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A TALE OF THE INUNDATIONS IN FRANCE.

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Well, you must remember that Catherine of her son, it should bring her a cold official let-lost her mother when she was an infant, and has ter, to tell her that her only child had followed his father to a soldier's grave.

But a happier fate was in store for her; she received a letter from Victor full of wondering thankfulness that he had been spared, when his companions on both sides were mowed down in their desperate rush upon the Malakoff, and the mother read with pride that he had been one of the first to enter the fort, which had procured for him the special notice of his commanding officer. Some months after, when the welcome peace was proclaimed, Jeannie set herself to work, to prepare the house for his return; and, early in the afternoon on which our story commences, as she was kneeling down on the floor, arranging some linen which she had just ironed, in a basket, she felt two hands laid upon her shoulders, and starting up found herself in the arms of her soldier son. Four years absence had altered him much; the slight boy was become a firm and active man, and the Eastern climate had browned his fair skin; but there was the same bright, honest expression, and the same loving heart, and the mother rejoiced indeed to find him unchanged in all but personal appearance.

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Home looks very comfortable after the trenches," said Victor, as he glanced round the neat room, with its bright stone, white walls, and well cared for pieces of furniture; "that old press, and the little table look to me like particular friends, and here is actually my own favourite chair ready for me. But what a superb new cushion it has! why, mother, I saw nothing prettier than this in the Turkish bazaar at Constantinople."

"It was made by Catherine Mercier's nimble fingers," answered she, "in preparation for your return."

This piece of information was evidently very gratifying to the young man, for he regarded the cushion more carefully and tenderly, and as he bent over the embroidered flowers, said in a low voice, "How is Catherine, mother ?"

"Blooming as a rose, and brisk as a marmotte. Every Sunday she comes across in time to accom. pany me to mass, and then she spends the rest of the day here. In winter, Pierre comes to fetch his daughter home, but in summer we go to the Promenade, and afterwards I sup with them."

And do you think she remembers me ?" asked Victor.

"Pray do you think," said his mother, smiling, "that the prettiest girl in Lyons, who might have been married well twenty times, would come and spend all her Sundays and fête days with a stupid old woman, if that old woman had not a certain absent soldier son ?"

Victor laughed as he seized his bright little mother in his arms, and kissed her again and again. "Ah, but you know," said he, "that she was a sad flirt four years ago, and I have always heard that such a disease increases with age."

been her father's spoiled child; besides, she has many admirers, and it is but natural that a young girl's head should be somewhat turned by all the flattery she has received. Why I have even been told that her father's employer, the rich M. Lubin, would give his right hand, to say nothing of half his fortune, to marry her."

"And what does Catherine say to such a magnificent proposal ?" asked Victor with a clouded brow.

"It is said that she tells him she does not care a pin for him; but he will persist in being at the house every day, and is her very shadow, and there is no knowing what perseverance might not have done if her favoured lover had not returned to claim her; but with all her little follies, Catherine is true at heart; she is an excellent daughter and will be a good wife."

"And how does Pierre get on-is he still a journeyman weaver ?"

"Oh, no; he is become a chef d'atelier, lives au troisième in the same house where he formerly lived au neuvième, has the whole flat to himself and his looms, employs several men under him, and is reputed to be the most skilful weaver in Lyons."

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Mother, I see the rain has ceased; I think, if you will give me something to eat, I will just go across to the Merciers' to-night. I shall soon return, but I don't think I shall sleep till I have seen Catherine. What weather it is," added he, going to the window, and looking upon the dreuched world without, "it looks as if it had been raining for a month."

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"We have had ten days' incessant rain, and the lower parts of the city are flooded; it is to be hoped that we shall have fine weather soon, or I am afraid the rivers will be rising much higher."

Bustling about, she soon prepared a meal for her son, and when it was despatched, she sent him forth with many injunctions to return in good time. "For," said she, "I shall be afraid it's a dream that you are at home again, until I see you back."

Crossing the Saone, Victor passed through the crowded streets of Lyons, and leaving the Place des Terreaux, he reached the Pont Morand. When he arrived at the middle of the bridge, he bent over the parapet for a moment. "Strange," said he to himself, "I well remember a curious stone carved like a dog's head, which projected from that pier many feet above the water, and now I cannot see it, the rise must be high indeed."

