LEIGOUTTE.
The kind reader who has followed thus far, has not forgotten a certain little village among the Vosges mountains, where in January, 1814, brave peasants fought and died in the defence of their country.
When Simon left Leigoutte with Sergeant Michel, he had no idea that the fury of the invaders would lead them to commit the crime of killing women and children, and to burn their homes. The Cossacks and the emigrés avenged themselves on French flesh and blood, and French homes and firesides.
While the Russians burned the cottage where Françoise and the children had taken shelter, Talizac, in order to ensure his possession of the title and Fongereues estates, set fire to the inn which was Simon's home. The emigrés took fiendish delight in destroying the school-room. Was it not there that the Republicans talked of duty and their country to the children? And when this band of royal thieves had passed, desolation settled down upon the valley.
The king was proclaimed at the Tuileries, and lying on his bed embroidered with purple fleur de lis, never condescended to think of the villages in the East that had welcomed the invaders with powder and shot.
By degrees Leigoutte, like its neighbors, began to hold up its head once more, and the few survivors agreed to take care of the women and children who had been left without protectors. The oldest among them remembered Simon's teachings, and repeated them to their children.
One day they experienced a great surprise. It became known that a stranger had purchased the land on which had formerly stood the inn and the school of Simon Fougère. Every one wondered what the old man, who seemed to be an intendant, meant to do with this place, about which hung so many sad legends. Then came an architect, who employed the workmen in the village. They were paid well and promptly. The older inhabitants were consulted as to the plan of the old inn and the school.
When wonder had passed, the villagers were amazed to find the inn had been built exactly like the old one that had been burned by the emigrés. Yes, there was the large, well-lighted room where Françoise, with her little girl in her arms, had cordially welcomed the travelers, while little Jacques flew about with bright cheeks and brighter eyes. The sign, too, was just the same as the old one. The only difference was that the tri-colored flag did not wave in the morning breeze. The new proprietor was named Pierre Labarre. Who was he? No one knew. He had a benevolent face, and he liked to talk of Simon Fougère, and made the villagers tell him the story of his death over and over again. Sometimes he was seen to listen with tears in his eyes.
"He knew him, that's sure!" said the peasants.