MY LAST FRANC.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 5267, 9 February 1878, Page 5 (Supplement)

MY LAST FRANC.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ADA WARD. (From the “ Vagabond Annual.”) In my folly I felt bo brave and strong in comparison with this poor woman, and imagined myself quite rich with one hundred ■ francs in my pocket, little thinking how soon it would have to go. We remained in the cafd all day, for we were told it was unsafe to go out. At night we heard the same story, and so I hired a room there. It was strange that I felt no longer lonely. I was delighted to have a companion, and one that I could look after, although I early saw that she was not a very agreeable character. She was very selfish and discontented, and I could do nothing to please or satisfy her, but then, poor woman, one forgave a great deal on account of her troubles. At night she shocked me. Brought up amongst religious people, I had never in my life seen, or thought it possible for, a woman or girl to go to sleep without praying. To my astonishment she undressed and got into bed without kneeling. I could not help saying, “You have forgotten something. Is it not so ?’’ She understood me, and said, “ What’s the good of praying, if that’s what you mean- Will that bring my boys back to me, or get ine away from Paris." I answered, “ Perhaps not, but God watches over them and you, and you should implore his blessing.” She made no answer, and I knelt down and left her in peace. Now some of my readers will no doubt laugh at this (the editor, I hope, will not), and think perhaps that lam a hypocrite. Ah! no. In all my life I have never closed my eyes without thanking God for his goodness and asking him to bless me. My dear mother taught me to pray night and morning, and I have never ceased to do so, and with bended knees X have always found strength and consolation. But lam wandering from my story. The next morning we got up and went down to the restaurant and breakfasted. After a time the place became filled with a crowd of people all talking excitedly about the war. They said that soon the streets of Paris would be filled with dead bodies. My companion got very frightened : she said, “Let us leave this horrible place. These men will drive me mad.” I asked her where we were to go, one place was as safe as another. After a time she said, “ See me safe, my dear, to the Quartier Latin; I know a surgeon there, a very good man. I gave him great satisfaction in a case once, and he said if ever he could do anything for me he would.” Accordingly we crossed the river together, and arrived at the house. The doctor was at home. He seemed very sorry to see poor Mrs. Gibson (for that was her name) in such distress. He told her it was useless to think she could get to England, as the railway lines were pulled up. Then he asked her if she would go as a nurse ; they would soon need as many as they could get. She said she would do anything, and go anywhere to get protection. I then asked him if he could give me something to do ? I was willing to do anything, no matter how hard it was. He asked me a lot of questions about myself. I told him everything, and said that as I was young, and in good health, and had plenty of strength, I would soon learn to nurse the sick properly. He said, “Very well. You shall be taken on, and until you are needed, you shall go to the hospital, and the other nurses shall instruct you. But remember, you must not think it will he an easy life for you ; you will have hard work, and witness horrible things.” I replied that I would do anything rather than be alone again in the streets of Paris, and if it was to he my fate to die far away from all I loved, I should feel happier if I thought I had done some little good. He took my face between his hands' (he was an old man), and said, “You are a brave child, and God will watch over you ; good-bye. Come first thing in the morning. I will take you to the hospital myself.” I thought I had never seen such a good, kind man, and I was so happy at the thought of having found something to do. I told Mrs. Gibson I was so pleased that we should always be together now. Poor creature; she. did not seem to think that this was such great happiness until I asked her to go back to the cafd and promised her a good dinner. I shall never forget my first day in the hospital. I was taken round to the different wards and shown how to dress wounds and change bandages, and also taught to understand the writing on the boards (the directions as to treatment, medicine, and diet), which hung over the poor creatures’ beds. I thought then “What misery! what suffering!” little dreaming that before the war was over I should have to witness