Upon reaching the other side, he passed through the more stately streets, to the quarter of La Petite Californie, which is situated to the East of Les Brotteaux, and turning into a narrow street, he stopped at the general entrance of the third house on the left hand side. Like most of the houses in Lyons, it was constructed of wooden framing filled in with bricks, and consisted of nine

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flats, which rose in dizzy height, though some of the neighbouring tenements were even higher. So densely populated was the street that, though erected within the last forty years, the houses had | a stained look, as if they had borne the wear and tear of many generations. Ascending the general staircase, the young soldier stopped at a door au troisième, and tapping lightly, he lifted the latch and entered a spacious room.

Large logs of wood were blazing merrily upon the hearth stone, for the continued wet weather rendered a fire an indispensable comfort, notwith. standing the late season. The apartment was likewise lighted by lamps, and at a table in one corner sat two men, with papers and patterns spread out before them, the one writing from the other's dictation. The elder of the two was dressed in the ordinary garb of a superior Lyonese weaver, but his companion evidently belonged to a very different class. His coat was made of the finest material, cut in the extremity of the fashion, he wore a richly embroidered waistcoat, and his valuable rings, numerous gold chains, and diamond breast pin testified to the wealth of the wearer, if not to his taste; and Victor at once decided that he was in the presence of his rival, M. Lubin. But the glance was momentary, for in the centre of the room, arranging a table for supper, was Catherine Mercier.

If Victor had carried away with him a pleasant impression of her-if, during the last few months, he had been picturing to himself what he should find her after four years' absence, and had painted his imaginary portrait in lover's colours, he was not destined to be disappointed in her appearance. Rather under the middle height, her figure, though slight, was beautifully rounded, and shown off to the best advantage by her perfectly fitting dress. Her features were regular and good, her dark brown eyes were shaded by lashes of a darker hue, but it was in the expression of her countenance that Catherine Mercier's chief attraction lay. There was not one emotion, from the deep tenderness of a true woman to the veriest mischief of an arch coquette, that did not occasionally assert its right to play over her features, changing them as the shadows of the ever varying clouds alter a sunny landscape. When Victor entered, she turned her head towards him, and her first recognition was all that he could desire; her face lighted up, and she sprang forward to meet him with a delighted exclamation; but suddenly, partly from shyness, partly because she felt that M. Lubin's attention had been attracted, and that great man was watching her with his fishy eyes, and partly, perhaps, from a feminine, but not very amiable desire, to tease her lover, she drew back, and giving him her hand, said coldly

"So, Maitre Victor, you are come home at last.' "Victor!" exclaimed her father, who had been too much engrossed with his writing to hear the door open, "Victor Chapereau, welcome, my brave fellow, I am very glad to see you safe back again;

we have not been a little anxious about you, I can tell you," said he, advancing and embracing the young soldier heartily. "lle is the son of an

old friend of ours, M. Lubin," added he, turning to that gentleman, "and we have known him ever since he was a boy."

M. Lubin bowed very coldly, a young soldier in faded regimentals was not interesting to him; besides, he saw, with true instinct, that Victor was a rival, and therefore he felt hostile to him at once.

Come, we will all sit down to supper now," said Pierre. "M. Lubin, allow me to have the honour of assisting you-an excellent omelette I can assure you; Catherine's fingers are as success. ful in the production of made dishes, as in embroidery."

"Anything made by Mademoiselle Catherine must be, like herself, charming," said he, with a complimentary bow.

Catherine replied with some lively badinage, and she and M. Lubin kept up an animated conversation during supper, to which, it must be confessed, the other two did not contribute. Victor was seated near Pierre, and numberless were the questions which the kind-hearted old man asked him respecting all that he had seen in the East, to which he replied rather absently, for his eyes were following Catherine's every movement, and, marking with jealous ire the officious attentions of the rich merchant, which seemed to him favourably received. "Ah," thought he, "M. Lubin may be as stout and as selfish as needs be, but women are so bewitched by riches, fine clothes, and flattery, that a poor soldier like me, has no chance." At last M. Lubin, excited by affability to which he was not accustomed, gave vent to his dislike to Victor in sarcastic speeches directed at him, and which were the harder to bear as they often called forth Catherine's merry laugh. Victor was fagged and depressed, and rose to go.

"Do not go yet, my good fellow," said Pierre; "I have not heard about the Malakoff."

"

I promised my mother that I would be at home in good time. I only arrived in Lyons this afternoon, and she begged that I would not stay long."

"But it is so early," said Catherine, whose conscience was stinging her, as she looked at his sad face," do stay."

"I am very sorry, but I cannot; I promised to leave at nine, and I must keep my word.”

"Oh, certainly," said Catherine, hastily, "pray do not put yourself out of the way to do me a little favour," and with an offended air she turned away, and began taking the things from the table.

