Evening Star Newspaper, June 25, 1898, Page 18

—e ok. THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 1898—24 PAGES. | t CHAPTER XVIII—Continued. 1 Somewhere in the night a cab rattled over a stone pavement; a dog barked down by the Porte Rouge. “See the rote 4 said Yolette: “it is Mont Valerien that sends them up. They are talking to St. Denis with their rockets, Monsieur Bcurke says so. And now St. Denis will send the mes- sage to the fortress of the east. Hilde, little sister, you are crying.” “T am afraid.” Was it the sudden cold that chilled her? She shivered and turned back into the house. Bourke moved about lignting | candles in the dining room—there was no more lamp oil—and Yolette went to the table and seated herself, her eyes inno- cently answering the adoration in her lover's eyes. They waited in rapturous j; silence until Hfide entered. Then Bourke sat down and the meal began. About 9 o'clock Red Riding Hood came to clear the table. Hilde aided her, bearing out her own untovched plate, pausing to ery a little In the dark entry, until she heard Bourke laughing In the dining room, and that comforted her. But when she re- turned, serene and smiling, the smile died on her Hps, for Bourke was saying: “I wonder what could keep Jim? I don’t like it. He ought to have been here before dark.” o A little spasm of fear passed throngh her heart: she turned and entered the hall- way: before she had reached the front door it opened, and a gust of icy wind swept across her face. At first she thought it was he who had entered; there was no- body there. The rising wind tore a shutter loose on the floor above; the tree in front of the house swayed, bowed, bent and creaked, showering the sidewalk with whirling leaves. Then, in a moment it was over; the wind died out, all sounds and movements seemed to cease as at an u heard command. The hush terrified he she looked up through the thick air, look- ed up through a gray descending veil, a palpable haze that covered her with a million sifting snowflakes. Straight down from the fathomless vault of midnight they fell athwart dim gas_jets—ghostly. noiseless, ominous flakes. They melted first, wetting the sidewalks till the re- flected gas jets trembled like torches mir- rored in a river. After a while grayish patches and dim bolts of snow appeared here and there, spreading fester than t melted; the trees was spotted like a for- est beech. the grass on the glacis whitened as she looked. The chill in the air had vanished, yet far away she scented the cold—the ciear, clean breath of winter. Out over dark hills and valleys, over riv- ers, woods and spires, the unseen snow was falling. She felt it as though each flake were falling on her heart. Her eyes strove to pierce the gloom where all the world was waiting breathless in the snow—wait- ing as she waited—for what? Again that sick fear struck through her breast. There came a distant echo of footsteps, scarcely softened in the snow, nearer, nearer—a shadow passed across a signal lamp, across the next—and the next. “Hilde!” He held her crushed to his breast for a moment. Her eyes were closed, her wet hair glis- tened with snow crystals under the gas jet overhead. A minute passed—two, three He lifted her head, seeking her lips. “Is it tz" she sobbed. After a moment he gently unciasped her arms, stepped to the hallway, and called: “Bourke!” “Not tonight—not yet——" she moaned, reaching out blindly. He caught up both her hands and kissed them again and again. And now Bourke was coming through the hallway. bearing a lamp, and behind him was Yolette. Harewood whispere “It's for tonight, Cecil—Bellemare's div sion is leaving St. Denis. Get your dis- patches quick. The cavalry are riding by the St. Quen gate; the fortress of the east supports them. Hurry, Cecil; I've only a second.” Bourke turned and hurried up the stairs. Yolette looked from Harewood to Hilde. “Can't it be helped?" she asked at last. “No, I must go. After I have gone—then tell Bourke—not before. He would not let me go.” He kissed Hilde quietly, saying that there was nothing to fear—saying that he would soon return to be with her always. Bourke reappeared with a little packet. Yolette was crying. “Jim,” said Bourke, “I will go—if you say the word.” Harewood smiled and pressed his hand lightly. “Good-bye,” he said. “There'll be no trouble.” Yolette hid her head in her hands. Hilde turned a white face to Hare- wood. He hesitated. glanced at Bourke with inscrutable eyes, then for the last time took Hilde to his breast—a second— and was gone. “Jim!” stammered Bourke, “you—you can't go—I didn’t understand! I—wait! Come back, you fool!” “Hilde!” whispered Yolette, with ashen lps. But Hilde no longer saw; no longer heard. At midnight Harewood passed the forttfi- cations, riding with a troop of hussars to a point where the Crevecoeur road crosses the military highway between the fortress of Aubervilliers and the village of Le Bourget. Here the hussars wheeled westward toward St. Denis, calling back to him a friendly “bon voyage,” and he rode on alone. His horse was already tired; it was the only mount he had been able to find in Paris, a great raw-boned cavalry charger, condemned at the depot and destined for the omnibus or the butcher. Harewcod spared the creature when he could, but the highway was already deep in slush and ice, and the horse slipped at every ascent. ler post was passed; the pickets at stoppec him, then let him go when