The Enid Events. (Enid, Okla.), Vol. 18, No. 26, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 14, 1910 Page: 3 of 8
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♦ -jf J1.
SPRINGTIME
Novelized by
Porter Emer-
son Browne
COPYRIGHT
111*.
From the Pl\y of
the Same Name
by Booth Tark-
ington and Harry
Leon Wilson .>
AMERICAN PRESS ASSOCIATION
5v^®-=^ ^ £U ^
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
But even as her hand closed upon It
It was gone. Slie had followed. Far
Into the forest she had followed. And
it length—
They were waiting for her at home.
Hie uiust be very late: For au Instant
the lightness left her lips and eyes,
work of three men of literary llL'r father would be angry, and Aunt
genius, Booth Tarkington, Harry \ Mf*"erl!e' for It was not lu keeping
8 ..... j ti i r- (with the honor of \ alette that a daugh-
Leon Wilson and Porter Emer- j ler 0j t|)e |,0Hse |;eep waiting
son Browne. The play, by the the one to whom she was betrothed.
first two named authors, capti- She would tell thorn that she had
vated hundreds of audiences. "ot raeant t0 chase the butterfly; that
. , .. D she had meant to keep In all Its starch-
The story, by Mr. Browne, can- ^ purjty ,heNutll> ,wl|lte <|ma thnt
not fail to captivate an entire j ,\Unt MurgYterlte and old Marie had
nation. Madeleine de Valette--- I so carefully, so painstakingly, made
a heroine more beautiful, more \ 'or her; that she Imd 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
innocent, more divinely inspired
with the innate purity of a young
girl's love, has never been por-
trayed in fiction. And in Gil-
bert Steele, the stalwart young
American soldier in Andrew
clutching lingers of hard faced poverty
to wrench them thence. She would
tell them these things; she would ex-
r j plain about the butterlly. ltut would
these things, that explanation, bo. sufll-
Jackson's army, is found a hero j rtem? she dm I10t
kuow. Her father
who lives up to the traditions 1 was a strange mjjn, a proud man, a
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.
Chapter^
SUE came through the mists of
tho morning, a slender little
figure, fragile as the dew laden
cobweb, delicate as the heart
of a violet. Skirting the lushy edge of
the bayou, she came beneath the trail-
ing rooss of the oaks, following the
old footpath that led to Valette. The
little stums of sunlight piercing the
tangle of the great trees above her lost
themselves on tho tumbled musses of
her gold brow n hair. There was laugh
Cut sometimes he was strange. She
did not understand. She felt far from
him, very far. And Aunt Marguerite
was even the shadow of her brother.
And so she hurried on.
■ADKI II3> M TALBTTK, "DatdCAia AM
tbs aumr or a tiolpi.
ter In her ayes snd on her lips, for he
yui Tory young and there was in her
to the full the Joy of living.
She was late. she knew. It had been
■ wonderfukbuttertly, n tantalizing but-
terfly. On wings of red and gold It
had fluttered here and there, leading
her f r nsttay. It had stopped for a
moment on the crimson of n jnponlca
Then, Indeed, she had thought It hen
In the great room of the house of
Valette, a room that once had had
even the splendor of the old chateau
In the Norman bills, but now time
worn, sunk into the dullness that
marks decay, 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 was
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, eiad In rough gray gown and
cap of spotless white, she bent over
the leather box that lay upon the
old table, taking therefrom tho candles
and counting them as she did so. And
as she counted there came to the kind-
ly old face a look of worrlment.
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 fuce and slender fig-
ure. Old Louise courtosled.
"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 ttii-re to do IiV" she
queried.
Mile, de Valette said, "Le maltre will
piny the requiem." She was counting
the candles. Finishing, she exclaimed:
"My good Louise, there 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
Chrlstiat)! He was but a black slave,
after all." She shook her head.
In the year of our Lord 1813, you
kuow, 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 nn-.l
a man of the kind that It were good
for Ood to have In his labor.
lie? spoke In a full, deep voice that
echoed resonantly from the dim raft-
ers with barely n trace of brogue. The
old servant conrtesled. Mile, de Va-
lette Inclined her head graciously.
"You are welcome, Father O'Mara,"
she said. "We are preparing the can-
dles, yon see. But there are not
enough. Louise!"
Tho old servant turned.