sights ten times more horrible. The days followed each other. I endeavored to do my work well; but the matron, who always watched me carefully, never gave me a word of praise or of censure. One day, however, I heard her say to the doctor, “ That pale-faced English girl will be an excellent nurse soon. Who is she?” I was pleased to hear her say this, for the sake of the patients, who began to like me, and whom I loved as a woman does those she ministers to. Time went on, and I think I became very useful, and made myself a favorite with everybody connected with the hospital. One day the surgeon came to me aud said, “I am afraid we must lose you from here. You and your companion, Mrs. Gibson, and one or two others, must go to the Madelaine, where the wounded are now being brought daily.” I said, “ Very well, sir, wherever you think fit to send me lam willing to go.” We were escorted through the streets by two soldiers, although we were perfectly safe, as the badges on our arms ensured respect everywhere. Inside the church we found that one part had been partitioned off as an hospital ; in the other portion hundreds of people were scattered about praying. Shall I ever forget that sight 1 The misery, agony, and suffering to be seen there were fearful. The groans of the poor fellows pierced my heart. A surgeon at once set me about my work. I had ten soldiers to attend to, and two civilians, who had been wounded by a shell in the streets. In a few days eight out of the twelve were dead. Wo were then sent away to Notre Dame, as several of the nurses with the ambulance there had deserted. This time I had fourteen private soldiers and an officer to look after. My life from that time became very hard. Night and day I nursed and watched ; almost hourly there was a death—then the bodies were taken away, and the vacant beds filled by fresh wounded ones, del t what times they were —what bitter cruel days ! I now wonder how I lived through it all. By this time we had very little to eat. The weather was bitterly cold, and I nearly perished with it. My boots were nearly worn to the ground ; I had only a thin black dress, and an old jacket. My flannel garments I had torn up for chest protectors for the wounded who, reported cured, had been sent away from the hospital, and my linen had gone to make lint and bandages. Every day seemed alike—the dead taken out and the fresh sick ones brought in. But one day, after returning from half an-hour’s walk on the Quai, Mrs. Gishon said to me, “ There is somo one put in No. 3 whilst you were away ; you had better attend to him as no one has yet seen him. I think he is a Prussian officer.” I hurried to the bed ; the poor fellow was apparently asleep, but was groaning painfully. lie seemed about twenty-seven years of ago, and was a tall, fine handsome man. I hastened to find the surgeon, and brought him to look at the new case. The poor fellow was now awake.” “Where are you hurt 2” asked the surgeon. “In my chest and head," the officer replied in German. With Mrs. Gibson's aid the blood was washed from his wounds. It was indeed a bad case ; there was a great hideous open wound from a bayonet-stab in the chest—a hole large enough to put one of my hands into—one of the worst I ever saw. Accustomed as I was by this time to ghastly sights this almost turned me faint. After receiving the doctor’s instructions I was left with my new patient. I was interested in him, for ho seemed so different to the rest. They were nearly all private soldiers, aud anyone who knows anything of the French army must own, in spite of the fictitious glamour cast over them by novel writers, that the common soldier is a rough being, anything but ni«e in his manners and language. Now this Prussian officer seemed a gentleman, and a refined one too. The first time I spoke to

him was in French, when I tendered him some water. He asked me, “ Who are you 2” I said, “ Sister Ada, the English nurse.” At the word Anglaise he smiled, aud said, in very good English, “ I was in your country for years, and I love it.” I was delighted to hear anyone speak my native tongue. It seemed quite strange to me, as even Mrs. Gibson and myself always spoke in French. But I hope I never for one moment neglected any of my other charges for the sake of my aristocratic patient. Day after day my life was the same—the only alteration that as the war went on things became worse. Some days I hardly touched a morsel of food. All we were allowed in the end was bread, and never sufficient of that. By this time I had only a few francs left, for whenever I had the opportunity I always bought some slight extra delicacy to share with my patients. But now there was hardly anything to buy. Nearly starving, I have walked miles