they found his papers satisfactory. Again he was stopped where the shattered rail- road crosses the Coeurneuve highway, but there the obstinate outpost was mollified by an officer who knew Harewood, and who sent him en his way wita a mirt! laugh that rang false and sad through the falling nothing to be seen—now and jow lantern lighting up the piack- stted out suddenly in a flurry off ow—a dim highway deep with mud, over which thin films of ice had formed, only to crackle under his horse's feet. Off there in ss to the westward the three Denis lay in obscurity—the Fort Briche, the fortress of the East and the battery of the Double Crown. Behind him the fort of Aubervilliers crouched above the highway in utter darkness, indifferent, unheeding the dim signals ‘uspliyed from Once a roam Pp2ared at dis artet of Franc-tireurs stirrups and seized his horse. They all were drunk and sullenly suspicious, cursing, shoving, demanding papers and passwords and handling their rifles that threatened the exis? concerned. They lightes and examined Harwood, commenting cn his tweed Norfolk jacket, on the many pockets on breast ind hin and finally on the corded riding breeches Evidently they coveted t “Take them, Barcastically, “and I'l return with Ge ith a carelessness nee of everyt Bellemare :o shcw him how my boots fit you.” This produced its effect; the Franc- tireurs protested that they cared neither for Gen. Bellemare nor for the boots. They ccn: general, boots and Harewood himself to a livid and prophetic future, and let him go, shouting after him that Fiour- ens’ carbineers would strip him, genera! or neral. This was pleasant news for Harewood; he had no idea that Flourens’ three battalions “were out. With a sudden misgiving | there was nothing to se2 but swirling sheets of snow. He listened, peering into the gloom. Suppose Speyer should meet him here alone?—or Buckhurst? He gathred_ the bridle nervously; the horse moved forward. “Halt! Qui vive!” a voice broke out in the darkness. “France!"* cried Harewood, with a sudden sinking of his héart. Cloaked and shrouded mounted figures appeared on evary side, a ~pale lantern glimmered in his face, swung again to the ground and went out. “C'est bien,”” said somebedy close at his elbow, “‘laissez passez, M. Harewood.” Col. Laveign2t’s escort parted right and left; one or two officers greeted the American Pleasantly from the darkness. “What troops are these?” asked Hare- wood, striving to recognize his unseen friends. “Th2 34th de Marche,” said somebody. “The 2d and 34 Brigades are passing the forts,” added another. Again a lantern gleamed out, and Hare- wood saw Gen. Bellemare passing close in front, escorted by dragoons, cloaked to the ears. Th> keen-eyed young general smiled at Harewood, who lifted his cap in silence. “Are you going with us to Le Bourget?’ asked the general, drawing bridle and hold- ing out a gloved hand. “Oui, mon general—with your permis- replied Harewood. “I hav2 Gen. Trochu’s consent,” he added. “Then what do you want with mine?” queried Gen. Bellemare with a good-humor- ed gesture, ‘yon journalists are a nuisance, M. Harewood—a nuisanc2!” “I am to carry through dispatches, gen- eral; may T be of service to you?” Gen. Bellemare shook his head and wheel- ed his horse. “Wait until we take Le Beurget,” he said, end trotted forward, followed by his plunging, snow-covered escort. The snowflakes that were now falling: seemed fine as sifted flour; they powderod the route with a silvery dust that iay thick in every rut and ditch; they blew xcross the fields in sheets and drifting pillars; they whirled up before gusts of wind, flurry after flurry, dim phantom shapes that fill- ed the darkness with movements half seen, half divined. Harewood found himself riding beside a mounted captain of the 34th Infantry de Marche; on either side plodded the troops, rifles en bandouliere, overcoats covering: feces that turned shrunken ané pallid un- der the sudden rays of some swiftly lifted lantern. The long echo of crunching footsteps, the trample and sigh of horses, the sense of stifling obscurity depressed Harewvod. He VA RITTEN FOR. é THE EVENING STAR BY ROBT W-CHAMBERS. ward! Forward!” and the advance trains, borne onward by lashed horses, swung the field picces down to the shore and through the icy water to the bank opposite, where the will-o’-the-wisp lights flickered and danced and the bullets whistled like hail through sheafed wheat. The first rollirg ctash from the French in- fantry rifles see:ned to extinguish the flick- er of the rifles from the opposite shore. Already the battery horses were galloping | back -yith th; limbers; the two cannon stood apart, half hidden by shrubbery. Then, through the night, came the rush of a column, a fierce cheer: “The bayonet! the mudd; fields to the highway, where the French onset passed like a whirlwind straight Into the black throat of the village street. lt was over in a moment; he caught a glimpse of figures outlined through sheets of level flame; he saw a Uhlan clinging to the neck of a plunging horse rear up in a blaze of light like a soul in torment. Drums began to beat from the extreme right: on the left the troops were cheering ficrecly. | A battalion of sailors came up on a double quick, the flames from a thatched roof on fire gleaming on ritie barrel and cutlass, on the red knots of their sailor caps, on broadaxes swinging and glittering as the blows feli on oaken doors from Which sput- ed