Willmar tribune. [volume], April 13, 1910, Image 6

About Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
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Springtime! Springtime is
lovetime! And the breath of
spring and the spirit of love
were never more beautifully
translated into words than in
this idyllic story, the combined
work of three men of literary
genius, Booth Tarkington, Harry
Leon Wilson and Porter Emer
son Browne. The play, by the
first two named authors, capti
vated hundreds of audiences.
The story, by Mr. Browne, can
not fail to captivate an entire
nation. Madeleine de Valette—
a heroine more beautiful, more
innocent, more divinely inspired
with the innate purity of a young
gtrl's love, has never been por
trayed in fiction. And in Gil
bert Steele, the stalwart young
American soldier in Andrew
Jackson's army, is found a hero
who lives up to the traditions
upon which ihis patriotic nation
was founded. Read of M. de
Valette, the stern French aristo
crat of his dissolute cousin,
to whom he would wed Made
leine of Father O'Mara of
L'Acadienne, the wandering
dancer, who had a heart of
Wolf's sturdy American sharp
shooters of old time French
customs in Louisiana, where the
Code Napoleon yet prevails to
administer justice on American
soil of war and peace, of brav
ery and cowardice, of love and
hate, of life and death, and you
will read a romance that creates
a new standard in contempora
neous American fiction.
SHfigure,morninge,
y$SP9*S&&
SPRINGTIME
Novelized by J~m *e way
the Same Name
Porter Emer- by Booth Tark
ington and Harry
S0I1 BrOWIie Leon Wilson
E came through the mists of
the a slender little
fragil as the dew laden
cobweb, delicate as the heart
of a violet. Skirting the lushy edge of
the bayou, slip came beneath the trail
ing moss of the oaks, following the
old footpath that led to Valette. The
little shafts of sunlight piercing the
tangle of the great trees above her lost
themselves on the tumbled masses of
her gold brown hair. There as laugb-
MADEIiEINE DS VALETTE, "DEIilOATB AS
THE HEART OP A VIOIiET."
ter in her eyes and on her lips, for she
as very young and there was in her
to the full the joy of living.
She was late, she knew. It had been
a wonderful butterfly, a tantalizing but
terfly. On wings of red and gold It
bad fluttered here and there, leading
her far astray. It had stopped for a
moment on the crimson of a Japonica.
Then, indeed, she had thought It hers.
IATION
But even as her hand closed upon It
it was gone. She had followed. Far
into the forest she had followed. And
at length—
They were waiting for her at home
She must be \ery late! For an instant
the lightness left her lips and eyes.
Her father would be angry, and Aunt
Marguerite, for it was not iu keeping
with the honor ot Valette that a daugh
ter ot the house should keep waiting
the one to horn she was betrothed.
She would tell them that she had
not meaut to chase the butterfly that
she had meant to keep in all its starch
ed purity the little white dress that
Aunt Marguerite and old Marie had
so carefully, so painstakingly, made
for her that she had meant to stroll
only a little way a-down the path
that led to the broad acres that had
once been of Valette ere came the
clutching fingers of hard faced poverty
to wrench them thence. She would
tell them these things she would ex
plain about the butterfly But would
these things, that explanation, be suffi
cieutV She did not know Her father
was a strange man. a proud man, a
man reserved She lo\ed him much.
But sometimes he as strange. She
did not understand. She telt far from
him. very fai. And Aunt Marguerite
was e\ en the shadow of her brother.
And so she hurried on
In the great room of the house of
Valette. a room that once had had
e\e the splendor of the old chateau
in the Norman hills, but now time
worn, sunk Into the dullness that
marks deoaj, were they preparing to
do their last dead slave the honor of
the candles, for old Christian had been
obedient, faithful—yes, even to the end
of his days And for this he as
to have the honor that comes to the
Valettes in their going.
It was old Louise who counted the
candles now for the last slave, the
slave that was dead. Stout, heavy fea
tured, clad hi rough gray a
cap of spotless white, she bent over
the leather box that lay upon the
old table, taking therefrom the candles
and counting them as she did so. And
as she counted there came to the kind
ly old face a look of worriment.