Mile, de Valette. with a light gesture,
indicated where, upon the wnlls. 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, nnd 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 snnff.
watching her with shrewd, kindly gray
eyes.
"Not enough candles?" be said at
length.
The old servant shook her head.
"No. father," she returned, "not un-
less you c*n convince the master that
old Christian was much younger than
he said he was. Wouldn't yon say,
now. that he wouldn't have been more
than"—she stopped, counting tbe new
randies and the old-"forty-fourr* she
Sulshed.
"Much moro than forty-four, Louise,"
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 ail to do with It," she
replied. "You haven't been long In
tills parish, father, or you would
know."
He 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 have that for
hundreds of years. Since the time of
the Emperor Charlemagne, In France,
one heilrs, whenever death comes to
visit oue of this family candles to the
number of his years, oue candle for
each year, were set upon the altar of
the old chapel at the chateau in Nor-
mandy. No matter how or where one
of the family died, perhaps at home,
perhaps far 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 because of that do you think that
the De Valettes abandoned It? Not
they! The De Valettes do not aban-
don custom."
"A tragedy?" The priest was Inter-
ested. lie leaned forward, resting his
elbows on Ills cassocked knees
Louise went on:
"It was a De Vnlette who went to
the crusades, they say. lie was
lover, father, and the woman he loved
was his wife. He left her there a
bride and very beautiful. lie was a
great soldier, and King Philip, in the
Holy Land, made him count of all
Valette, in Normandy. So lie rod>>
home gayly all the long journey to
kiss his bride again. But as he passed
by the chapel before he came to the
chateau he saw by the lighted win
dow there were candles 011 the altar.
So he went In to count them. They
were twenty. His wife, she was twen-
The very last of all the hundreds
that were In other days. All are sold
or dead. Ah. these few acres that the
Americans have left the master! It
Is good lliat these few acres don't die!"
Father O'Mara opened bis snuffbox.
Deliberately he took a little of the
pungent powder and placed It to his
nostrils.
"Has she done with her dolls?"
"Mile, de Vallette." stated tbe other
evenly, "Is seventeen."
"Seventeen?" returned O'Mara light-
ly. "All of that? She carries her
years easily."
"Her betrothed Is here," said De Va-
lette, uuheedlug. "1 wish to present
honor to present to yon Father Joseph
O'Mara, abbe of this parish."
Raoul acknowledged tbe Introduction
with formality, tbe priest with dignity.
O'Mara said:
"You are of the younger branch of
the family. 1 believe, sir."
"Merely the cadet," Raoul returned.
None the less of purest strain," aa-
.you." Ho turned. Through the open gerte<, De. valette. "jf. Raoul de Va-
"The chapel bell has stopped," he : door he could see his sister gathering le(|e ,g lhe nnmesake of that other
candles from the dull sconces by the , Raou, d(j Valette whose portrait lies
said.
Louise, hastily gathering up the
candles upon the table, placed them in
the box.
"Then the master will be coming,"
she cried. •
fireplace.
"My sister," he called, nnd then,
•My sister will ask M. Raoul de Va-
Chapter
SIXTY years had come and hnd
gone sinca the blrtli of M. de
Valette. They bad been years
of Joy, years of sorrow, years
of wealth, years of poverty. But alike
they hud failed to move him from that
which ho was—a De Valette. A De
Valette, you must know, is a De Va-
lette, nnd when ono has said that one
lias salt! all. And now he stood I11 tho
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. Ills
hair was gray, yet his eyebrows were
still in their primal block.
Father O'Mara turned and bent to
hlsj|<i'>let greeting. To Louise turned
the master.
"You have the candles for the chap-
el?" be asked
"Yes, Miche. all of them."
"There are sixty-three?"
The old servant paused hesitatingly.
She said:
"Mlche. I think'Christian was not
us old as he looked. He had to me
GILBERT STEELE AND MADELEINE.
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 sot back In
bis chair, folding his hands.
"But that," be said, "was In the old
world nnd hundreds of years ago."
She turned a little to. him.