smoke and needle-like yellow flames. There were strange sounds, too, in the houses—shrieks, blows, the dull explosion of rifles behind barred shutters, the clangor of a bell that began swinging and ringing in some unseen steeple. A rush of strange cavalry passed like the wind—they were Uhlans of the Prussian guard, stampeding frantically toward the open country. They drove past, a cyclone of clanting lances, of tossing pennons, and frenzied horses, enveloped in flame and smoke from the French rifles, while the savage cheering re- doubled, and swift, jetted flashes from re- volver and chassepot pricked the fringing gloom with a thousand crimson rays. The two cannon of 12 shook the earth with their discharges in the east; from the west two other cannon, pieces of 4, broke in with shotted blasts, accompanied by the sinister drumming of a mitrailleuse from the Blanc-Mesnil highway. The little Riv- er Mollette reflected the glare of a burning thatch; a drowned horse, with bloated belly and hideous stiff legs, swayed with the cur- rent, stranded on a shoal. Harewood, covered with mud, stood on the steps of the village church, his own dead horse lay in the gutter under a shat- tered lamppost, its patient, sad eyes glaz- ing in the sickly light of the torches. Gen. arms in salute. iA Bttle_bugléer sounded a fanfare, but He was%too exhausted to finish and hung his head in shame, while a ser- geant scolded-him-to conceal the tears in his own eyes. On every face the fine lines of hunger a <tight and sharpened hose and cheekbone: invevery eye the last flicker of hope hi led; yet they marched turning their -pati pallid faces to their general, who watched them in silence— these men who"had conquered and who were now left to_die—because Gen. Trochu had “other pina At last, when they had passed, Gen. lemare turned and walked slowly into the church, up to the altar, holding his sword clasped, cross on his medated breast. When he kgtit, Marewood stepped to the church door ‘and closed it. There was ewe stiliness in Le Bour- get. , CHAPTER XX. ( urget. At daylight it jan to snow again. An hour later torrents of rain swept the de- serted streets of the village. The roar of the wind awoke Harewood. A sickly twi- Light stole through the church where, rolled in his blanket, he had slept under the altar among a dozen drenched officers. A cavalry bugler, swathed to the chin'in his dripping cloak, stood inside the chan=el, strapping his shako chain” with numb fingers) He had hung his bugle over <he arm of the crucifix, and now, as his pinch- ed, sick face turned to the sunken face cn the crcss, he paused, outstretchss After a_second’s silence crossed him. self, unhooked the bugle, and setting it stiffly to his shrunken lips, blew the re- veille. A hundred shadowy forms stumbled up in the gloom, the vibrating shock of steel filled the church. An artillery officer, saber clashing om the stone floor, left the church on a run, pulling on his astrakhan jacket as he passed out into the storm. Harewood stood up, aching in every bone. He shcok his blanket, opened his dispatch pouch, counted the papers, snapped back the lock and yawned. An officer beside him began to shiver and shake, a thin, lantern-jawed fellow, yellow with jaundice, and covered from cap to beot with half-dry mud. Somebody said: “Go to the* hospital.” ‘The officer turned a ravaged face to Hare- wood and smiled. Otuside the church the infantry bugles were sounding. Their thin, strident call set Harewood’s teeth on edge. He rolled and strapped his blanket, slung the dis- patch pouch from shoulder to hip, and tumbled out to the church door, where a dcezen horses stood, heads hanging deject- edly in the pouring rain. A mounted hus- sar, with a lance in stirrup boot, looked sullenly at Harewood, who called to him: “Whose escort is that?” “Gen. Bellemare’: replied the trooper. “Is he going to Paris?” “Yes, monsieur, in half an hour.” Harewood looked down the dismal street. The low stone houses, shabby and desert- ed, loomed dark and misty through the storm. Everywhere closed shutters, closed dccrs, dismantled street lamps, stark trees, rusty railings on balcony and porch. Every- where the downpour, fiercer when ihe wind swept the rain spears, rank on rank, against thé house fronts. And now, down the street, through the roaring wind and s'anting sheets of tain, marched a regi- ment—a spectral regiment, shrouded, gaunt drummers ahead, lining the flooded pave- ment from gutter to gutter, sloppy irams “MOUNTED OFFICERS THRASHED THROUGH THE WATER, SHOUTING ‘FORWARD, ‘FORWARDY — watched a lantern’s sickly rays lighting up the knapracks and muddy trousers of a line of men in front; he spoke to the mounted captain riding in silence, his heavy head Leried in his wet cloak collar, but the offi- cer did not seem to hear him. The snow turned to finest grains of ice, the frozen dust pattered and rattled on wet | ceps, on soaked overcoats 2nd_ stiffened epaulettes. Again a sudden shaft of cold passed through the air, bringing with it a mist that hung to the fringe of the march- ing column, and grew faintly luminous as the snow ceased to fall. The fog became denser, a sour odor of sweat and wet, smoke-saturated clothing filled the air. The seaking saddles, the drenching flanks of the horses, the rifle barrels, gave out a stuffy penetrating smell that choked and stifled. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring; steam rose from the men’s breath; the herses’ flanks were smoking. Harewood rode on in silence, listening to the creak of saddles, the slop! slop! of steel- shod hoofs, the crushing crackle of thous- ands of tired feet. Once the infantry captain, riding beside him in the dark, spoke: “Monsieur, if you are going through the lines, I have a wife and child at Bonneuil—" ‘Give me the let- ter,” said Harewood, soberly. The captain fumbled in the breast of his soaked tunic, drew out a wet letter and passed it to Hare- wock. “Thank you, comrade,” he said. As he spoke a star broke out overhead. Half an hour later the velvet depths of midnight were spangled with stars—great bluish wintry stars sparkling like frost crystals in the moonlight. The long black column detached itself from the shadowy plain, massed squads of horsemen broke the level of the infantry, and on a little hill in front the strange silhouettes of cannon passing moved in shadow shapes across the sky. It was 4 o'clock in the morning. Harewood opened his watch and read the dial by the splendid starlight. “We are near le Bourget?” he asked the infantry captain. “We are there,” said the captain, omin- ously. Harewood, standing straight up in his stirrups, saw a little river just ahead, span- ned by a column of wading infantry. Horses, teo, were fording the shallow stream a few rods below, and above the cannoniers of the two field pieces moved ‘autiously along the pebbled shore search- ing for a safe crossing. On the opposite bank of the stream, in irregular outline, shadowy houses clustered, a single dim spire rose in their midst; not a ray of light came from the dark village, not a sound. Riding ahead, Harewood felt the pebbled shore beneath his horse's feet; beside him the infantry were passing the ford, while the black water gurgled and swirled to their knees. Suddenly all along the oppo- site bank of the stream a line of tiny lights danced and sparkled like fireflies. . There came a rippling, tearing crash, the keen whimpering whisper of bullets—showers of bullets, that hurtled and smacked on stone and rock and tore through the bushes on either side. Out in the water a horse rear- started to run im a circle, shrieking; another | weity na head under water, the little tin cup in the starlight. A shrill cheer broke out from Arnage 4 fantry. The shallow waters of the votled under their rush. *! officers, thrashed through the water, ‘For- Bellemare, cloaked and muddy, stood near Harewood on the church step, surrounded by dismounted officers. Harewood heard him say: “The 14th Mobile Battalion and the Franc-tireurs will occupy the village; a detachment of three infantry. battalions and two guns will form the grand'garde, to be relieved every twenty-four hours. Two. battalions of the 135th will hold Courneuve; Admiral Saisset must cover the right flank with the sailors and _ fortify 'Drancy. Where's Col. Martin? Oh, well. Colonel, are you under the guns of Aubervilliers? No? Is it too far? Where are those Belle- ville carbineers?” The Belleville carbineers ran,” said an officer with a short, dry laugh. There was a silence, then another laugh. “If I had my way I'd shoot this Flour- ens,” said Gen. Bellemare quietly. His glance fell on Harewood and he shrugged his shoulders. “M. Harewood, I fear you will have to wait before trying to pass the lines. It ap- pears we are to receive no aid from Paris; we must rely on St. Denis, according to Gen. Trochu.” But,” said Harewood, astounded, “Le Bourget is the key to St. Denis; isn’t it worth holding? It has been won gallantly.” “Of course it's worth holding,” broke out Gen. Hanrion violently. Gen. Bellemare made a gesture of assent. “It is the key to the Double-Crown bat- tery,” he said; “surely they must realize this in Paris. If I dared to leave Le Bour- get—if I dared go myself and persuade the governor—" He looked hard at Hanrion, who nodde back at him. = ig “St. Denis can’t aid us now,” cried Col. Lavoignet; “let them send us a dozen bat- teries from Paris. Do they expect us to annfhilate the whcle of the Prusian Guard- Royal? Let the Uhians go back and tell their king that a handful of mobiles and fantassins sent them packing.” Everybody moved uneasily. The apathy of Gen. Trochu disheartened them. Here was a victory—the first victory under the walls of Paris. And now, when it was won, the governor thought it scarcely worth the powder. Yet Le Bourget*was the,point of the wedge with which the Greman lines | might be split; it pierced the very center of the north zone of investment, threatened the German eastern communications, and finally assured St. Denis and opened a wider area of operations for the army of Paris, Gen. Bellemare drew out the telegyraphic dispatch from Paris and read it again with knitted brows: “Le Bourget has no important bearing upon our iine of defense, and is not neces- sary to our general plan of operation. reaming chambers of the war office? : “Messieurs,”” Gen. Bellemare ly, “call my escort. I leave for ph ge morrow.” Gen. Hanrion stepped ted with hope. ~ Bo tce if" he cried. ‘The governor shall vibrating like the death rattle of an army. It was the 128th of the line—the relief trom the Grand Guard. After it, one by one, rumbled four cannon and a mitrailleuse, escorted by Mobiles—the 12th Battaiion of the Seine. The hussar backed his charger onto the sidewalk while the infantry were passing. Harewood leaned from the churci steps and touched him on the shoulder. “Will you deliver a letter in Paris