THE FIRST DEATH.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 3103, 4 June 1892, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE FIRST DEATH.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FUENCII. t Lα Faiu/edb was a little village of v four or five hundred inhabitants f between Amiens and Abbeville, f Sad in autumn, gay in spring time, j clean, silent, stretched along a [ wide road, its houses low, with c l-oofs black and pointed,ssu- f rounded by swampy meadows and \ crowned by a forest of oaks, it ( was a counterpart of all tho other villages of Picardy. Yes, it was a ] counterpart, even to the coquettish ] chateau, its walls of red brick, its { window casings of white stone, ( that is always part and parcel of a Picardiau landscape, and that stands a thousand metres, more or 1 less, from the outskirts of those tiny provincial hamlets. < La Farlede, at the moment this j story opens, was in a hubbub of ; excitement, for a cemotery, their ■ own individual burying ground, had be6n achieved at last. The Municipal Council, which had so long hoarded the funds drawn from the ratepayers for the purpose, had finally seen fit to purchase an ancient field, to wall it in, and to consecrate it to the well merited repose of the p3ople of the country; •' and on and after November 1, 18 —," so the announcement read, "the cemetery now definitely enclosed would be ready for the reception of its guests." Naturally enough, everyone gossipped and jested with his neighbour on the subject of the " elect," wuo would point out the load to his compatriots, but the hubbub increased to a positive riot when simultaneously with the conclusion of the oeremonies that made the ancient field a " Gottsaker'" handbills appeared on the walls, including the Maire's, to the following effect : Whereas, being sound of mind and sound of body, I hereby declare that iu order to soothe and sweeten the last moments of him or her who will be the first to inaugurate the new cemetery, I have placed in the hands of the Maire of La Farlede the sum of ten thousand francs, to be delivered to the family of the first inhabitant who departs for another and perhaps better world, on and after this the day of opening, November 1, 18—. In witness, whereof, signed and sealed by myself, Jean Bitusiineux. In other words, the proprietor of the chateau already described, formerly a Bohemian of the artellers of the Boulevard Clinchy and enriched by the decease of an aunt, who, at the final moment, had consented to afford him her forgiveness for the profession he had chosen and to leave him the inheritor of a goodly estate. \ In the days of his youth an in- ' corrigible joker, he still at times, as in the matter of the handbill, in- [ dulged in the same propensity. The statement of the placard was true, ', however, and in the twinkling of an I eye the news was all over the village. Groups of people congregated [ before the bills to read for them- > selves, while others more incredulous \ ran to thu Maire to ask for confirmut tion of the same. "The fact is exactly as given," j he responded, promptly ; " there is no mistake about it. The money is

in my hands, and will so remain," etc. etc. The announcement thus officially vouched for, everyone joyously returned to his home to begin at once the calculation of his chance—to take stock, as it were, of those belonging to him, and to estimate their average longevity. It goes without sayimg that those of the inhabitants who were fortunate enough to have sick or very aged relatives were filled with triumph, though, of course, they triumphed secretly and in silence, whilst the others" (those whose families were sound and healthy) were forced to comfort themselves with the forlorn hope of an accident, or unexpected seizure, or insidious draughts of air. " Such and such an one's taking off," they recalled. " had been extremely sudden; so-and-so's trifling illness fatal; unlooked-for deaths were always occurring," and those thousand tantalizing pistoles danced a sarabond in their dreams even when they fell asleep. As for the Maire, poor man, life had become a burden to him because of the hourly deputations and avalanche of queries to which he was forced to listen. " Must they be of the village," they besought him anxiously, " or was it sufficient to be a member of the parish? Did children count, or relatives by marriage, or those whom death might take place by violence ? "—queries that plainly be-

trayed the villagers' anguish of mind, and hugely amused the donator. It is not ovdry dayj bb yoh know, that people give up tho glirisf in villages, and a whole week passed by after the opening of the eemetory, without an event of the kind occuring. Still che brains of the people continued to be over excited, and every one, from baker to butfiher, from curate to husbandman, laid off work from time to tune to measure with his eye, or calculate mentally, the additional goods of farming gnund purchasable with the money only the cafes were busier than ever.

By the end of the week the story of the handbills had become an old one, but by no means a less absorbing, though the villagers no longer lowered their eyes or voices when discussing tho matter, and openly footed up the chancos. The family of a certain La Poireaux, by common consent, had settled that they were to be the fortunate inheritors, for had they not among them, this family. La Poireaux an old wreck from Trafalgar, living by foroe of habi 1 . alone—a wh.izzy, yellow, dried up old mummy, whom twice a day they carried to the door to bask in the sunshine, and whose demise had long beon expected. " But sometimes these aged ones live for ever," objected a malicious listener, " and this oue shows no more signs of d-yiug than lid has done for six months past." " All the same," added another, 'it is the family of La Poireoux whom the Maire has his eye upon." Nevertheless, despite the anguish of desire that had seized upon all in the race for this money, La Farlede possessed no assassin. It was true that the ailing and the vory aged had become a centre of interest to every one in the family, for they would bo able, if accommodating, to leave behind them a snug little sum, yet no one dreamed of accelerating their departure. In the households of the less happily placed the interest was equally absorbing—a harsh cough, a laboured breathing, bringing the ear upon the aler* in an instant. Coughs and difficult breathings were harbingers of inflammation of the lungs, as every one knew took its victim quickly. If another one had a red face or an indigestion they awaited apoplexy, and a child who had been an invalid from birth, and began to recover from the moment of the proclamation, was cut off with a shilling in the will of an indignant aunt, whose heir it had previously been.