At length she turned, hearing foot
steps. Came through the door the sis
ter of M. de Valette Across the som
ber room she came, a highborn, high
bred woman of sixty, a woman of deli
cate, pale, gentle face and slender fig
ure. Old Louise courtesied
"You are counting the candles?" ask
ed Mile, de Valette. It was a ques
tion that was not a question She went
on. "My brother tolls the bell for old
Christian with his own hands."
The old servant shrugged her shoul
ders.
"Who else is there to do it?" she
queried
Mile, de Valette said, "Le maitre will
play the requiem." She was counting
the candles Finishing, she exclaimed:
"My good Louise, thete are not enough!
Old Christian was sixty-three."
Again Louise shrugged her shoulders
"Here are thirty-eight." she grum
bled "That should be enough. Old
Christian! He was but a black slave,
after all." She shook her head.
In the vear of our Lord 1813, you
know, slaves, especially dead slaves,
were not of much value. Candles were.
Mile, de Valette. pity in her gentle
heart, would have made reply, but ere
opportunity was hers there had en
tered the room Father O'Mara. priest
of the parish -a kindly man Father
O'Mara. who lived much in the out of
doors, a strong man and rugged and
a man of the kind that it were good
for God to have in bis labor.
spoke in a full, deep voice that
echoed resonantly from the dim raft
ers with barely a trace of brogue. The
old servant courtesied. Mile, de Va
lette inclined her head graciously.
"You are welcome, Father O'Mara,"
she said. "We are preparing the can
dles, you see. But there are not
enough. Louise!"
The old servant turned.
Mile, de Valette. with a light gesture,
indicated where, upon the walls, tar
nished sconces upheld blackened can
dles.
"Take those." she commanded. "I
will look through the house for oth
ers."
She bowed to Father O'Mara, who
himself bowed, and passed through the
door. Old Louise obediently went
from sconce to sconce, gathering the
half burned bits of wax and wick that
were to be the last earthly tribute to
the dead slave. At length she came
again to the table, laying the old be
side the new.
Father O'Mara took a pinch of snuff,
watching her with shrewd, kindly gray
eyes.
"Not enough candles?" he said at
length.
Th old servant shook her bead.
"No. father." she returned, "not un
less you can convince the master that
old Christian was much younger than
he said he was. Wouldn't you say,
now. that he wouldn't have been more
than"—she stopped, counting the new
candles and the old—"forty-four?" she
finished.
"Much more than forty-four. Louise,"
^^^^^^m^l^^m^m^^mm^^oWimmuaaWi
said Father O'Mara, smiling a little.
"But what has his age to do with it?
Four candles are enough for your
chapel altar."
"His age has all to do with it," she
replied. "You haven't been long in
this parish, father, or you would
know."
lifted his hands.
"Long!" he exclaimed. "My soul!
I've been priest of this parish sixteen
years come Easter!"
"It is seventeen years since the last
death in the De Valette family. That
was Mile. Madeleine's mother. She
pass' to the blessed saints when Mile.
Madeleine was born, the year before
you came, so you do not know our
custom here of Valette, father."
"Your custom?"
"The custom of the candles. In this
family of Valette they call it the hon
or of the candles They a that for
hundreds ot years. Since the time of
the Emperor Charlemagne, in France,
one hears, whenever death comes to
visit one ot this family candles to the
number of his years, one caudle for
each yoar. were set upon the altar of
the old chapel at the chateau in Nor
mandy .\o matter how or where one
of the family died, perhaps at home,
perhaps tar away in battle, there were
the candles upon the altar. It is a
curious custom, father And the old
tales say it led to a tragedy once.
But be a use of that do you think that
the De alettes abandoned it? Not
they! The De Valettes do not aban
don custom."
"A tiagedy?" The priest was inter
ested. leaned forward, resting his
elbows on his cassocked knees
Louise went on:
"It was a De Valette who went to
the crusades, they say. He was a
loAer. fathei, and the woman he loved
was his wife left her there a
bride and \ery beautiful. He was a
great soldier, and King Philip, in the
Holy Land, made him count of all
Valette. in Normandy. So he rode
home gayly all the long journey to
kiss his bi\de again But as he passed
by the chapel before he came to the
chateau be saw by the lighted win
dow there were candles on the altar.
