Zigzag Journeys in Europe Part 36

"_Je ne comprends pas_," said Tommy. "_Je ne puis pas trouver ma chambre_," pointing upward. "_Voulez-vous m'indiquer quelqu'un qui parle l'Anglais?_"

"_Je ne comprends pas._"

"_Ne comprenez-vous Francais?_" said Tommy.

The man's face wore a willing, but very puzzled expression.

Just then a girl with a happy face came out of one of the rooms.

"Do you speak"----

"Why, yes, of course I speak. I am very glad to meet you here. How pleasant!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "JE NE COMPRENDS PAS."]

It was Agnes, the young lady who had made herself so agreeable on the steamer.

The next morning, after a chat with Agnes, Master Lewis said to Tommy,--

"I think I will let you take a day to go where you like."

"Will you not let me go with you?" asked Agnes. "It is a fete day, or some kind of Church festival, and I would like to go to that lovely church of St. Eustache, where they have the finest organ and sweetest chanting in the world. I know you will like it. It took a hundred years to build the church. It is all just like fairy-land."

As Agnes had been reading the comedies of Moliere, the French Shakspeare, she induced Tommy to attend her to the old Theatre Francais, which was under the direction of the great dramatist for many years, and where he was stricken down by death in the middle of a play. It was not open for an exhibition at the hour of the visit, but a courteous Frenchman took them through it, and related to Agnes some pleasing anecdotes of Moliere.

The Cla.s.s took many delightful walks along the clean streets and charming boulevards, visiting churches, public buildings, statues, and paintings. In one of the visits to a church Tommy was much amused by a priest who, as the people were going out after some superb music, pretended to be praying, but who, amid the noise and confusion, was only making contortions of his face. Tommy went through the priest's performance in dumb show when he returned to the hotel, for the amus.e.m.e.nt of Agnes, but was checked by Master Lewis when he attempted a similar imitation in one of the public rooms, lest some one might mistake it for a want of reverence for sacred things.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {AT PRAYERS.}]

In one of these walks they were shown a place where a French boy did a n.o.ble act at the end of the last war.

An order had been issued to shoot all persons found with arms in their hands in the streets. A captain with his company on duty came upon a French boy with a musket.

"I must order your execution," he said.

"Let me return a watch I have borrowed," said the boy.

"When will you return?"

"At once, upon my word."

The boy went away, and the captain never expected to see him again.

But he presently came back, and taking a heroic att.i.tude said,--

"_I am ready. Fire!_"

He was pardoned.

"The young French people," said Master Lewis, "are very patriotic.

History abounds with n.o.ble acts of French boys. I will relate an incident or two to the point:--

"Joseph Barra lived in the interior of France at the beginning of the French Revolution. He was a generous-hearted boy, who loved truth, his mother, and his country. He was a Republican at heart; a boy of his impulses could have been nothing else.

"Wishing to serve his country in the great struggle for liberty, he entered the Republican army at the age of twelve, as a drummer boy.

His whole soul entered into the cause; he was ready to endure any hardship and to make any sacrifice, that the country he loved might be free. He allowed himself no luxuries, but he sent the whole of his pay as a musician to his mother.

"His regiment was ordered to La Vendee to encounter a body of Royalists. One day he found himself cut off from the troops, and surrounded by a party of Royalists. Twenty bayonets were pointed towards his breast. He stood, calm and unflinching, before the glittering steel.

"'Shout,' cried the leader of the Royalists, 'shout, "Long live Louis XVII!" or die!'

"The twenty bayonets were pushed forward within an inch of his body.

"He bent upon his captors a steady eye, kindling with the lofty purpose of his soul. He took off his hat. He gazed for a moment on the blue sky and the green earth. Then, waving his hand aloft, he exclaimed, '_Vive la Republique!_'

"The twenty bayonets did their cruel work, and the boy died, a martyr to his convictions of right and of liberty.

"Joseph Agricole Vialla, a boy thirteen years of age, connected himself with a party of French Republican soldiers stationed on the Danube. One day an army of insurgent Royalists were discovered on the opposite side of the river, attempting to cross over on a pontoon. The only safety for the Republican soldiers was to cut the cables that held the bridge to the sh.o.r.e. Whoever should attempt to do this would fall within range of the Royalists' guns, and would be exposed to what seemed to be certain destruction.

"Who would volunteer?

"Every soldier hesitated. The boy Vialla seized an axe, and ran to the bank of the stream. He began to cut the cables amid frequent volleys of shot from the other side, when a ball entered his breast. He fell, but raising himself for a moment, exclaimed,--

"'I die, but I die for my fatherland!'

"In the _Chant du Depart_--an old French revolutionary song, once almost as famous as the _Ma.r.s.eillaise_--the deeds of these boy-heroes are celebrated in the following strain:--

"'O Barra! Vialla! we envy your glory.

Still victors, though breathless ye lie.

A coward lives not, though with age he is h.o.a.ry; Who fall for the people ne'er die.

"'Brave boys, we would rival your deed-roll, 'Twill guard us 'gainst tyranny then; Republicans all swell the bead-roll, While slaves are but infants 'mong men.

"'The Republic awakes in her splendor, She calls us to win, not to fly!

A Frenchman should live to defend her, For her should he manfully die!'"

Wyllys Wynn seemed much impressed by these incidents of youthful heroism. He sometimes wrote poems, and on his return to the hotel he related the incident of the boy and the watch in these lines, which he read in one of the parlors to Agnes.

HONOR BRIGHT.

The rush of men, the clash of arms, The morning stillness broke, And followed fast the fresh alarms, The clouds of battle-smoke.

The Seine still bore a lurid light, As down its ripples run, Where late had shone the fires at night, The rosy rifts of sun.

"Shoot every man," the captain cried, "That dares our way oppose!"

Like water ran the crimson tide, Like clouds the smoke arose.

They forward rushed, the streets they cleared,-- But ere the work was done, Before the troop a boy appeared, And bore the boy a gun.