for me?” he asked. The hussar nodded sulkily, and said: e you going to stay here with the troops?” “Yes,” replied Harewood, sitting down under the porch and beginning to write on @ pad with a stump of red pencil. “Then you'll not need an answer to your letter,” observed the hussar. Harewood raised his eyes. “Because,” continued the trooper, with an oath, “that d—d Trochu won't send you any cannon, and you'll all die ke rats— that’s why.” Harewood thought a raoment, then went on writing to Bourke. “The sortie was co sortie after all. It Was a raid on Le Bourget by Fellemare. Trochu isn’t inclined to back him up, and here we are, wedged into the German lines, able to pierce them :f supperted from Paris, but in a bad mess if Waris abandons us. Bellemare starts for Paris in half an bour to urge personally the dirs2tion of a sup- Porting column. if the Garmans come at us male he’s gone, I don’t know how it will end. “In case of accident you will find dupli- cates of all dispatches in my washstand drawer. I would go back to Paris if it were rot such a sHame fo risk losing this chance to get througkuthé ines, If worst comes 10 worst I thinkt:I can back safely. But in case you don'tshéar from me—” He started tb addsomechiny about Hide, but crossed itpout.{iinstead, he wrote, “God bless you all,totheti! scratzied that out, for he had a horror oftbattlevieli sentiment and deieful messages: “from the fron: He raised his head und watched the storm. Swifter and swifter came the rain, dashing itselfito’ smoking mist on the glis- tening slate roofs.) A shutter, hanging. frcm one twisted hihge,“swung like an inn sign across the facade ofta cottage opyosite. He wrote again a*meusagze to Hilde, cheer- ful and optiniistic¢a yuy pleasantry un- tinged with SdouBt ana foraboding—and signed his nattie, “ames Harewood.” When he hail se@led und dtrected the jet- ter, he handéa@ it!to the hussar, saying, cheerfully: yf «mw. - * “Thank you,;conmgade, for your trouble.” The trooper thrust the jetter into the breast of his tunic, pocketed the silver Piece that Harewood held out to him, and nodded his thanks. s.church swarmed with soldiers ct bi some eating ravenously, some walking about nibbling bits of crust, some sitting cross-legged on the stone-slabbed floor, faces vacant, a morsel of bread, untasted, in their hands. They came to dip their little tin cups into th basin’ where the wine and water sto: ore, forgetful, touched the crimson liquid with his fingers and crossed hims2if. No- body laughed. About 7 o'clock, without the slightest warning, a violent explosion shook the street in front of the church. Before Hare- ‘wood could reach the door three shells Tell, one after another, and expioded in the street, sending cobblestones and pavement into the air. “Ke2p back!” shouted an officer. “Clos the doors? Herewood ran out into the street. Far away toward Pont-Ibign the smoke of the Prussian guns kung keavily in the air. “Are you coming back?” called a soldier. “We're going to close the church doors.” Harewood cam3 back, callirg out to an officer, “It's the batteries behind Pont-Ib- Jon.” Some soldiers piled pews and chairs into Leaps under the stained glass windows. On each of the heaps an officer climbed, field glasses leveled. The men lay down on the fluor. Many of them slept. The cannonade now raged furiously; for an hour the wretched village was covet with bursting shells. Suddenly the tumult ceased and Harewood, clinging to a shat- tered window, heard from the plain c9 the nerthward the long roll of voliey firing. A moment later he was in the street runnir.g beside a column of Mobiles. Everywhere the French bugles were ringing; the cobble- stcnes echoed with the clatter of urtiliery dashing past, summoned from Drancy by rocket signal. Harewood, perched astride a stucco wall, looked across the plain and saw dark masses of the ssian guard advancing in silence throui the rain. The French shells went sailing out over the plain, drop- ping between the Prussian skirmishers and the line of battle; the Prussian cannon were silent. * It seemed to him that after awnile the derk lines ceased to advance, but were swinging obliquely toward Bianc-Mesnil. Presently he saw that the Germans were actually retiring, and he wondcred, while the troops along the wall muttered ‘heir misgivings as the Prussian iines feced away in retreat, accompanied by shotted salutes from the fortress of the East and the unseen batteries of Aubervilliers. All day he roamed abcut the village, try- ing to form some idea of its defensive pos- sibilities, and at night he returned to the church. The rain had ceased again, but through ethe fog a fine drizzle still de- scended, freezing as it fell, until the streets glistened with greasy slush. There were tires lighted along the main street; across the red glare silhouettes passed and re- Passed. tiarewood looked up at the gothic portal of the church, all crimsoned in the fire- light. Above it the rose window glittered with splendid hues dyed decp in the flames glow, and still above the rose window the cross of stone, dark and wet, absorbed the ruddy light till it gleamed like a live cinder. Somewhere in the village a bat- talion was marching to quarters. He heard the trample of the men, the short, hoarse commands of the officers, the clat- ter of a mitrailleuse dragged along by hand. “The carbineers are insubordina‘e, said an officer beside him. “I wish eneral was here."” ‘The carbineers?” “Part