So he went in to count them. They
were twenty. His wife, she was twen
ty. father So he knew. And then he
set his dagger at the armpit where
the breastplate does not meet the
shoulder piece, reaching his heart that
way. Next day the candles were for
him."
She finished. The priest sat back in
his chair, folding his hands
"But tint." he said, "was in the old
world and hundreds of years ago
She turned a little to him.
"What is that to the master?" she
demanded. "It is enough for him
that he is a D? Valette. Here are we
in Louisiana. But what difference has
the new world made to the De Valettes
when they come here and bring their
customs with them? They build our
chapel yonder." She thrust her arm
behind her. indicating the window
through which one might see the
heavy spire of stone "like the one in
Normandy." close by the house. "Yes,"
she went on grumblingly. "they must
have their chapel—even an organist,
old Lemaitre. the master keeps
one more mouth to feed! And he can
do nothing in the world but play
the organ. And now the master has
said that old Christian, though he was
a slave, must receive the honor of the
candles because he has been a mem
ber of the household all his life."
Father O'Mara said:
"That does honor to your master's
heart."
"In his place." muttered Louise, "1
would rather save some for my stom
ach. Old Christian was sixty-three
years old. Here, with these others
from the sconces. I can make no more
than forty-four candles If the master
makes us buy more to fill the count,
there will be no more than salad to
eat tomorrow."
Father O'Mara rose, wandering to
the window.
"So Christian was the last slave be
longing to M. de Valette?" he said.
"The very last of all the hundreds
that were in other days. AH are sold
or dead. Ah. these acres that the
Americans have left the master! It
is good that these acres don't die!"
Father O'Mara opened his snuffbox.
Deliberately he took a little of the
pungent powder and placed it to his
nostrils.
"The chapel bell has stopped." he
said.
Louise, hastily gathering up the
candles upon the table, placed them in
the box.
"Then the master will be coming,"
she cried.
S
IXT years had come and had
gone since the birth of M. de
Valette. They had been years
°f j°y. years of sorrow, years
of wealth, years of poverty. But alike
they had failed to move him from that
which he was—a Valette. A De
Valette, you must know, is a Va
lette, and when one has said that one
has said all. And now he stood in the
doorway, tall, erect, quiet, command
ing, possessing in all its fullness the
innate dignity mothered of birth, fa
thered of pride, a spare, unbending fig
ure dressed plainly in black, with cam
bric stock, collar and wristbands. Hi
hair was gray, yet his eyebrows were
still in their primal black.
Father O'Mara turned and bent to
his quiet greeting. To Louise turned
the master.
"You a the candles for the chap
el?" he asked
"Yes. Miche. all of them."
"There are sixty-three?"
Th old servant paused hesitatingly.
She said:
"Miche. I think Christian was not
as old as he looked. bad to ma
I E S E E E A N A E E I N E
the air of being not more than forty
four."
"Which means," stated M. de Va
lette. "that you have but forty-four
candles."
"Miche," cried Louise extenuatingly,
"Mile. Marguerite looks for others."
"That will not do. W must have
no burnt ones. Throw out those that
are burnt."
Louise raised her hands protesting
ly.
"But, Miche"—
"Go to the village and buy more.
Take the box. See that it is filled.
You know where the money is kept."
She made a gesture of imploration,
but the master stood before her inex
orable. Slowly she opened the drawer
in the table. She took therefrom a
few coins of small denomination.
"It is the last," she whispered—"the
very last."
said simply:
"Have the box filled." turned
from her, saying to the priest:
"Father O'Mara."
Th latter turned.
"Touching the matter of masses for
old Christian"— he began, but M. de
Valette interrupted him.
"It is in regard to another ceremony
that I wish to instruct you. One of
the quick, it is, not of the dead."
O'Mara said, smiling:
"I have but christenings and wed
dings. 1 apprehend that this is not a
christening."
"A marriage. Father O'Mara."
