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IT was toward the close of what had been a fine day in June, 1813, when the last rays of the departing sun, as though loth to leave so sweet a spot, were gilding the solitary spire and chimneys and house-tops of the little village of Montçaon -one of the prettiest in the south of France- and pouring down a dazzling flood of golden light along the highway leading to it, and the broad tract of surrounding country, that a way-worn traveller, afoot and alone, entered the environs of that quiet place. He was a man whose appearance was well calculated to excite curiosity and interest. He was not very young -perhaps some five and thirty summers had cheered him with their brightness - yet though he had passed through scarce half the period of years allotted to the common life of man, it was evident that those years had not been spent in idleness and ease, but had been attended with activity, adventure, and misfortune. He was habited in the well-known uniform of the infantry of the leader of the armies of gay and conquering France, but it was soiled and tattered having, without doubt, been through much service. He wore

an apology for a cap fitted closely to his head. His knapsack, cartouch-box and an old and ragged cloak were strapped to his back; his sword in its iron scabbard dangled at his side, and in his hand he carried a long, steel-pointed staff, upon which he was obliged to lean for support at every step he took. His slow and faltering pace, his trembling limbs and the pale and haggard cast of his countenance, evinced that disease was preying on his vitals, and afforded but one of the melancholy instances of broken constitution and crippled body, which fall to the lot of many of those who blindly followed the fortunes of the bright-starred Napoleon, through his early, brilliant and glorious yet mad career. The thick coats of dust and mud upon his habiliments and accoutrements told, too, that he had travelled far that day. Yet there was something more in his appearance which excited the pity and commiseration of the passers-by. His left leg from his knee downward was bound up and bandaged with strips of an old uniform coat, and though he suffered his foot barely to touch the ground, and bore but lightly on it, yet much pain

seemed to attend the act, and it was plain that the limb was yet suffering from the effects of some severe wound.

Slowly through the village the wounded soldier dragged his wearied body, and though he often paused for a few moments to rest and gaze around him, yet he tarried not long at any spot, but immediately resumed his course toward the heart of the little place. It would scem — notwithstanding that all who passed him, young and old, male and female, appeared to know him not that he was not an utter stranger in those parts, and looked not upon surrounding objects for the first time. Occasionally his eyes brightened and his step became rather more elastic as he drew near to some well-remembered spot, and as he approached the market-place his breath came shorter and quicker, and an expression of anxiety and fear of learning unwelcome tidings, was manifested in his looks. Thus on he went until he arrived in front of a little two-story wooden house, at the side of the street, with an overhanging porch, and bench beneath for idlers and loungers, (which, at this hour of the day, was generally as was the case now, well covered with a motley crew of various ages and condition, smoking and gossiping together, and enjoying themselves, at the close of their day's labors after their own manner,) and a swinging sign over the door, on which a rude attempt had been made to paint a huge, massy tankard overflowing with some kind of frothing liquid, and with letters of rambling proportions to convey the information to all whom it might concern, that travellers were there taken in, fed and lodged at ten sous a head. Pausing in front of the door of this house, the soldier begged of a stout muscular man, (who, from his appearance, had probably never known what a day's sickness was, and who was now tipped back in his chair and puffing dense clouds of tobacco smoke from his mouth, listening the while very attentively to all that was passing between his companions,) a cup of cold water to quench his thirst. This speedily brought the landlady to the door, who thinking from the sickly and impoverished appearance of the wayfarer, that the probability was that he had but little if indeed any money to pay for anything that might be given to him, began to rail at him somewhat sharply, and threw out sundry hints and threats of loosing upon him the house dog, who at that moment, as if to add effect to his mistress's words, commenced barking furiously. The soldier turned away from her without a word of comment on this unfeeling conduct, and had made several steps from the door, when one of those who were sitting in the porch and quaffing from their overflowing cans, touched with his sad condition, called to him to turn back.

"For shame, Goody," he said to the woman, as the soldier paused at the first kindly

accents that had greeted his ears for many a day, "for shame Goody, to treat thus one who has without doubt bled in the service of our darling Napoleon. Come hither, friend: you shall share my cup if it is the last that I ever have. I love soldiers well; I should have been one myself but my poor old father

may he rest in peace — took a strap when, foolish boy that I was, I wanted to enlist, and beat my military fever out of me. Come hither friend. From the army?"

"From Moscow," replied the soldier, receiving with grateful looks the can of wine which the kind villager had tendered him and drinking off the sparkling liquor at a single draught.