of them ran,” said an artillery officer, sulkily. ‘“f'wo companies got lost near Blanc-Mesnil and had to come back when the cannonade began.” “They're in the next street,”” other officcr. “They are quarrel! cause there has been no D—n them,” he added, they deserve is a volley from a Gatling.” Harewood listened a moment to the chorus of denunciation that arose from the group around the fire. From it he gath- ered that Flourens and his carbineers had fled at the first attack on Le Bourget, and on the whole he was rather g.ad, for he had no desire to encounter any of the bat- talion that the Undertakers had sent out. He went to the corner of the stfeet and locked down the short transverse alley where the camp fires of the two carbineer companies blazed fiercely. Curiosity led him on, and in a moment he had done the very thing that he intended to avoid—he was standing in the midst of a group of carbineers, listening to their angry bicker- ings. The two companies were fantastic enough in their strange uniforms. Hunger had made them sullen. They cursed their offi- cers, their generals and Le Bourget. At daylight they intended to leave for Paris— they had had enough of this sortie fool- ishness. They were freezing, they were tired, they were hungry, and, above all, the stereotyped phrase was on every carbineer’s lips: “Treason! Our generals have betray- ed us!” Disgust succeeded Harewood’s curiosity. He gianced around the fire and started to retrace his steps. As he passed out of the fire circle he looked back at the mutinous carbineers, and as he looked he distinctly saw Buckhurst and Mortier come out of a house with their arms full of plunder. Startled, he stepped back into the shadow of a gate and watched them. And now he recognized Speyer and Stauffer, both in the full uniforms of carbineer officers, hold- ing pillow cases, while Buckhurst dumped his plunder into the improvised sacks and Mortier tied them tight. And now the plundering had become gen- eral. Bands of the carbineers began smash- ing windows and breaking down doors all along the street. Others came out loaded with the wretched household articles of the poorer peasantry, clocks, dishes, pew- ter vessels, clothing, bed linen and even furniture. The latier they flung onto the bonfires. Harewood saw a baby’s cradle tossed into the fire. “The miserable savages!” he muttered. “Why don’t they turn the cannon on them.” The tumult of the orgie was attracting attention now. An officer galloped up ona jaded horse, gesticulating furiously, but the carbineers menaced him with their rifles, and he withdrew in time to save his skin. Consoling himself with the hope that on General Bellemare's return from a court-martial would probably settle Buck- hurst and his carbineers, Harewood went back to the church, where the camp fires roared and sent showers of sparks into the fog, and the rose window glimmered and slistened, rea as blood. To be continued.) —_——>—_ .. A Famous War Horse. From the Seattle Tires. Lieut. J. P. Crawford of this city has re- cently received information of the death at Eri2, Pa., of “Old Ned,” the famous equine veteran of the civil war. It is said that he was the sole surviving horse that took part in that memorable conflict. Mr. Crawford informed a Times reporter today that the horse was captured from Early’s raiders rear Washington city in 1864, and was rid- den in the Union army until th2 close of the war by Orderly B. F. Crawford of Com- pany C, Pennsylvania Cavalry, who is a cousin of Lieut. J. P. Crawford. ¢ “Ii. ig claimed,” said Lieut. Crawford, “that the horse was foaled in 1855 and that at the time of his d2ath he was foriy-three years old. When young he was as Diack as @ raven, but several years ago he began turning gray about the face an@ this gradu- ally extended over his entire body until he became decidedly gray. He was sound in wind and limb and as nimble as a colt. He was small, but of robust make, and his power of endurance was wonderful. Dur- ing the last ten years he has ‘Nad @place in the G. A. R. parades and encampments, and was the center of attraction wher2ver shown. The sound of martial music would to show him for money, but all offers were refused and he was never exhibited for money but once, and that was ata G. A. R. encampment, when every ons who paid to EACH IN. HIS TURN Frenchmen All Must Take Part in the Mobilization. RESERVES ARE NEVER FORGOTTEN Rich and Poor Are Leveled to the Same Ranks. MUST BE IN READINESS ‘Special Correspondence of The Evening Star. FARIS, June 15, 1898. O BILIZATION” Mears the prompt gathering together and throwing out up- on the frontier of an equipped and organ* ized army. When there is mo army, there can be no mobilization of one: you cannot “mobi- lize” a people simply, however patriotic it may be. Nevertheless, the phrase “standing army” may be misunder- stood. In one sense the standing army of France 1s standing today; but in another sense a great part of it is sitting down. Of the 2,000,000 men of which it is composed, | en paper, and of the 1,000,000 men which the republic would throw out on her bor- ders in the first week of hostilities, the great mass arc, at the Moment, quietly going to their business and their pleasure, simple citizers to all appearance. They constitute tne “reserve” of the army; and, to be exact, it is the reserve that is mobi- jlized. The standing army, in a more restricted sense, is only the framework of the great- er body; and