"Your sister. Mile Marguerite, has
condescended at last?" exclaimed the
priest in apparent surprise.
The other shook his head.
"My sister has not condescended,"
he returned.
"But," cried O'Mara, "it is not your
daughter—not little Madeleine!"
"And why not?"
Th priest queried slowly:
"Ha she done with her dolls?"
"Mile, de Vallette." stated the other
evenly, "is seventeen."
"Seventeen?" returned O'Mara light
ly. "All of that? She a her
years easily."
"Her betrothed is here," said De Va
lette, unheeding. "1 wish to present
you." turned. Through the open
door he could see his sister gathering
candles from the dull sconces by the
fireplace.
"My sister", he called, and then,
"My sister will ask M. Kaoul de Va-
FATHER O'MARA,
lette if he will do me the honor of his
presence here?"
O'Mara, fist buried in hand, as
looking at him, his gray eyes half
closed.
said, at length, slowly
"Upon my soul, M. de Valette. you
take my breath! Little Madeleine be
trothed!"
Valette smiled a little, his fin
gers playing with the cover of his
snuffbox.
"An arrangement of many years."
he said. "M. Raoul de Valette is my
cousin."
"And," queried the priest slowly.
"Madeleine adores him?"
"That will be her duty when she
Shall know him."
"She has never seen him?"
Valette replied.
"This is M. de Valette's first visit
here. came late last night. They
are to be presented to each other to
day."
"And," persisted the priest, "she is
docile? She accepts this betrothal to
one she has never seen?"
Valette smiled a little. Surely
this good priest knew little of him and
of his.
"Could there be any question of
that?" he asked. "It is so that the
demoiselles Valette are brought up.
She has always understood the ar
rangement."
The good priest shrugged his shoul
ders a little. said:
"Faith, I have known young ladies
of seventeen to make their own ar
rangements."
"They were not ladies of this fami
ly, Father O'Mara." returned De
Valette quietly. "Madeleine has never
even seen a young man of her own
class. The first, my cousin, is to be
her husband."
The good priest said no word. He
raised his eyebrows There came with
in his glance an approaching figure. It
was of a man of thirty-five or so, a
"MADELEINE ADOBES HIM?"
man dressed carefully, even foppishly,
with graying hair elaborately arranged
and well turned calves set off with
stockings of black silk. His coat was
of dark, rich material, his waistcoat
white with stripes of yellow, and his
stock was of white silk, while his
collar, frills and wristbands were of
delicate cambric. With head erect,
chin held high, he sauntered toward
them slowly, indolently.
Father O'Mara watched him closely.
was wont to read men by their
faces, yet here was one chat puzzled
him. as worried a little, but
nothing of his features might have
shown.
Entering the room, M. Raoul de Va
lette turned to his cousin, bowing elab
orately.
"At your command, behold me," he
said. His voice as well modulated.
It as a voice that, even as his face,
puzzled.
Valette turned to the priest, then
back to his cousin.
"M. Raoul de Valette, I bave the
honor to present to you Father Joseph
O'Mara. abbe of this parish."
Raoul acknowledged the introduction
with formality, the priest with dignity.
O'Mara said:
"You are of the younger branch of
the family, I believe, sir."
"Merely the cadet." Raoul returned.
"None the less of purest strain," as
serted De Valette. "M. Raoul de Va
lette is the namesake ©f that other
Raoul de Valette whose portrait lies
yonder"—he indicated to where upon
the wall rested a time dimmed figure
of oils—"to my mind the greatest of
our ancestors."
Raoul threw back bis bead, lifting
clean limued brows, with a touch of
sardonlcistn.
"Eh—but with respect, my cousin,"
he protested. "It was he who lost us
our estate in France."
Valette said quickly, gravely:
"But he saved the fair fame of his
sister, whom a king of France de
sired too greatly to honor. put an
ocean between ber and the king's pur
suit. We lost the estates in Norman
dy, but we kept the good name of our
women." stood a moment, con
templating in silence the scroll upon
the bottom of the old frame wherein
lay the portrait of bim who had done
these things. said, at length, slow
ly: "Untarnished! That is the motto
of De Valette. We keep our women
sa red And that is our proudest tra
dition—not even the breath of a
king."
liaoul. gazing disinterestedly at the
point of bis shining pump, said lightly:
"The world knows that, my cousin."