"What is that to the master?" she
demanded. "It Is euough for him
that he ls,n De Valette. Here are we
I11 Louisiana. But what difference has
the new world made to the De Valettes
when tlicy 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 tbe one in
Normandy," close by the house. "Yes,"
she Weill on grumbllngly. "they must
have their chapel—even an organist,
old Lemaltre. the master keeps here-
one more mouth to feed! And he can
do nothing In the world but play
the organ. And now tbe master has
said that old Christina, though be was
a slave, must receive tho 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 somo 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 tbe master
makes us buy more to fill the count,
there will be no more than salad to
eat tomorrow."
Father O'Mara rose, wondering to
the window.
"So Christian was the last slave be-
, Mtglng to M. de Valette?" he said.
the nlr of being not more than forty-
four."
"Which means," stated M. de Va-
lette, "that you have but forty-four
candles."
"Mlche," cried Louise extenuatlngly.
"Mile. Marguerite looks for others."
"That will uot do. We must have
lio burnt ones. Throw out those that
are burnt."
Louise raised her hands protestlng-
ly.
"But, Mlche"—
"Go to tho village and buy more.
Take the box. S6e that It is tilled.
You know where the money is kept."
She made a gesture of imploratlon,
but the master stood before ber Inex-
orable. Slowly she opened tbe drawer
In the table. She took therefrom a
few coins of small denomination.
"It Is tbe last," she whispered—"the
very last."
He said simply:
"Huve the box filled." He turned
from ber, saying to tbe priest:
"Father O'Mara."
The latter turned.
"Touching the matter of masses for
old Christian"— be began, but M. de
Valette Interrupted him.
"it Is In regard to another ceremony
that I wish to Instruct you. One of
tbe quick. It Is, not of tho dead."
O'Mara aald. smiling:
"I have but christenings and wed-
dings
christening."
"A marriage. Firtber O'Mara."
"Your slater. Mile Marguerite, has
condescended at last?" exclaimed tbe
priest In apparent surprise.
The other shook "bis bead.
"My stater has not condescended."
he returned.
"But." cried O'Mara. "It Is not yoor
daughter—not little Madeleine!"
"And why not?"
Tbe priest queried slowly:
FATHF.lt o MA11A.
lette If he will do me the honor of his
presence here?"
O'Mara, fist burled In hand, was
looking at him, his gray eyes half
closed.
He said, at length, slowly:
"Upon my soul. M. de Valette, you
take my breath! Little Madeleine be-
trothed!"
De Valetto smiled a little, his fin-
gers playing with the cover of bis
snuffbox.
"An arrangement of many years,"
be 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 htm?"
De Valetto replied;
"This Is M. de Valctte's first visit
here. He 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
onq she has never seen?"
De Valette smiled a little. Surely
this good priest knew little of him and
of his.
"Could there be nny question of
that?" he asked, "it is so that th<
demoiselles Do Valette are brought up
She has always understood the ar-
rangement."
The good priest shrugged his shoul-
ders a little. He said:
"Faith, I have known young Indies
of seventeen to make their own ar-
rangements."
"They were not Iadie3 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 110 word. lie
raised his eyebrows. There came with-
in his glance au approaching figure, it
was of a man of thlrty-flve or so. a
yonder"—he indicated to where upon
the wall rested a time dimmed figure
I of olls-"to uiy mind the greatest of
1 our ancestors." "■§
' Raoul threw back his head, lifting
j clean limned brows, with a touch of
i sardonlcism.
"Eh-but with respect, my cousin,"
' he protested, 'it was he who lost ua
our estate In Franc®.'*
De Valette said quickly, gravely:
"But he saved the fair fame of hla
sister, whom a king of France de-
sired too greatly to honor. He put an.
ocean between her and tbe king's pur-
suit. We lost the estates lu Norman-
dy, bnt we kept the good name of our
women" He stood a moment, con-
templating In silence the scroll upon
the bottom of the old frame wherein
lay the portrait of him who had done
these things. He said, at length, slow-
ly: "Untarnished! That Is the motto
of De Valette. We keep our women
sacred. And that is our proudest tra-
dition—not even the breath of &
king."
Raoul. gazing disinterestedly at the
point of his shining pump, said lightly:
"The world knows that, my cousin."
De Vallette turned to him abruptly.
"Raoul." he said slowly, gravely,
"you are to receive a briile whose ev-
ery moment since her babyhood baa
been guarded, protected and cloistered
from the world—from all ktnjsvledgo of
that noisome beast, tho world. Silo
comes to you in that white Innocence
which Is the Immemorial heritage of
the demoiselles De Valette."