it, too, is a composite con- cern, made up of something permanent and something shifting. All its commissioned officers are fixtures, being educated for a definite career, pursuing it through life, and knowing nothing outside of the mili- tary existence. And with them there live and move, year in, year out, the family of the “re-eagaged’—enlisted men— a great mass of svldiers-by-choice who may well be compared to our own regulars. These form the real inner framework of the modern continental army. They make the mill through which must pass all the male material of tae nation. The First Process, Entering the miil as “conscripts,” all the youth of France, without exception, must be formed, by three years’ service, into soldiers. This is the first process. Then the mill lets go of them, to this extent, that they may reabsorb themselves in ivate life—but always as “reserves.” ar after year the active reserve thus accumulates. The army mill hi never said good-bye to them. Year after year the army mill must cali them back agatn, to keep them in their places, by the process of the annual maneuvers. This is tne sec- nd process—practice in the great war act of mobilization. I have a friend, a Frenchman and Paris- ian, a young gentieman of enviable for- tune and position, who in summer time is Wont to. make the round of mountain spa: seaside casinos, trains de luxe and pleas ure yachts, and I have another friend, a cabman, who nds all the year in what he says is toil. This autumn “both will have a change. The rich young man has had to give up a whole list of autumn pleasures; the young workingman is to take what ne looks on rather as a holiday; and both will be together. The three of us were riding in the cabman’s cab the other night, when the more fortunate of the two Frenchmen spoke up suddenly: “Tiens, I know you—you are Ravel? The y called Casse-pipe in the regi- “Yes, monsieur, I knew you instantly. I often see monsieur.” Thén both were silent for a moment. “How many years has it been now?” “Three years since we were out last,’ said the cabman, “and seven years since we were of the classe.” long time.” ‘A long time. x “And it is this year we go out again? “Yes, monsieur, this year we are ‘it’ again.” “Again of the great family.” “Again to peel potatoes!” “again to listen to the corporal’s lan- guage. “Again to do forced marches—ah!” Point of Mutaal Objection. They both said “ah” to that, for neither cabman nor cab patron takes a pleasure in excessive walking. “I must go into training—oof!” “And me” (the French say “me”) “and me, quoi! My feet swell already at the thonght of it!” “We should have been one of the cavalry, Ravel.” “I'm listening to you, monsieur!” (which means, “Monsieur, now you're talking.”’) Then as the rich man left the cab and paid the poor man with a handsome tip, it was “Good night, Ravel, and au revoir!” and “Merci, monsieur” (thank you), “we shall Meet again.” ‘When they meet again this year the poor man will not say “Monsieur,” nor will the rich man resume his condescending tone. They will be Casse-pipe and the grand Charlot, in regiment slang, “old brother” and “old dog,” and even the familiar “old cow” of fraternal confidence and pleas- antry. Each of these men, like hundreds of thousands of others, keeps at home his “military book,” which it would be rank dishonor, #nd even rank punishment, to lose. It contains the record of the French- man’s three-year army service as a con- script. It contains the record of his ser- vice in the reserve. It has his almanac, to show, down through his future life, the years in which he must “go out” in the maneuvers. It contains his “route” and railway ticket; and on the outside there is inscribed his company and regiment in the reserve. Of these the “route” and railway | ticket are the most significant. Must Be in Readiness. When the sudden call to arms comes, in the feverish crisis of the future, when all virile France must pour itself upon the German frontier, there must be no confu- ‘sion, hesitation or delay. Each man must Know exactly where to go. Each man mu: have his railway ticket in his hand; and, following their “routes” from every part {to hunt his * eye, and of their own accord. Give out the uniforms, the arms and the provisions! The regiment will move tomorrow! It ts in preparation for this splendid act, to which all France looks forward, or pre- tends to, that the great army mill finds its excuse fér existence. The calling out of Sections of the great reserve each year is merely practice in it. The great thing 1s Is thelr regiments in the twinkling of to be ready. Late this summer my two friends will co tc bed one night to take up in the morning part of a machine. Military book in hand they will hie to the railway station or the to ral. Paris barracks, as the case may be stand in line and answer the rol! There can be no amateurish ignoranc confusion. Each man there will thgre before. Each scene, from medical ex- amination to the fitting of the uniforms, and from the forming of the ranks marching off, is to be done as a ro: performance. The veteran non-com: sioned officers are there te keep them in thelr places. Each man has his corvee of the day and week assigned him. fog htt Will be of the squad to prepare the “You will be of the squad to Provisions from the railway cars.” “You are to be on such-and-such picket duty.” “You are to be attached to such-and-such an officer.” “You, and you, ard you are to take