in hope of buying a few mouthfuls of vegetables or meat. One day I heard from one of the soldiers on guard that on the morrow there would be some provision for sale at the Marche de la Madelaine. I had only one franc and four sous left, and could evidently get little for that sum, but I thought I would try and buy something for my Prussian, who was so good and gentle, and suffered so patiently. I asked the doctor’s permission to go out, and he said, “ Yes ; but you must be back early.” So the next day I left Notre Dame at a quarter to six, and walked along as fast as my strength would allow me. I was now very thin and weak. Long nights of nursing and semi-starvation had done their work. I often wonder now why I did not break down, for I have sometimes been two days with scarcely a mouthful to eat, and perhaps with only an hour or two of sleep. But yet I did not feel tired or ill—the excitement sustained me—and in the midst of those fearful scenes I was content. God, I believed, had placed me there to do certain work, and I must do it. Dear old Mrs. Gibson, who was a true Englishwoman in the matter of grumbling, would often take offence at my cheerfulness. “ One would think you had all the money in the world in your pocket,” she would say. “I wish I had,” X would reply ; “ these poor fellows should have a fine cat each, and you—you, my dear, should have the biggest pussy in the market.” Ah, you’re Irish,” she would retort, “aud you Irish girls go about in your own country with tubs of water on your heads, and no boots nor stockings to your feet. Haven’t I seen it in pictures ? And that hardens your body and your hearts. Whereas poor me, I,” &c,, &o. But to return to my story. I had arrived very near the market, when I heard a great noise behind me. I turned and beheld a great mob coming down the street. The people were screaming, hooting, and yelling. There were soldiers on horseback who appeared to be driving these before them, and trampling down all who got into their way. I rushed into a doorway, where a rough, evil-looking man was lounging. The crowd surged by, and at that moment a shell burst not far off. It seemed to shake the whole city, and I never expected to get back alive. “ It is nothing,” said my companion, “ I suppose you belong to the hospital, Mam’selle ? ” I thought whilst he was speaking that he had a wicked looking face. I replied by a question, “ Are you a Frenchman, if so, how comes it that you are not doing your share ?" He laughed and showed me the stump of his arm bound up in a dirty piece of rag. I pitied the poor man, and felt that I had done him an injustice. He told me that be had lost his hand whilst fighting early during the siege. I asked him if it was safe for me to go to the market now. He said, “You will be crushed to death there. Such a crowd ! It will be dangerous—there is not a woman there.” “ But what can I do ?” I cried: “ after coming all this way I cannot go back without anything, and I feel myself almost sinking for want of food.” “Let me go for you, Mam'selle,” said he respectfully, “ I have pleasure to sarve you who wait on the brave soldiers of France.” I was delighted at his kindness, and thought “how wicked of me to judge this good man harshly because he has not a nice face,” and so I gave him my franc and begged him not to be long, but to buy me what he could. “ Tres bien ! ” said he, and disappeared iu the crowd. I suppose X must have waited half au hour, but no signs of my bon ami. The moments seemed hours, and I began to grow very impatient. I waited and waited, and at last left my resting place and went towards the market. There was not the crowd or disorder which the soldier had told me of. I made my way around very easily, and at last I saw my loyal friend, leaning smoking against a stall, and chatting with the proprietor. I crossed over and asked, “ Where is the food you were to buy for me ?” He said roughly, “ Who are you ? I know nothing of you.” I thought for a moment I must be mistaken ; but no, the sleeve of the blouse hung loosely over a handless arm. I sad, “ Where is my money, my franc, it was the last I had in the world. Keturn it me, or give me some food. I am Hinting, I shall never have strength to return.” He was then, I think, a little bit ashamed, for he said, “jc suis tres fache, but in truth I bought some tobacco with it. I have had none for such a long time.” “How could you be so cruel and heartless,” I cried. Bah ! ” he sneered, “ I am only like others—each for himself in these times.” My readers can never know what I then suffered. Shame and hunger overpowered me. I turned and left the market, and staggered along the street with mocking words, which would pollute these pages, still ringing in my ears.