Vallette turned to biro abruptly.
"Raoul." he said slowly, gravely,
"you are to receive a bride whose ev
ery moment since ber baby hood has
been guarded, protected and cloistered
from the world—from all knowledge of
that noisome beast, the world She
comes to you in that white innocence
which is the immemorial heritage of
the demoiselles Valette."
Raoul said softly,
"A jewel never taken from its
casket."
"Ah. not a jewel." asserted O'Mara.
rising: "not a jewel, M. Raoul. for.
though they shine to daggle you.
els are hard. Of Madeleine 1 never
know which she is the more—a flower
or a child. Perhaps you will decide
that for me when you meet her
Raoul said, smiling, "1 grow a little
impatient for the moment, sir."
"The moment, cousin, is at hand."
•aid Valette
"Not quite yet," declared O'Mara.
"1 passed Madeleine au hour ago deep
in the woods."
"On ber way home?" asked De
Valette quickly.
Father O'Mara shook his head. Hi
gray eyes twinkled.
"No." he returned slowly. "1 be
lieve she was chasing a butterfly."
TO
the ears of the three men sit
ting in the great, time dulled
room came the space softened
strains of flfe and drum. They
came even as Father O'Mara was pro
testing the safety of the woods.
De Valette said:
"Hear them! The woods nor any
where is safe with these cursed Amer
icans about. The village is full of
them today—backwoodsmen, ruffians
all manuer of canaille!"
In response to unspoken interroga
tion from Raoul de Valette. Father
O'Mara explained.
"They're recruiting a company in
the village and hereabouts." he said,
"for this everlasting second war of
theirs with England They march to
night."
"They make ready, then," queried
Raoul, "for the great battle down the
ri\er under their chief, eh—how do
they call that name of a, harharlan?
Andrew .lack.spp:l Rb, but they are
horribly afraid, these Americans!
They are hiding behind bags of sand
down there above Ne Orleans. The
English will annihilate them. Observe
the impudence of that vile music. To
morrow it will be the squeak of a
mouse Ha. how they will run! These
Americans," be declared, with an air
of finality, "are beasts."
Father O'Mara protested:
"Ah. but we must not be bitter, not
even toward Americans."
"It is a virtue to hate them." de
clared Raoul. "Heaven loves us for
it
"Heaven bated us when that traitor
Bonaparte sold tbis beautiful new
France to them." Valette. who
spoke, spoke with deep bitterness.
"Now they descend upon us in hordes
—peasants, low born men, rascals who
work with their own hands."
Raoul said lightly:
"It is a curse that will pass. These
Americans are cunning, but not intel
ligent. Intelligence is a monopoly of
gentlemen, and the good God knows
that the Americans are not gentlemen
They cannot endure. They move too
fast. Th English will drive them out
for us Imitate me. my cousin, and
despise the Yankees lightly."
"Your parish has not known the in
vasion like tniue." asserted Valette
darkly. "You have not seen every
thing you have melt away before this
curse of Yankee locusts. Before the
Americans came my acres stretched
halfway to tne river. The overseers
stole, but what of that? There was
plenty there. Then came the Ameri
cans, a thrice accursed family of Yan- ._
kees, woo took up land fr*mo^
Train No. Arrive.
3—From St. Paul 2:05 a.
4—From Seattle 3:20 a.m."
«2~From St. Paul p. m..
J9~"£
F«»K°.
Grand Forks. 4:10 a. m...
13—From St. Paul 1:30 p.m..
Fro Fargo 1:40 p. m...
14
21—From St. Pau
22—To St. Paul
31—From St. Cloud, Dulutta
32—From Sioux City
51—For Sioux City, Yankton....
52—From Sioux City, Yankton 3:45 a. m.
aries. Their overseers did not steal
from them. They were their own
overseers. They counted their pence.
They lived like tradesmen. They made
stalks of cane grow where my
overseers grew one. They undersold
my crop. What could 1 do? That
family grew rich, and grew poor.
