The Story Teller. A STORY OF THE FRANCOPRUSSIAN WAR.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 230, 29 December 1893, Page 4

The Story Teller. A STORY OF THE FRANCOPRUSSIAN WAR.

The vestibule cE the Hotel Cornicbe on the night of the Cornicbe ball. The dance is almost over ; outside the long line of carriages, with their yellow lamps moves slow ly forward, taking up little knots of furwrapped, tired guests. In the brilliancy of the lights the dark forms of the gendarmes pacing up and down fall black on the square, white stones. Inside, as the swing doors open and close, short snatches of melody escape, and gusts of hot scented air mingle with the cold without. In that marble hall, filled with green palms and ferns that tower to the glazed cupola, around the sparkling fountain, that tinkles faintly as the water falls back into its crystal basin, a young man, dressed in the garb of an officer, paces to and fro, his face as pale as the snow-white flowers that gleam around him in the beams of the electric light. Suddenly he turns. With a rustle of costly garments a woman steps lightly to his side, her small, white, hands extended. ‘Ah ! Marie—forgive me—Mile. Mitsuta, you have come ? ’ * Yes, Paul, we are going now. But, as you asked me, I have come to say goodbye.’ A sudden shiver runs over the young man’s frame. ‘ No, no ! Not ‘ good-bye.’ Perchance the war may not break out. We may not be ordered to the front. I longed for fame; I longed to die. leading my men on to triumph or death. I did. But now— Marie ! Marie ! Marie ! I love you,’ There is a pause. His lips upon her hand, his head bowed down, the young man’s shoulders heave, he reels upon bis feet, And she, her cold fingers twined in his, raises her sad eyes, and. prays with nil the anguish of a woman’s soul for him she loves. « Marie I Marie ! Where are you ? They start up suddenly. Her friends are coming to find her. ‘ Give me —give me,’ he pants, ‘ some token. Something to keep my heart alive. Something that speaks to me of you—of you, my own Marie ! ’ With a sadden effort she| snatches from him her hand : she draws off one long black glove. With trembling fingers be takes it.

‘ Keep it,’ she says, 1 and know that for you alone the pulses beat in the hand it covered.’

Rising like one in a dream from the seat into which he had fallen, Paul Brouardel takes his officer’s coat from the attendant and then goes forth. The cold night air strikes chill upon him, his teeth chatter together as he goes down the broad stone steps, His head upon his breast, his arms folded, he moves slowly away. The last guests are leaving, the light laughter of their farewells falls faintly . upon his ear. < Brouardel ! Brouardel! Paul ! Paul ! The young man Breathless with excitement, panting, their eyes gleaming in the light, three of his comrades leap up beside him. ‘ Brouardel,’ they cry, ‘ come with us. Come with us and spread the tidings. Comrade, rejoice. The time has come ! War has been declared 1 ’ Paul Brouardel, who at the first sound of the voices had stopped short in his walk as he hears these words reels heavily hack against the iron railings. His breathing stopped, for a moment he totters as il to fall. Then slowly he repeats, • War has ,—been—declared.’ i Yes, yes,’ i. l ‘ e V cry. * Tomorrow we go to the front. Come ns and sptead abroad the news.’ They link their arms in his, and, . ‘ ieir voices raised in the wild shouts of youth, half drag him from the -p t Invigorated by the pressure, inoculated wit.fi the feverish energy of ids i'fui! [\■ ’ steps forth ant! shouts hem to the gendarme a ‘ Com front ! ’ Only, as t < :h tl: . Boulevard at the end, stifle ■, gasping for air, he unbuttons his tunic and turns his head for one brief second back to tlfe illuminated doorway. And as he does so a long black glove falls from his breast on to the ground.

The Cafe de Rover. In the spacious gilded saloon a vast crowd of officers—mad with excitement at the news, now wafted to the uttermost ends of Paris are drinking, smoking, singing, laughing with the energy of men who know not whether today be their last upon the earth.