Suddenly everything seemed to go around, and I should have fallen senseless, but was caught by a man passing by. He held me in his arms for a little while, and then when I partly recovered he seated me on a doorstep, and said in a soft voice “pauvrctte, you are tired and worn out. I suppose by your dress you are a nurse. Where can I escort you to ?” “You are an Englishman, Monsieur?” asked I, judging by his accent. “I call myself an American,” said he; and you?” “I am Irish.” “ I’m particularly fond of Irish girls and Fenians ; I hope you’re a Fenian,” said he. I didn’t know whether to be offended at this, so took a look at my friend. A young man, passably good looking, perhaps ton years older than myself, with a dark beard, and hair curling on shoulders, and eyes which looked at you, not rudely, but steadfastly, as if watching everything. When I looked in his eyes I was not afraid, and I saw he was only joking to encourage me. “ I don’t know much about Fenians,” I said, “but papa had_ to leave Ireland in ’48.” “Splendid,” ho cried, “ the daughter of an Irish rebel and an American rebel fraternising in the streets of Paris, whilst German William pounds at the gate. Now, if there’s a drop of the crathur left here, it will do you good to have a drink in honor of this event.” He produced a pocket flask, and poured out perhaps five drops of brandy, all there was, and made me drink it. “ Now, where do you want to go to, Mam’selle ? Towards Notre Dame. All right—take my arm and come along.” I found myself almost without knowing it taken possossiou of by this stranger. “ But what are you doing here, sir ? ” I asked. “Oh 1 I ? Well, I'm a journalist, newspaper correspondent, and all that sort of tiling. But I’m also a bit of conspirator. Leon Gambetta is ray dear friend, and I’m having fine fan here.” Just then a shell fell in the street, twenty yards in front of us. My companion dragged me on the ground, and wo lay there whilst the dust and stones flew around us. I was praying, whilst he was saying things in Spanish—swearing, lam afraid. He raised mo up. “I’msoiryto be so rude, Siguoretta, but needs must you know.” “ Yes, I thank you very much, but there was no need for you to swear. I didn’t know what you said, but it wasn’t praying, I’m sure ; and you ought to thauk God for our escape,” said I. “ Pardon / ” was the reply, and the words were bitterly said, “ God is not recognised in the Constitution. God 1 Look at this work around ns ! Shall we thank God whilst thousands die daily, and we escape by a fluke. God ? Better call on Baal; batter ” I ran away from him ; his words horrified me ; but he followed and caught my hand. “ I didn’t wish to frighten you, my child, nor to hurt your feelings. I would not say one word to interfere

with your belief. You are happy that you can believe.” 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 he 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 X, “ and although you don’t believe I shall ask God to bless you in my prayers to-night.” He looked at me again in a curious manner, half quizzical at first, and then much milder, “ What is your name?” he asked. “La sceur Ada.” “Very well, sister, to-night X 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 ou the quai 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 Ido anything for you ?” No ! There’s my name—the one Igo by now, at least; and here,” and he wrote a few words ou a slip of paper, “there’ll be hotter work than this presently. If you are in danger send that to the Citizen Fiourens —I mean Monsieur Gustave Plorens—and he’ll put you through for my sake. Good-bye ! I reckon we shall 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 Commune. 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 X 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 parapet 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 know what had become of me ? Might it not be that some day in the streets of Paris 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 I my readers, none of you, I hope, have known what it is to be starving I The dull, heavy, gnawing paiu —the deaduess 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 flowing underneath. But Faith triumphed. 1 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, “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 Xdo not go to church often euough. I have had, since I went ou 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. “ The Vagabond ” on reading this will perhaps cut it out and say avain— “ 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. lie 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 me all day.” He staggered and sank ou his bed. Alarmed, I ran for the doctor, for I knew that he should have been kept perfectly quiet, and I blamed myself for leaving the hospital. When we returned we found Heinrich lying on bis bed in a dead faint, and blood flowing ft am 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 ou 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 ! * Quietly, peacefully, and happily, 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. 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 serai-starva-tion. But the moment the gates were thrown open provisions poured iu plentifully. New nurses were 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. Mauy 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 tbe Prussian officer, in*a few days I was in England and in my mother’s arms. My simple tale is told, I hope when Xhe 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 to the authoress of “ My Last Franc. Ada Wabd. Brisbane, September 12, 1877.