Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 346: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

wee eS oe ——— or wll IN THE TRAIL OF DEFEAT. BY MAUD HOWARD PETERSON. What one woman did when appealed to for mercy by the man who had done her a grievous wrong. A story of wartime and treachery. I. T HE eagle of France had been grievously wounded; its proud | plumage dyed in the blood of Weissen- burg and Worth. The legions of France were broken on the fields of Colombey-Nouilly, Vionville, Grave- lotte; and the all conquering Prus- sians, like a stern shepherd, were forc- ing the broken band into the fold of Sedan. , The throne of a too ambitious ruler was tottering to its fall; the birth of a republic was at hand, and still France bled and bled. The gray mist that had hung over the little French border town all day lifted slowly about sundown, and the heavens, as if to affirm their loyalty, were reflecting the colors of Napoleon —the colors of France. A boy of some ten years, and two or three white haired men—too young and too old to render help to the stricken army—and as many women, hung around the doorway of Clarisse’s vine clad cottage, situated on the out- skirts of the village. Below them in the valley the voices of the peasant women, shrill and incessant, and the laughter of the children, hushed as by the grim reality of the time, came up to them. Clarisse, ever industrious, was weaving, nor did she pause as the whispered comments of the loiterers reached her, though an angry glow stole across her face and was lost somewhere beneath the kerchief at her throat. Deftly she drew the shuttle back and forth and little by little the linen grew beneath her skilful fingers. ‘“ Ma fot,” one of the women in the doorway remarked in a loud whisper, “look at her! One would think she was a queen for all her proud ways, or a—Prussian,” she added bitterly. The shuttle dropped. Clarisse turned from her weaving and faced them. “ Leave my house—all of you,” she commanded; “I did not ask you here. I do not want to see you! I only want to be left alone. Go!” Her voice, strangely enough, lacked the shrill quality of the peasant wo- men and her speech was free from the patots of the province. Her tones rang out clear and defiant. The boy clung to the hand of one of the old men and looked up into his withered, derisive face, wondering what was the matter with Clarisse and why every one laughed at her, as grandpeére was doing now. Clarisse was always good to him and Marie and Macaire and all the other children. The group in the door- way did not move. “Go!” said Clarisse again. There was a warning in her voice. One or two began to move away; only the large, raw boned peasant woman who had first spoken, paused long enough to look back over her shoul- der and call after her. “Ts that the way you used to send Monsieur I’Artiste from you! Ma foi— how cold he must have thought you!” — The cackle of the old man joined in with his younger companions’ deeper laughs and the shrill amusement of the women. The child alone hesitated and remained silent. Something in Clarisse’s face made GOMGDOOKSEGO A) |