The entire village at the expiration of this same week was pale and emaciated. Even those who had scoffed the loudest at this waiting for dead men's shoes no longer slept tranquilly ; drunkards drank twice as much as they had drunk before ;' the avaricious cursed in secret ; while the sick, on the contrary the only ones who objected to this fashion of ringing the bell, seemed to vie with each other in the haste of their recovery. On the morning of the 10th of November, however, a bell, or rather a knell, did ring out, instead of the morning Angelus, and the people, falling over each other in the darkness, and railing at fate, precipitated themselves toward the church to learn who had won. Abs, arrived, there, breathless and panting, it was only to find that the beadle (as usual), full as a thrush, more dazed than ever from brooding upon the promises of the placard, and thinking of nothing but death, had rung without reason. Truly it was time this business should end, or they would all be as mad as the beadlo. Ah, well, there lived at that time in La Farlede, a poorand unfortunate peasant the father of two little helpless babies, and with whom nothing had ever succeeded. Though scarcely past his fortieth year, he had run through every country of the world, to return at last, vanquished to his native villiage. He was a good fellow, gentle, affectionate, dreamy and inoffensive, but he was unable to gain a living for himself and family in a country where the struggle with the earth was hard and endless. His slender frame took badly to the labour of the fields and he possessed no other

resources. Misery and want encompassed the household, and each evening before the smoking cinders tho wife cried in undressing the children, and he, tortured and cowed by a sense of weakness and failure, writhed in secret. The placard ot the painter Bituraoneau had made upon him, as upon the rest ot them, a deep impression. Nay, mor) than that, it had given him an idea. What if he should be the one to leave ten thousand francs to his wretched family 1 It would lift them above want for ever ; they would be able with the money to purchase at Abbeville, perhaps, a haberdashery—perhaps a more pretentious shop. His wife was intelligent, industrious —she would surely prosper at the business. He saw them already, those deprived ones, secure of the necessaries he had been unable to give them, the boy, later on employed in a bank, the girl married to a commissaire. That evening he embraced them and held them upon his breast longer than usual, murmuring as he watched them laid upon their scanty straw. " I will do it—l must do it ;it is my duty !" The idea that had come to him with the reading of the placard, and born of misery and shame, was suicide. For him it was the rehabilitation of all his disastrous

enterprises, th , , , atonement for the sorrow that he line! brought upon : his family. Jiut oh, the agony of parting from l.hcse beings so tenderly loved, whose welfare and happiness he coiili! siM'i!!'" >»t last, Imt secure only by one means. He went, out to walk for (t tthilu in tho embrowned lielcls,the yellowed torest, but the rustling of the dead leaves that his foot pushed aside sounded to him like the rustling of a shroud ; so l s burst from his anguished breast as he regarded the wide heavens, the valley full of shadows, and the little village that held his all. for a long time he hesitated. Perhaps chance would deliver him — perhaps it would not be neceaaary to take his life in order that they might live, that they might have re upon the darkened hearthstone, and bread in tho empty cupboard. Long ago he had simim-d himself by talking with a neighbour, who had questioned the. Mairo, that suicides would count in this funeral play. Of course he must kill himself—to wait longer was to permit the chance that as yet was his, to be grasped by another. He took his jiun, climbed the hillside that overlooked the village, and fixed hia eyes op-m the dilapidated roof that, did not even shelter his wife anil little ones. The next morning, when they found his body—a wood-cutter passing through the forest had seen it and spread tlira news—the crowds •ursed it and threw stones at the corpse of the poor hero. The women sought to spit in his face ; the Town Council itself waited upon M. Bitumoneux to demand of him that the money should not be paid to the family of such a trickster. The painter responded by adding ten thousand more to the first ten thousand, and charging himself for ever after with the care of the widow and her children. " It was my fault," he told himself, deeply moved by the tragedy— " my fault, and but for me the thing would never have happened." The Maire alone and the gendarmes, whom it had been necessary to call upon before the body of the martyr could be laid in the ground, followed it to its last resting place, and that same day " the old wreck from Trafalgar " and two beside him passed to their last account. The memory of the suicide is still cursed throughout the whole of Picardy, and upon his tomb one reads the inscription (cut there by a cunning but sacriligious hand during the darkness of the night after the interment), The ditch of the thief.