Victor bit his lip. M. Lubiu smiled spitefully, and Pierre, who was blind to all that was going on, bade him good night, after affectionately entreating him to come again soon. The young man bowed haughtily to M. Lubin, then went close to Catherine and held out his hand, looking gravely

A TALE OF THE INUNDATIONS IN France.

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hausted. Even his restless misery could not keep him awake; for, after tossing about for a short time, tired nature asserted her claim, and scaled his senses in a blessed forgetfulness.

He was awakened ere it was light the next morning by his mother, who was obliged to shake him by the shoulder to rouse him from his heavy sleep.

and sadly in her face. Now, if Catherine had given way to the impulse of the moment, she would have thrown her arms round his neck, confessed herself a little goose, said that she admired and loved him, and that never had M. Lubin been so hateful to her as this evening, and thus sent him away happy; but strong as the inclination was, it was combatted by a spice of coquettish pride; so she merely shook hands coldly, and said, "Why, mother," said he, rubbing his eyes, "I suppose you will honour us with your com- "what on earth do you want me to get up for? pany again, soon ?" it is not light yet. I thought I was to sleep till "Not unless our meeting is likely to be a hap-noon." pier one than this has been," said he hastily, and at once left the room.

We all know how bitter it is when we return after a long absence, full of anticipation of our first meeting with those we love, to find ourselves awakened from our pleasant dreams by some cold and disappointing reality. Often our hearts are too full to utter the many tender speeches we have, as it were, been conning over, and often those we meet, perhaps from the same cause, do not at first welcome us so warmly as our yearning love has expected, and thus these meetings are generally sad ones. So poor Victor felt, as he left La Petite Californie, and struck towards home. If he had not heard the reports about M. Lubin, it is probable he would not have heeded Catherine's coldness; but the slight suspicion which his conversation with his mother aroused had rankled in his mind, and thus he had been too watchful, too ripe to take offence, which had rendered his manner cold and constrained. But he was too much hurt to examine how far he was himself to blame; for, as Coleridge says:

To be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;

so he dashed on, regardless of everything but his
own bitter thoughts. Had he been less engrossed,
he would have observed much around him to
raise alarm. Already had the Rhone risen several
feet since he had crossed it earlier in the evening,
and, when he re-entered Lyons the streets were
unusually thronged with people, some transporting
furniture and goods from the lower parts of the
town which were flooded, others collecting in
shivering groups under arches or any projecting
eaves which afforded some shelter against the
pitiless rain, which was again pouring down. In
some streets near the Saone, Victor splashed in
water up to his knees, but even this failed to
arouse his attention. Ascending the steep hill,
he reached home drenched to the skin, and his
mother at once perceived that he had been
wounded instead of pleased by his visit. But
avoiding any painful questions, she only tried by
every loving attention to soothe and comfort him.
She persuaded him to go to bed, and made him
some hot coffee, and when he had drank it, she
left him to the sleep he so greatly required. He
had been so anxious to reach home that he had
not slept for three nights, and was completely ex-

"My son, the floods are out, the Rhone has risen fearfully, and is still rising; they say La Petite Californie is under water to the second story. Pierre Mercier, who came across last night with M. Lubin, to be ready for some orders in the morning, was attempting to return home, when a piece of timber fell upon him and broke his leg. They carried him to his sister's house near here, and he has sent this note to you."

Victor had jumped up, and was putting on his clothes; he took the crumpled piece of paper, and read the following note::

"My brave friend,-La Petite Californie is flooded; I am disabled. Save my daughter if it is not even now too late.--PIERRE MERCIER."

It took but a few minutes to equip the ready soldier; his mother made him take some food to eat as he went along.

"You will need all your strength," said she, “and must eat it for my sake."

He knelt down for an instant as he used to do when a little boy

"Bless me, my mother, ere I forth." go She laid her hand upon his head, and with a choked voice said,

"God preserve you, my own beloved son."

He rose, took her in his arms, gave her one long, long loving embrace-feeling it might be the last-and then he sped away upon his perilous enterprise.

Descending the hill of Fourvieres, Victor saw in the faint morning light a terrible panorama of destruction before him. Both rivers were rushing madly along, studded with the spoils of their expanded and resistless waters. The Rhone, especially, he observed, was dotted over with the objects which were being carried away; and fearing lest indeed he was too late, he dashed recklessly on. In his passage through the city, he had nearer and stronger evidence of the extent of the inundations. Though he chose the higher parts, as less likely to impede his headlong career, he had ever and anon glimpses of streets in which the water was rushing like a river, where whole houses were crumbling down; where the roofs were crowded with refugees from the rising floods; where boats were passing to and fro, and hastily constructed rafts, ladened with women and children just rescued, some even in their night clothes, were slowly moving to some place of shelter. In his path were groups who had been landed-children

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wailing and calling in heartrending accents for their parents; mothers rushing wildly about seek ing for their lost children, and refusing to be comforted. Others were sitting down in hopeless despair, having seen those they loved best crushed in some quick ruin, or carried away by the raging

waters.

