Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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Q .77 afml! QRAAAJC V V Meanwhile the child Marie's father, Grigge Menet, believed his child was dead. Grief-stricken, he raged to his friend, Penon. They torture us in every way possible! Cold and hunger are not enough! No, they must kill our children! Well, this one shall not escape my vengeance. You say the Viloque arms were on the coach. Do you know where this Viloque lives? Having gained this information, he would not be stayed by Penon's warnings. Why did no one think to see if Henriette slept well? Why didn't her father come to say good-night? Where was the governess? Was mademoiselle's maid asleep? N03 only the dark shadow in the hall, creeping closer and closer to the door beyond which Henriette de Tournee slept so peacefully. The shadow was in the room at last. Now it had reached the bed, but the lust for vengeance was not to be deterred by the inno- cence of the lovely sleeping child. The dagger rose and fell, and the shadow departed as noiselessly as it had come. The next morning, before breakfast, even before showing Henriette her birthday gifts, Viloque took dark, shy, little Marie Menet to the woman in the shop who promised to find Grigge Menet. ' When he returned, he met his housekeeper in tears. In- stinctively, he thought of Henriette. Before any one could pre- vent him, he was in her room. He stopped horror-struck as he reached her bed. The beautiful child had become a hideous sight. The dear, generous little hands were cold and still and did not respond to the loving pressure. The pale hair was daubed with blood, and the white of her gown was turned to crimson, but her face . . . her face . . . the dear little smile was gone, her once rosy lips pale and slightly parted, and the dark eyes wide and staring in stark terror! Viloque tried to close them but could not. He caught the small tragic figure to his heart and wept in anguish. Before they led him away, he saw the soiled note on the table with the words, Your child for mine. Madame Ledoux, Henriette's governess, wept and stormed about the canille. But Viloque turned his pale, stricken face toward her and said, But he didn't understand. He didn't know any better. Viloque could never bear to return to Bonne Retraite, and conditions there got steadily worse. Meanwhile in Paris, the Duke, still unembittered toward those whose cause he had pleaded so long, grew more and more unnuu1nnmnuunmmnnnn . . Page twelve

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mn munmmn mmnmum ummuuunmm--umn mmnn-mu ummmnnnnnnIninnnnmmmnmunnunIninmnmumnunnn1IIIII11mmuunnummu too much, perhaps, by her adoring father, she was still simple and unspoiled. A precocious child, she had read M. Voltaire's books and discussed them gravely with her father. Yet she seemed a very childish little girl as, with no air of patronage, she received as her friends six of the children on the estate. Lisle was glad that the child he loved was so interested in those less fortunate than herself, and, although he smiled secretly over such a little girl reading books that the philosophers of Europe were discussing, he did not discourage it. Viloque, aroused from his revery by a distressed little cry from Henriette, looked out of the window and saw the truly piti- ful sight that had stirred the tender heart of the childg sullen, hard-faced men, women old and haggard before their time, and children with pinched, drawn faces. The slums of Paris. Suddenly there was a shrill scream and the coach halted ab- ruptly. Oh M'sieur! M'sieur! What have I done? Viloque heard Jean the coachman cry. Hastily he leaped out of the carriage. The crowd drew back for him to reach the spot where Jean was lifting from beneath the carriage a pitifully thin little girl who lay horribly still. Viloque with a low exclamation of pain seized the whip Jean had dropped and was about to strike him when he saw the agonized look in the fellow's eyes. So he took the child up gently and said, Hurry to the rue de Paradis, Jean. Henriette suppressed a cry of horror at the still form in her father's arms. No word was spoken until the city home of the Viloques was reached. - Viloque, hurrying inside with his tragic little burden, met his housekeeper, and they made a hasty examination of the little girl's hurts. It seemed hours to Henriette and Jean be- fore Viloque reappeared. It's all right, Jean. She has broken only an arm. Ah, m'sieur le Duc, I thank God! I could not help it, I swear I could not! The child ran right under the horses' hoofs. I was not driving very fast. Very well, Jean. I don't believe it was your fault, but be more careful in the future. Now I wish to return to the scene of this terrible accident to inform the child's parents. But Viloque was unable to 'rind any trace of the little girl's relatives. I-Ie finally told the Woman at the shop near by that he would return the child as soon as she had recovered. Page eleven vvfflfl ll'l'IlI S. mmm

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Y Y Q me IIIIIIIPIIDOIIIIMQIHIHIIII IIIIIIIHIIVIIllllllllllllllIIIIOINIIIIIIillllllvlllllvlvlllldlllllllI1IllINIIItIllllllllllllllllllltllilIllblIIIIIIIIIIllllllllllllllllllllllllIIIIIIIIllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPINOilllllllllllllltlllllIIIIllllllllllllllllllllllll desolate. The nameless terrible fear in Henriette's eyes haunted him constantly. To his tortured mind, the burning eyes stared at him from every page he tried to read. He would take from his vest the locket which contained a lock of her hair so dread- fully stained, and stare at it for hours. It was too much for his reason. In six months Viloque was quite mad, harmless but such a tragic wreck of a man. But what of Gregge Menet? Rejoiced over the recovery of Marie, he felt vaguely sorry about Viloque. But at this time all Paris was going mad, so there was little enough time for Grigge's stupid mind to dwell on his own feelings. His only two emotions were fierce love for Marie and an ever fiercer ha- tred of all the upper classes. Perhaps his dull fanatical brain was incapable of remorse. But at the time of the Terror, he rectified his deed, in his own mind at least. He saved the life . . . the anguished, tortured, useless existence of the mad Duc de Viloque. 11 Poems By Eleanor White A Token of Spring Cherolee, cherolee, cherolee, Sang the happy little bird, As from out his pretty throat Came this tender little note, That I'm sure you've often heard. Happily, happily, happily Sang the amorous little birdie. From among the branches there, Swiftly flew his lady fair, As his pleading voice grew sturdy. Joyfully, joyfully, joyfully, Sang the contented little bird. Will your true love then entwine, This poor aching heart of mine? Then his voice is plainly heard. nxmmnumumnunum ll 1 IH Page thirteen .