fharge of e9 many horses tomorrow morn- ing.” arry the Woman tn the Ca There is a romantic side to the yearly month of reserve service which is not neg- lected by such persistent seekers of gallant adventures as the French. The company has reached the village which is to be its center of supply and operation until fur- ther nottce. France ts full of villages. And villages are full of hou ded that house are full of- Women, as the French say. the affair becomes ecmpli It is not exactiy because full of pretty women, but be lages are full of houses, that the of which all France { fui chosen for “encampment.” eed it be ad- always Thus it comes, not as a canse but as an incident, that ali the camps are full of the soft laughter and sweet smiles of the “eternal feminine.” If this is not yet clear, it may be state a word that in the modern warfare of ¢ crowded, thickly-built-up Europe the time honored camp-and-tent play _ little Troops are lodged in public buildings, mar- ket houses and the like, whenever practi- cable, and the balance are assigned to every village householder for sleeping room. The officers are “billeted” on the richer part of the population. The common soldiers take their chances, according to the fortune of war. There's No Discriminatt. “Billet de logement!”—what a series « time-honored sentiment and pleasantry the phrase evokes in the French mind? My friend the Parisian dandy may be not so lucky as my friend the Paris cabman. 1 can see him stalking up the village street the moment he is dismissed from amping out hand he holds a card with Scrutinizes the house stealthily as he ap- proaches. He tries to read the style and character of those who dwell in it. Entin! He rings the bell. Who shall appear? A pretty lt try wife to whom he may pay ments, and who will whisk ar lshly to make him comfortable? Woman, but stout and gone in the years, who will slop around quite Quettishly perhaps—grand Dieu, mais he ranks plac In his an address. He coun- Or vale om me c'est degoutant!—to make him com- fortable—mais non, mais non! If one were to depend on song and story for his information he would soon come t believe that the great autumn maneuvers of the French army had for their real ob- ject the promotion of cordiality th sexes. As facts are of heart and himself before a. ventures of the month’s campaign. He wi dream of a shady wood where:n to do his picket duty, interspersed with chats with girls. twe pretty peasant He will evoke the | Vision of a hurried picnic in the shade of a sweet-smelling haystack, where the harum-scarum women of a neighboring chateau will onceive the ch of carrying luncheon or five o'clock tea t the poor soldier. And if, in stern realitiy he gets no nearer to ha ‘s than th sight of“a couple of bicycle girls along country road as he goes marching b; will philosophize, say that it is evidently “for the next time,” and then come home bragging of his “conquests” just the same A People’s Sacrifices. The sober facts of the maneuvers accent beyond everything else, the sacrifices that a people may be forced into through struggle for military supremacy. It is as if each French and German citizen should deliberately agree to give up so much of his personal liberty and to take upon him- self so much discomfort, year after year, through life. It is one thing for th who like it to belong to militia companies and go out to “camp” each summer. It is a different thing for the whole adult pop- ulation to be forced out into war, all but the killing, one month in twelve, year after year. It nas not come to this yet, simply because none of the great powers has be- gun it. All the adult males must go out, and year after year; but all do not go out itable hi a each year. To see the clerk leaving his desk, the cabman his high seat, the mason leaving his scaffold, and the clubman leaving his baccarat; to see them all mix up again. without exception, year by year, keepers, artists, sporting men, teachers, countrymen and city men, as they sid for three years when they w youth- ful conscripts, gives one a stronger impres- sion of the grim carnestness of continental “standing armies” than any recitation of mere figures is capable of doing. England has never yet been able to force her population into such a “slavery: nev- ertheless, today there are more English advocates of conscription and obligatory reserve service than ever before. It re- mains to be seen, In the approaching en- gagements on Cuban soll, how volunteer land ferces will be able to stand up against regular troops. The theorists have often been found in the wrong. STERLING HEILIG. —aagpeeenes Just the Tane. From the Chicago Journal. “TI took out a living picture show once,” said the theatrical manager, “and I ha@ several quer experiences. “We always had trouble getting svitable music, for one thing. I remember that we struck @ certain town where the music was furnished by a seedy, freckle-faced younz man, who officiated at one of those bang- ety-bang pianos. I asked him if he coull think of music suitable to each picture as it was displ:yed. ““Oh, yes,” certainly he could, it impromptu.” “The performance opened. He was seat- ed at the piano, and he turned to look at the first picture. It was ‘Adam and Eve in the Garden of Bden.” “He didn’t hesitate an instant. Like a flash he turned and began pounding out, “T! re's Only One Giri in This World for ‘and do of France, the soldier-citizens must pile in HIS IDEA OF THE GAME.