroes was Pierre Valore, whose name, although unknown to fame, still found a place in the memory and gratitude of the indispensable man he had saved.

Bonaparte never forgot Pierre Valore "s last words spoken on that day, and the sound of the man's death-cry rang on his ears till he died.

On his return to Paris the Emperor chose the violet flower as his favorite emblem. He never gave any reason for its selection; but long afterward it was stated by a veteran of the ' Old Guard * that the origin of the emblem could not be traced beyond the Battle of the Pyramids. He added, also, that hardly any other subject would make the master's cherey voice tremble, or make the pure unclouded brow grave.