Gentle Hortense; or, the Maiden's Leap—A Tale of the Vosges [pp. 360-367]

GENTLE HORTENSE.
German, part French-she yet feared they were
some of the enemy. Thie hostess quieted her
fears, saying they were only driven to the house
by the fearful storm. Edward's chiildishi curiosity had led him into the front room, where lihe
stood gazing at thle bright-equipped soldiers.
The captain looked with admiring eyes upon
the dark-eyed, raven-curled child, and took him
upon his knee. The two, the innocent child
and the stalwart patriot, conversed amicably
together.
"Tell me," said the cuirassier, "how such a
fine little genti/homme as you has got into this
boor's house?"
"The voiture brought me," said Edward, with
childish simplicity. "Have you got no little
boy?"
Hortense, who had become anxious about her
boy, stepped to the door, which was merely a
homespun curtain. She pushed it aside a little,
and glanced into the room. Her face turned
white as death when shie belleld Edward on the
captain's lap, and heard the deep, sonorous
voice of the cuirassier, as hle answered the
child, saying sadly:
"No, my boy, I have no one in tile wide
world who cares for me. I once had a little
boy; but I lost him many years ago."
"0, my Heavenly Fathlier, help me!" she
groaned within her'self, as shie felt a weakness
overcome her. She begged the hostess to show
her to her room, whio took her to a wee chlamber next to the firont one.
Edwa.rd came in soon after, telling tall tales
of thle gentilhomme, who had been so kind to
him. Seeing his mamma at the window, the
child stopped abruptly; for he knew that some
deep sorrow weighed her down whenever sile
stood at a window in the night-time. He disrobed, said his evening devotions, and threw
himself upon the canapS.
Hortense stood long at the window. Midniglht came; and yet the high bed, with its gaudy
curtain and valance, stood smooth and unruffled
in thie corner. The deep voice of the captain
had broughit back the pain of vanished years;
for it was the voice of Monsieur Rougemaitrethe voice of her husband. She heard it even
now; the voice that sent such a stinging pain
through her heart, which penetrated to the innermost depths of her being; a thrill vibrante
etsubtile, which she felt was the intensest action
of her soul. The storm had subsided; she
heard the soldiers get up to depart; she knew
the step of ron so well: she heard him go out,
mount his war-horse, and gallop off into the
black night. She felt more lost and alone than
ever in her life before. There was a terrible
void in her existence. Save the hlard-breathling
child on the canabdI, there was no one who
cared a straw for her, whether she would die or
live. To her, with her timid, diffident nature,
it was awful to be so lost-so alone. She was
glad when the morning came, and she could
pursue her journey; for it seemed to her as if
the giant Mountain mass above them exercised a
supernatural influence over the place. Madame
Jenevue-for Hortense had taken her mother's
maiden name-reached her destination, and was
installed in one of the wards. She fought a
sterner battle than many a hero. She tried to
steel her tender heart to look calmly at the hlor.
rible suffering she had to witness daily. It
made her so sick, so faint, at first; the groans
of the dying, the torture of the mangled and
wounded(l, the sighs of the despondent, the fierce
agony of the delirious, combined nearly to crush
her nervous temperament.
Yet shle gradually overcame these difficulties,
and became a ministering angel. She gave the
cup of consolation to many a misspent life; and
many a dissipated Frenchman, who had lived
a reckless life, regardless of the end, drank
deeply of the proffered divine cup which she
gladly dispensed. Many a stricken German,
far firom his Fathler-land, slept the deep sleep
quietly, under the influence of her smooth German tongue, that lulled him into eternal repose
by its strength-giving, immortal whispers. She
was so faithful-so faithful in every thing-inspirinlg hope, giving encouragement, dispensing
kind, soothing words, dispersing her gentle
magnetic influence, and offering unbounded
spiritual consolation-that all-powerful panacea
for the suffering-until her own constitution
began to suffer.
Monsieur le Capitaine Rougemaitre and Capitaine Gigot often passed through the wards,
visiting their wounded comrades. On one occasion, Captain Rougemaitre stood stone-still,
gazing intently at a white, pale figure several
yards from him. It was Hortense, the nurse.
In the deep recesses of his heart a voice cried
loudly, "Hortense! my lost Hortense! 0, my
wife!" He started. It seemed to him as if
every one in the ward must have heard the cry
of his hungry, remorseful soul; but no, the
captain was conversing with a wounded fellowofficer, and Hortense was bending over the pillow of a sick soldier. His first impulse was to
go right up to her and clasp her to his worldweary heart; but her widowed garments puzzled
him sorely. Could she have married clandestinely? was she mourning for another? This
thought cut him keenly. He began to have an
inkling of the suffering she must have endured
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