The began to buy. I had to sell.
Acre by acre they have absorbed my
land—eaten it up. And now what
bave I left of all Valette? Tbis bouse
and the chapel yonder—that is all.
You say these Americans will pass,
Raoul? What, when one family alone
has taken all this from me? And even
that is not enough for them. Yester
day 1 heard that this vulture—this
Yankee, Roderick Steele—has taken a
fancy to my poor mansion itself and
intends to purchase it. Let him dare
to make the offer."
Th squeal of fife and the mutter of
drum had come yet louder. Raoul
rose to his
"Hark!" he cried. "That dirty ea
gle of theirs, does he come to crow
"CHABITX FOB T«B WO.UN©*©, Ml?**
like a rooster on your very threshold,
my cousin?"
"He has insolence enough," said De
Valette grimly.
Of a sudden came from outside the
sound of a woman's voice in song—a
Song that matched hi melody the, air
of fife and drum and that gave it
words as well came with it the sound
of dancing feet and the clinking of
tambourine.
"What's this?" cried Father O'Mara.
rose to his feet and went to the
door, throwing it open. As he did so
there dashed into the room a woman
Laughing, head held high, she pi
rouetted across the floor, finishing
song and dance together, and, with a
flourish of the tambourine, she stood
gazing in mocking merriment upon the
three men.
A strange, wild, dark woman she
was, with full, insolent red lips, great
Write ef oace, (otfu*. Jerfree Spriag
««tf Smmmor Style Book.
Eycjywomanwhodetireatobe well drew
Eyej woman who desire*tob well drew
ed. at a until eoat ahould have this book.
Leaves
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9:0 0
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12:01 a.
Bound For
Seattle
St. Paul
.Grand Forks
St. Paul
Fargo
7:06"a."m".V.
2:0 0 p. m..„
black eyes and figure graceful^ and
sinuous and lithe. A colored handker
chief was wound turban wise around
the loose masses of her black hair.
She wore a skirt of vivid red. and her
rounded arms were bare to the elbow.
Large gold ear ornaments she had. and
many rings upon her fingers, and her
•hoes were dust laden.
At Valette she looked and at the
priest. But upon Raoul she looked
longer. turned a little. She
laughed.
"Who are you?" demanded Va
lette coldly.
"Men call me L'Acadienne—and oth
er things," she said. She looked agate
at Raoul, and again she laughed. She
went on: "Eh, then, messieurs! A lit
tle silver to carry on the war? Chari
ty for the wounded, eh?"
O'Mara asked quickly:
"What are you doing here, my girl?**
"Me?" she asked. "I'm a wanderer,
M'sieur L'Abbe. Today I find your vil
lage and some soldiers. 1 dance for
them. Shall I dance for you, messieurs?"
He dark eyes flew to Raoul. Sh
said, with mocking laugh: "Here is
one who would like it No? Hi face
is so kind." She turned to him de
liberately. "Shall I dance for you.
m'sieur?"
answered quickly:
"Nor
Came from outside a haiU Va
lette turned.
"Do they summon me?" he demand
ed. started swiftly toward the
door. Bu ere he could reach it there
bad walked into the room a tall man of
bone and blood and sinew, clad in the
dress of a woodsman. A powderhorn
as slung over his shoulder, and he
carried in his hand a long barreled
rifle. At his heels there followed a
shrinking youth of twenty—a youth
with a great shock of straw colored
hair aud scared eyes, who carried
awkwardly a gun that reached from
feet to neck.
The first of the two with long
strides advanced to the center of the
room, surveying coolly those therein.
"I'm Wolf!" he cried. His voice
as deep and resonant, his manner
the loose, independent swagger of
those who fear not and are feared.
"I'm Wolf," he repeated. "I want re
cruits—volunteers to serve in General
Jackson's army. Who'll strike one
blow for liberty? Who'll join Wolfs*
sharpshooters? I'll promise you fight
ing enough within twenty-four hours."
Valette turned upon him coldly,
haughtily.
"Sooner, sir." he said grimly, "if 1
bad any dogs left in the kennels of
Valette."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
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