Victor sickened at the sight of so much misery, and dashed across the nearest bridge. On the other side he seized a small boat, and getting a soldier to help him, they transported it through some streets which were protected by an embankment, and then launched it on the flood. Victor found that the rapid current was in his favour; he stood in the prow, guiding the boat with a pole, and guarding it from the various obstacles which were floating about. A turn or two more would bring him within sight of Catherine's dwelling, but a cross current met him, and he had a serious struggle to prevent its carrying him away; but, by a strong effort he turned the boat round the right corner, and then-oh!-heavens how fearful was the scene that burst upon his sight!

The water, which was bearing him on, was up to the third story, and was rapidly rising; but there was a greater danger attending Catherine than the angry flood. The two first houses on the left hand side of the street, sapped from their foundations, had fallen in one great crash, whilst the next, being the one in which the Merciers dwelt, was swaying to and fro with every impulse of the fierce tide, and seemed as if, in one instant, it would follow its companions. Victor saw all this, though still at a considerable distance, and also observed that Catherine was at the window

just above the water, alone, and clasping her hands

as if for aid.

With desperate strokes he sent his boat forward reckless of the broken boards, pieces of furniture, and animals which were thronging in his course. As he neared the place of danger he came upon a side street, which rose above the water, and on which were assembled a considerable number of people watching the falling house. There were boats moored near, in which they had brought off the rest of the inhabitants; but Catherine had been aroused too late, and did not come to the window till they had steered off. Just afterwards the other houses fell, and now no one would go to rescue the helpless girl. Amidst the group was M. Lubin on horseback, vainly urging the boatmen to make the attempt.

"Ten thousand francs to any one who will save Catherine Mercier," cried he.

There was not a movement, and the sad looks of the boatmen betokened how desperate the case

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Victor's boat shot past; "half of my fortune shall you have if you will save that girl."

Beware," cried an old sailor," it will be certain death."

Victor turned his pale face for one instant, and shouted proudly,

Money cannot save her, M. Lubin; perhaps true love may."

A murmur of applause burst from the crowd. "Here my brave fellow," cried the old sailor, throwing a rope into the boat, "tie that fast; we shall pull you back more quickly than you can row, and there is no time to be lost; may God speed you."

Victor seized the rope, and knotted it to a seat; gave one desperate stroke, and his boat, released from some stones which had stopped it, shot under the yawning shadow of the trembling house.

All the

Catherine had given up all hope-life is very sweet to the young; and it was with an agonised heart that she had watched the boatmen-had seen M. Lubin's fruitless gesticulations, and felt that no human aid was to be procured. events of her past life flashed across her mind, and bitter was her penitence for every folly which had looked so little till seen under the shadow of death. She felt that she could meet her fate more calmly if she could have said one word to Victor -but where was he? A sudden and more violent

movement of the house, convinced her that the time was short, and shutting her eyes, she knelt down and commended herself to God.

A strong hand laid upon her shoulder called her back to life, and starting up, she saw her lover standing in the boat, keeping it close to the window by leaning his whole weight upon the sill. Quick, quick," cried he, "jump into the

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boat.

God grant that it may not be too late." She sprang lightly down; Victor pushed away from the house; the boatmen, who were watching the scene with breathless attention, tightened the rope, and drew them rapidly back. Scarcely were they at a safe distance, when the whole building timbers and bricks, round which the water hissed fell with a terrible crash, and confused heaps of and foamed, were all the remains of what had so lately been her home. Catherine shuddered and been silent, his compressed lips and frowning brow hid her face. Victor, who till this instant had alone testifying his deep anxiety, exclaimed,

"Thank God we are safe!"

They were drawn to the bank, and landed amidst the cheers of the spectators. When M. Lubin saw that Catherine was out of danger, saved by his hated rival, he pulled his hat over his brows, and spurred his horse away from the spot. Victor having thanked the boatmen warmly for their sympathy and help, took the poor girl upon his arm, and winding his way by the more protected streets of Les Brotteaux, got safe across one of the bridges which yet remained unflooded.

A TALE OF THE INUNDATIONS IN FRANCE.

