- The Oldest Blind Woman For God's sake! be still an instant ! The Young Blind Woman - They are drawing nearer! they are drawing nearer ! listen then! [Here the mad woman's child begins to wail suddenly in the dark. The Oldest Blind Man - The child is crying! The Young Blind Woman-It sees! it sees! It must see something as it is crying! [She seizes the child in her arms and moves forward in the direction whence the sound of footsteps seems to come; the other women follow her anxiously and surround her.] I am going to meet it! The Oldest Blind Man-Take care! The Young Blind Woman-Oh! how he is crying! — What is it? Don't cry. Don't be afraid; there is nothing to be afraid of; we are here all about you. What do you see? Fear nothing! - Don't cry so! — What is it that you see? Tell us, what is it that you see? - -- The Oldest Blind Woman - The sound of footsteps is drawing nearer; listen! listen! The Oldest Blind Man-I hear the rustling of a dress among the dead leaves. Sixth Blind Man-Is it a woman? The Oldest Blind Man-Is it the sound of footsteps? First Blind Man-It is perhaps the sea on the dead leaves. The Young Blind Woman-No, no! they are footsteps! they are footsteps! they are footsteps! The Oldest Blind Woman - We shall soon know; listen to the dead leaves. The Young Blind Woman- I hear them, I hear them, almost beside us! listen! listen! What is it that you see? What is it that you see? The Oldest Blind Woman- Which way is he looking? The Young Blind Woman - He always follows the sound of the footsteps!-Look! Look! - Look! Look! When I turn him When I turn him away he turns back to look . . . He sees! he sees! he sees! He must see something strange! . . . us, The Oldest Blind Woman [coming forward] — Lift him above that he may see. The Young Blind Woman-Step aside! step aside! [She lifts the child above the group of the sightless.] The footsteps have stopped right among us! . The Oldest Blind Man-They are here! They are here in our midst! The Young Blind Woman Who are you? [Silence. [Silence. The child cries more desperately. LIGHT. BY FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON. [1852-.] THE night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one: Yet the light of a whole life dies HOW BRICHANTEAU ALMOST SAVED THE EMPEROR.1 BY JULES CLARETIE. (From "Brichanteau, Actor.") [ARSÈNE ARNAUD CLARETIE, called Jules Claretie, a French author, was born at Limoges, December 3, 1840. He was educated in Paris and became a journalist, corresponding for the leading French and Belgian papers during the Austrian and Franco-Prussian wars. In 1885 he became director of the Théâtre Français, and in 1888 was chosen a member of the French Academy. He became an officer of the Legion of Honor in 1889. He has published many novels and plays, including "Madeleine Berten" (1868), "The Million " (1882), "Monsieur the Minister" (1882), “Noris, Manners of the Time” (1883), “The American Woman" (1892)," Brichanteau, Comédien" (1896), "L'Accusateur' (1897), and many historical works.] WELL, yes, I nearly saved France! It is a matter of history. The late Monsieur le Baron Taylor, who knew all about 1 Copyright, 1897, by Little, Brown & Co. Published by permission. the affair, could have vouched for the truth of what I am about to tell you. But I have no need of witnesses to induce belief in my word. Everybody knows Brichanteau; he has never lied. My life may seem an extraordinary one, but the fact is that life is a dream, as has been said by-by-that Spaniard. Well, then, this is how it happened. It was in the last days of the siege. Life was terribly wearisome in Paris. September, October, November, December, January, those months seemed like years. At first, people said: "Patience, we are going to be relieved, we shall crush the enemy under our walls, the North is bestirring itself, the South is rising, it is only a matter of a few weeks; we can surely give credit to the country, the country is doing well, it is being born again!" But the days passed, nothing came; we could not leave the city, we became mere snails on the ramparts, we were horribly bored-there is no other word for it, we were bored to death. But with great dignity, eating little and that unfit to eat, atrocious bread, horseflesh, refuse. And with it all the smallpox and the cold. There is no use talking, it was not cheerful. I did my duty like the others, you understand. I mounted guard in my turn, I passed nights on guard, and when the battalion marched out of the fortifications, ah, messeigneurs, I thought that my chassepot was going to open the road to Berlin and the King of Prussia had best look to himself!.. I was still saying to myself that there was certainly "something else to be done," when a cutting from a provincial newspaper, which reached Paris by balloon, stirred within me all the conjoined fibers of patriotism and of art. A man of heart, a Frenchman living at Buenos Ayres, had raised a gallant legion, the Argentine legion, to come to France and defend his natal soil; and the brave fellows had just landed at Bordeaux, where their leader, an ex-subaltern in the army of Africa, ex-colonel in the army of General Lee during the War of Secession, was drilling and organizing them. He proposed, with them, to join Bourbaki's army, which was still intact. But the thing that impressed me in the news contained in the Victoire newspaper of Bordeaux, the thing that stirred my imagination, always in love with the picturesque, was this: the ex-colonel, being unable to procure the uniforms that he desired for his command ready made when they disembarked, had purchased the costumes of a theatrical manager who was called upon for com |