"From Moscow!" repeated all, while he who had performed this benevolent office toward the stranger, turned his eyes with something of a gleam of triumph in them, upon the hostess and his companions, and said, "Served you through the whole of that sad campaign?"

"I did. I was among the first drafted to leave Paris. I crossed the Katocza with Murat, and received this wound in my leg at the assault upon Borodino, and was in the first division of the advanced guard, that entered Moscow. I saw the city of the Czars in flames - I saw the Kremlin blown up when Napoleon, in despair, quitted the place to return home, and I saw him who had led us into all this danger and, to many, death, desert those who would have given their heart's best blood for him, and seek his own safety in flight."

These words had a magical effect upon the company. Closely they collected around the soldier, and besought him to be seated, and narrate his adventures in detail. This, however, he refused, answering their pressing importunities by inquiring the way to the Rue Le Pont.

The man who had been previously very kind to him, now volunteered to go with him and show him the street, and then drawing the soldier's arm within his own, he motioned to start, and the two moved off slowly toward their destination. As they progressed, the soldier became much agitated. His limbs trembled, and, occasionally when he spoke, there was a faltering in the tones of his voice which told that his mind was ill at ease. "You are ill," suddenly exclaimed his kindhearted conductor, noticing his agitation. "Sit you down; sit down on this stone, I will go and get something to revive you."

"No; no, I shall be better soon," replied the soldier, "old memories have a strange effect upon one. Tell me, does an old, yel

low, wooden house still stand in the street to which we are going?

"What, old Pierre Matthieus's dwelling? that it does," responded the other, "and a nice comfortable nest it is too."

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Blind, said you? he said musingly. "As blind as a bat," replied the other. "He was once noted for the keenness of his sight," rejoined the soldier.

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Very likely, but we can't help the ravages of time and disease," was the response. "Ah! here is our street."

They turned now down a short, narrow street which branched off from the main one. The first thing that met the soldier's glance

and it may be supposed he was upon the look-out for it - was an old house, situated about half-way down the street, once painted yellow, but now so much faded and defaced, that it would have been almost impossible to tell what its color then was, with a bench at the side of the door, and honeysuckles trained up on each side of the same, a large capacious garden around it, and a neat rail fence with one of the prettiest of white gates in front, extending around the boundaries of the lot.

"That is the house," said the villager, "and there is old Pierre Matthieu and his daughter sitting at the door."

The soldier had perceived sitting on the bench, an old man habited in a faded suit of regimentals, and by his side the form of a young and rather pretty girl, dressed very plain and scantily, yet neat and tidy in the costume of the French peasantry of the day, and as he laid his hand upon the latch to open the gate, the latter left the side of her parent - for such he was to her and advanced toward him.

"Will you give food and shelter for one night to one of the survivors of the flight from Russia?" inquired he.

"Who is that?" exclaimed the old man, as these words fell upon his ear, and the mention of that melancholy disaster struck a chord of sympathy in his bosom. "Who is that, ma chere Lucie, that you are talking with?"

"It is one of the emperor's soldiers, father, just got back from Russia. Will you give him a meal and rest for the night?"

"To be sure, girl, to be sure," responded the old man, "Let him come in by all means.

Perhaps he can give us some news of our poor long lost Jacques. Give him welcome, Lucie."

Thus cordially welcomed, the soldier opened the little gate and entered the garden, while his friendly conductor, having fulfilled his mission, left him, after bidding him good night, and returned to the tavern where he was immediately assailed by his friends there congregated, with questions as to the stranger's history, of all of which he professed to be, as he was in reality, entirely ignorant. In the mean time, the soldier had been received with open arms by old Pierre Matthieu, for the sake of the service to which he was once attached himself, while his daughter busied herself in bringing out a small table from the house and placing on it several dishes of the good things of this life, well calculated to tempt the appetite of any one, who like the strangeras he averred - had tasted naught save the cup of wine at the tavern, since morning. A bottle of the juice of the grape was added, and a chair being then placed close up, he was bidden to be seated, and to satisfy his hunger. He did ample justice to the plain, but substantial meal set before him, and smacked his lips right well when he had swallowed the wine. Having finished the repast, the old man, who, during the time he had been eating, had appeared to be laboring with something on his mind, abruptly demanded,

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How long have you served in the army, friend?"

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Twenty years." "Indeed!"

"Even so.

Just twenty years since I ran away from my good father, and enlisted in the army under Jourdan, and in three weeks from that time I was in my first battle." "Where? where?"