Raoul said softly:
"A Jewel never taken from its
casket."
"Ah. not n Jewel." asserted O Mara,
rising; "not a Jewel, M. Raoul, for,
though they shine to dazzle you, Jew-
els are hard. Of Madeleine I never
know which she Is the inore-a flower
or a child. Perhaps you will decide
that for me when you meet her."
Raoul said, smiling. "I grow a little
impatient for the moment, sir."
"The moment, cousin. Is at hand,"
said De Valette.
"Not quite yet," declared O Mar*.
I passed Madeleine an hour ago deep,
in the woods."
On her way home?" asked De
Valette quickly.
Father O'Mara shook his head. Hla
gray eyes twinkled.
"No," he returned slowly. "I be-
lieve she was chasing a butterfly."
O the ears of th« throe men alt-
ting in tlie great., lime dulled
ro.im came the space softened
strains of fife and drum. They
came even as Father O'Mara was pro-
testing the safety ot the woods.
De Vnlette said:
"Hear them! The woods nor any-
where Is safe with these cursed Amer-
icans about. The village is full of
theui today—backwoodsmen, rutlians—
all mantier of canaille!"
In response to unspoken interroga-
tion from Ilaoul de Valette, Father
O'Mara explained.
"They're recruiting a company la
the village and hereabouts," he said,
"for this everlasting second war of
theirs with England. They march to-
u|Sht-" . j
"They make ready, then," queried
Raoul. "for the great battle down tho
river uiider their chief, eh-how do
they call that name of a barbarian?—
Andrew Jackson? Eh, but they are
horribly nfrahl. these Americans!
I They, are hiding behind bags of sand
J down there above New Orleans. rlhe
j English will annihilate them. Observe
the Impudence of that vile music. To-
morrow It will lie tbe squeak of a
mouse I la. how they will ruu! Theso
Americans," he declared, with au air
of llnallty. "are beasts."
Father O'Mara protested:
"Ah, but we must not be bitter, not
even toward Americans."
"It Is u virtue to hate them." de-
clared Raoul. "Heaven loves us for
It."
"Heaven bated us when that traitor
UADKLamB adobes him?" Bonaparte sold this beautiful new
man dressed carefully, even foppishly, I rame to them. n° J'"l,L'l.'?>,_.W5°
with graying hair elaborately arranged apuk* "!**« with deep b
and well turned calves set o.T with "Now they descend upon us h, hord«
stockings of black silk. His coat was "peasants, low born men rascals who
of dark, rich uiaterlul, his waistcoat work wl,h their own bands.
white with strljies of yellow, and his Raoul said lightly:
stock was of white *llk, while bis "It Is a curse that will pass. Theae
collar, frills and wristbands wore of Americans are cunning, but not Intel-
delicate cambric. With bead erect. "Sent. Intelligence is a monopoly of
chin bold high, be sauntered toward gentlemen, and tbe good Owl knowa
them slowly. Indolently. that tbe Americans are not gentlemen.
Father O'Mara watched him closely i They ranuot endure. They move too
He was wont to r™d men by their «'• The English will drive them out
. * II■ 1.. m.i mu nniialn and
I apprehend that this Is not a faces, yet here was ono that puttied for us Imitate tue, my cousin, and
him. He waa worried a little, but despise the Yankees lightly.
nothing of hla features might have i "Your parish has uot known tbe te-
nhown. vision like uilne." usaerted De \ alette
Entering tbe room. M. Baoul de Va- ' darkly. "You have not seen erefj-
tette turned to his cousin, bowhig elab- thing you have melt away before tUa
orately. | curse of Yankee locusts. Before the
"At your command, heboid me." he
said. His voice wee well modulated.
It was a voice that, even aa his faee.
puszled.
Do Valette turned to tb* priest, then
back to hla cousin.
"M. Raoul de Valetts, I have tbe
Americans came my acres stretched
halfway to the river. The overeeeta
stole, but what of that? There waa
plenty there. Then came the Amart-
cans, a thrice accursed family of Yan-
kee*. who took up land from my bound
(Cca'-lnueJ next week.)
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Purcell, F. Everett. The Enid Events. (Enid, Okla.), Vol. 18, No. 26, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 14, 1910, newspaper, April 14, 1910; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc147540/m1/3/: accessed June 12, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.