But danger still held her naked sword above their heads. Now they were obliged to fly from falling houses, as they passed in a boat through some of the flooded streets. Then, as they pursued their way on foot, they met a fierce current forcing its way in a new channel. Now they had to thread a terror-stricken crowd, so dense and reckless that it required all Victor's strength to guard his companion from being crushed. Misery and confusion were on every side-mutilated sufferers were being carried on stretchers to the hospitals, and sounds of grief and wild despair rang in their ears. At last, weary, faint, and drenched, Victor led the poor girl to her aunt's house, and without waiting to allow her to speak one word of the love and gratitude which her full heart was struggling to express, he left her. And so the cloud still rested between them.

Pierre welcomed his daughter with deep emotion; he had scarcely hoped to see her again, and received her almost as one given him back from the dead. His leg had been set, and Catherine found him as comfortable as under the circumstances could be expected. Again and again he made her relate the tale of her danger and her rescue, and the warm praises be uttered of Victor's bravery were as music to her ears.

The young soldier had gone at once to his mother's home, to relieve her fears, and get some necessary food, but he would not stay to rest.

"No, mother," said he, "I have saved Catherine, and her life has been granted to our prayers; there are thousands of helpless women and children in danger and distress, and in very gratitude I must go and do my best to succour them."

291

head, "I do not seem to care for anything. The Emperor has been down to Lyons; I had just been getting some poor woman out of a tottering house, when I was called by a gentleman, and obeying the summons, I found myself in the presence of his Majesty, who was standing in the midst of the floods half-way up to his waist in water, and by his side was my commanding officer, and he spoke a few words to the Emperor; and then his Majesty called me to him, and decorated me with the Cross of the Legion of Honour, for what he called my gallantry in saving the "inondis."* And he farther said, that hearing of my conduct at the Malakoff, he would give me a commission; and so your son, dearest mother, will be Lieutenant Chapereau," said he, smiling; "but somehow I do not seem to care for it as much as I ought to do. My head is so bad," added he, throwing himself on the ground, and laying his head in his mother's lap, "I feel as if I had no strength left."

She put her hand upon his head, it was burning hot; she felt his pulse, it was beating wildly. She saw at once what was the matter-over fatigue, sorrow of mind, the dreadful scenes he had passed through, and the constant exposure to wet and cold, had been too much for him to bear; and her gallant son-her only child-was stricken with a deadly fever.

When Catherine called an hour afterwards, she found the anxious mother listening to the minute directions of a physician, who said that it was a very serious case. Though Jeannie was rather disposed to be angry with her, the sight of Catherine's misery, when she heard of Victor's illness, and found that he was already unconscious, touched her heart; and of her own accord she asked the poor girl to come and help her to nurse him, knowing that it was what she was longing to do. Catherine thankfully agreed to do so, and went home to tell her father of this new call upon her time. He was progressing favourably, was in no danger, and having his sister to wait upon him, he warmly approved of his daughter's going to nurse her brave preserver.

Three days and nights did he labour amongst the suffering population of his native city. Where danger was the greatest, and misery the deepest, there was Victor, battling with the floods, helping those who seemed to have none to help them; cheering the fearful, repressing the selfish. And awful were the scenes through which he passed; streets in the most densely populated parts of Lyons were flooded, and in many instances the houses washed down, oftentimes carrying in their ruins their wretched inhabitants. Boats contain ing the rescued were dashed to pieces by the debris which were being carried about by the raging waters; and those who had just begun to taste the sweetness of hope, were, with heart-But it is sadder far when the patient is one rending shrieks, hurled to their death. Cemeteries were flooded, and the graves torn up gave forth their dead, whose bodies, in every stage of decay, floated in ghastly guise upon the face of the waters. Even with the blessed consciousness of doing his best to lesson the suffering, Victor's heart sickened within him.

He had not slept the whole time; he only occasionally ran home to assure his anxious mother of his safety, and take some necessary food. But the fourth evening he walked wearily in.

"Mother, dear, I ought to be proud and happy, but somehow," said he, putting his hand to his

It is very sad to watch by the sick bed of a man in the prime of youth and strength; to see the body helpless as a little child; the hands vainly endeavouring to grasp anything-the restless head that tosses from side to side; the parched lips.

whom we love best upon earth-when on the issue depends our happiness or our bitterest sorrow. Very silent was that sick room-few were their words, but constant were their prayers. By turns Jeannie and Catherine sat up at night; and it was a slight consolation to the latter to try by every loving care to deaden the bitter thoughts which were thronging in her mind, and which, when she feared he might die without hearing her confession of folly, and speaking one word of forgiveness, were well-nigh insupportable. Day suc

Inondis-sufferers from an inundation.

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