The door opens and a young man enters. A cry of welcome runs round and all hands are extended toward the new comer. Count Henri de Vimes, the darling of his regiment, the most handsome, dare-devil officer of all. A score of glasses, filled to the brim, are stretched out towards him. He seizes one, and raises its sparkling eontents on high. Silence falls upon the assembly, that hangs upon his very words. Then, in clear, ringing, tones, comes the toast—- ‘ Comrades ! To France ! To France and victory ! ’ A hundred glasses flash as they are raised, and then from a hundred throats burst out a mighty cheer. 1 Comrades ! Again ! To France and to the women we leave behind us. Comrades, each of you, drink to the woman you love, and coup'e with hers the name of Marie Mi'suta, the loveliest woman in Paris, the wearer of this glove.,’ And erect above their heads, his eyes flashing, Count Henri de Vimes stands and draws from his tunic a long black glove. * Liar ! ’ Henri do Vimes reels as on the marble table before him a drinking glass, hurled by an unseen hand, shatters into a thousand fragments. In an instant all is confusion, Chairs, tables, glasses are overturned ; shouts and imprecations break out all arouud as pale but unfaltering, Paul Brouardel forces his way forward, and stands at defiance before the darling of the people. With a sudden movement he snatches back the glove. £ Liar! That glove I dropped. Repulsed yourself, you picked it up, and thought to vaunt your power by flaunting it to every passer—by. Henri He Vimes, you lie.’ The handsome face of Count Henri blanched deadly white. ‘ St. Sarriens—de Portion ! ’ he cries, turning to two of his friends. ‘lt is not yet three o’clock. The regiment starts at six. There is yet time. You understand me. Paul Brouardel, at half-past five I shall wait for you, and make you eat your words. Name your seconds, and tell mine what weapons you choose. He knows not why, but of a sudden a fit of trembling seizes upon Paul Brouardel. He grips a chair back for support, ‘A duel ! ’ he cries. ‘ A duel on the eve of war ! Comrades ! listen to me. I am no coward, but I am no mad fool to spill the blocd of a fellow officer when our country calls for every drop that tingles in our veins. Count Henri is a liar, .After the war I will prove it to you But now, privEite disputes must sink, For France and for none other we must risk our precious lives.’

Crushing the glove into Lis bosom he strides towards the door, when from every throat goes up a hissing cry of 1 Coward ! Coward 1 Coward !

Paul Brouardel, pale a« death, turns back and faces round upon them. ‘ Fools! ’ he cries, bitterly. Fools, every one of you, blinded by the trifles of the moment to what is coming tomorrow Do you not know that if we meet shall kill him ? Look !’he says pointing with his finger to a candle burning in a silver socket at the other end of the room, Quick as thought, he produces a small revolver from his pocket and fires. The flame of the candle, snuffed by the passing bullet, expires, A murmur of applause runs round the room. Paul Brouardel replaces his weapon and as he opens the door to go out, ‘ For France I hold my hand ! ’ he cries, The war will prove if my heart is white.’ , .. ’’•'v long from first streaks of dawn , i ;, u reged. Smoke .hung in titid the LUitftilo ,i j "A ? i] «i ... . i i * mete m all the thick, murky, choking- e*. ;-e „ _ ~ 53 ,. | * cannon desls and valleys ; the thunder i,. rolled deafening upon the car. Everywhere was blood, soaking the ground, spattered all over the bushes and tree trunks, reeking to the very skies. And everywhere, on the hiils and in. the hollows, mangled and disfigured, hacked, distorted, ami tern by hideous wounds, lay the bodies of those that had fallen in the fight. Along the road that led back to the capital a little worn-out, blood stained band

of French men were fleeing, their hag: ard faces begrimmed by smoke and blood, their garments torn, their weapons broken. All, aU was lost. Suddenly, as their tired horses hobbled along, sounded the dull thudding of hoofs upon the clayey soil behind them. In their despair tha little band turned slowly, their hearts beating faster, lest in their distress the enemy had fallen upon them A wounded, bleeding trooper, on a wounded, bleeding horse, spurred into their midst. With eyes staring wildly and heaving breast, be gasped aloud—‘They have taken the colours ! ’ and fell senseless to the ground. A groan ran round the little band, wrung from their broken hearts —a groan that was relieved by the fierce, despairing cry of one man, who, his helmet gone, his head bound, round with a white handkerchief, sat on a tired grey horse. With a sudden effort he raised himself feebly in the stirrups. It was Paul Brouardel * Comrades,’ he cried, ‘ we aie defeated ; but something yet is left. Who will go back with me and die, or take the flag ’ There was a clatter of hoofs as half a dozen men pressed round him. A stray shot fell into the roadway. ‘ Henri de Vimes i ’ Paul Brouardel called in a low voice, as a smile of triumph played over his pallid features, ‘ who will come with us ? ’ Another shot, falling a little nearer, spattered the stones and dirt over the little group. In the distance a blood-red cloud rose slowly to the skies. Henri de Vimes returned no answer. Again Paul Brouardel raised himself in his stirrups. Their eyes upon him the half dozen soldiers clutched their battered weapons and started forward. He said no word as lie moved away, but he turned Isis pale eyes coldly upon de Vimes, and in them, by the light of the distant guns. Count Henri read the unspoken taunt—- ‘ Coward i Coward ! Coward ! Next morning when the relieving force arrived and drove back the Prussian hordes, search was made on the battlefield for the colours of the 23rd, and a silence fell upon the searchers as the splintered pole on which the colours had been carried was found with the flag tom from it. Suddenly a shout was heard, and a cheer of exultation thundered up that the very skies rent • old soldiers sobbed aloud, and tears rolled down and mingled with the bloody soil* In a little hollow lay the body of Paul Brouardel, wrapped, ms with a burial sheet, in the folds of the missing colours.

And even now, if you ask, they will show you the tattered flag with a hole in it, and a long black glove, through which the bullet had passed before it reached the ‘ Coward’s ’ heart.