"At Toulon."

Old Pierre Matthieu clasped his hands together, and the perspiration rolled down his forehead in big drops, as he said,

"Go on; go on! I am anxious to know more I have a reason for it- go on, where else have you been?"

"In many places. I was in Flanders, in 1794. I was at Lodi, when the desperate charge across the bridge carried the day. I trod the burning sands of Egypt. I crossed the Alps with Napoleon, and I was at the bloody fight of Merango, and stood within five yards of the brave Desaix, when he was struck down by a musket ball. I was at Austerlitz, and our detachment was following close upon the enemy when the ice on one of the lakes gave way and engulfed them, and we barely escaped the same fate. I was at Jena too, and at Corunna, where Sir John Moore, as brave an officer as ever led on troops to battle, fell to rise no more. Russia was my last field, and there I received, at

Borodino, the ball in my leg which I shall feel the effects of to the day of my death."

Pierre Matthieu listened with deep attention to the recital of this short summary of the soldier's past fortunes, and when he had concluded, he exclaimed eagerly,

"Did you did you know my Jacques? His history is near like yours, for I have never failed, until within a few years, tracing his course by the means of friends. But where he is now!-alas! I know not. Like you, he ran away from me, and singular enough, it is just twenty years ago. He was about your age, and one very easy to become acquainted with. You must have known him."

I did, well and intimately," answered the soldier," he was a stanch friend to me, and never, while I live, will I forget him or cease to love him. Poor fellow!"

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Ha! what say you?" exclaimed old Pierre, as his quick sense of hearing caught this expression of pity, "why poor fellow?" "Alas! he fell at Austerlitz."

The old man clasped his hands together again and bowed his head upon his knees. He spoke not, moved not, and for a few moments, so completely were his feelings shocked, and his whole system paralyzed, that it seemed as if his soul had left its tenement of clay. At last, raising his head, he turned his sightless eyes upon the stranger, and as the big tears coursed down his cheeks he said, in a voice broken with deep emotion,

"Your last words have crushed the little hope that was springing up in my bosom. I deemed something, I know not what, told me that you was my long lost, my darling boy. Ah! woe's me. I never shall again hold him, as I had fondly hoped, in these old arms I could not see him- but I might have pressed him to my bosom, and welcomed him home again. I might have told him that I had forgiven all, and once more heard his voice answering mine. Alas! alas! I shall no more meet him here. Did he ever speak of me?"

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"Often. He ever loved you, and often spoke of your teaching him when quite young,

to fence and to go through the exercise in which you was schooled under Marschal Richelieu, in the war of the alliance against the great Frederick."

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My brave boy!" ejaculated the old man, and then said, "How died he? I doubt not bravely."

"He fell like a soldier, upon a redoubt at Austerlitz, with his face to the foe, his musket in his hand which he had clubbed when ammunition failed him, and the shout of' vive Napoleon! ringing on his lips."

"And the emperor," gasped old Pierre Matthieu," did - did Napoleon place on his body, when dead, that which he denied him living?"

"The Cross of the Legion of Honor? " "Yes; yes.'

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"It was affixed to his breast upon the field of battle and never taken from him."

The old man again clasped his hands together while tears of joy ran down his cheeks. "Come to my arms," he exclaimed, 'stranger though you are, I love you for my poor boy's sake, and for the tidings that you have brought me. Come, you shall henceforth fill the place of my poor Jacques."

"I will," replied the stranger, springing toward him, "I can conceal it no longer. Father, father, I am that Jacques whom you have mourned so long, returned to be forgiven, and to die in peace. Think not hard of the deception that I played upon you. I did indeed, fall at Austerlitz, but not in death. Receive me penitent and broken-hearted to your arms and bless me."

Pierre Matthieu's joy was too intense to be expressed in words. He caught him in his arms, but ere he pressed him to his bosom, his fingers had crept over his left breast in search of the prized token of bravery and merit, while the maiden, whom the noise and confusion of the moment had called to the door, now looked with surprise and a newborn feeling of strange pleasure, upon the brother who had left his paternal home when she was an unconscious infant, and whom with her beloved father she had long mourned as dead to them.

R. L. W.

то

They say thou art wayward, untruthful and vain,
As fickle and wild as the air,

Too fond of display, too remorseless of pain,
Love's noble devotion to share.

I know not how true is the frequent surmise,
For they say woman's heart is unread,

But revelling thus in the light of thy eyes,
I wish thy traducers were dead!

HAL.

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