# Zodiac Stories/Leo

LEO, THE LION
N the basement of a poor lodging-house overlooking a very poor street in a French seaport town, lived an old man Called "M. Alphonse." There must have been more of his name, but no one knew what the rest had been, and no one cared to know.
It might have been three years since M. Alphonse had moved into his cellar-room, and in all that time he had never had any visitors. But he was not quite alone, for he had to keep him company an old comrade who, like himself, had seen better days, and who now—like himself, ​bore patiently hard bedding and scanty food.
The old comrade was a lion.
He had once been young and strong and fierce, had shaken his shaggy mane, and opened his great jaws with a ​dangerous roar. But that was a long time ago. That was when M. Alphonse was a graceful young athlete, whose daring feats in company with his "Unequalled African Lion" had drawn great crowds in great cities of the world.
In those days he was not called "M. Alphonse," nor did he wear threadbare clothes. He wore cloth of silver; and on the circus-posters he was called—never mind what! It was all a long, long time ago. So long ago it seemed to the feeble old man, as he sat by his tiny charcoal fire on winter evenings, that he almost wondered if it were a dream—all that life of light and color and applause.
Now he was old and poor, and his "African Lion" had grown old like himself. Its fiery eyes were dim, and its limbs had grown stiff. Life had become sad to M. Alphonse.
One day as he sat in his dark room, he heard a childish voice call to him, and ​going to his door he saw the little daughter of the concierge standing at the top of the steps which led down into the basement.
"Good-day, mademoiselle," said M. Alphonse. "Did mademoiselle call?"
The little Aimée did not answer. Her round blue eyes, growing used to the dim light, had discovered the form of the lion in its corner, and were fixed in terror upon it.
"Ah! you are afraid of Leo!" said M. Alphonse. "There is no cause, my little one. He is too old and weary to move. Besides, he is chained to the wall. He cannot hurt you."
"But he is so big," faltered Aimée.
"He is very weak—and very gentle."
"Lions eat little girls," she said in a whisper.
"Leo never did," M. Alphonse said with a smile. "Besides, he has no teeth. Come down and talk to me. I promise he shall not touch you."
​"I will talk to you," said Aimée, "but I will sit on the steps, near the top."
"Very well—then I will bring my chair and sit at the foot. What made you think of paying me a visit, little one?"
"Because I thought you were lonely," she said simply. "I never saw you until yesterday when I met you coming in at the door. What makes you live here where it is so dark, M. Alphonse?"
"I cannot afford a better room," said the old man. "Also, Leo can be with me here. If you were as lonely as I, little one, you would be glad of a companion."
Aimée glanced doubtfully at Leo.
"I should be afraid," she said. "But you do not mind the dark because you are like the curé. The curé says the good God sees in the dark and takes care of us."
M. Alphonse was silent. He did not know much about God's care.
"Yes, that is very good when one is frightened," the child went on. "Also, it ​is good to have some one come to see you. The next time I come I shall bring you a bag of bon-bons. My grandmother, every time I go to see her, gives me some. I love my grandmother much. Does any one love you, M. Alphonse?"
The old man sighed.
"I have had little love in my life," he said, "and all that there was ended long ago."
Aimée nodded her head sagely.
"That is very bad," she said.
"Once I had a little girl like you," the old man went on. "She loved me; but she is dead."
"That also," said the child. "Poor M. Alphonse!"
"Why did she die?" cried the man with a sudden fierceness, throwing out his arms as if to the child he had lost.
To his great surprise Aimée flew down the steps and flung her own small arms about his neck.
​"I will love you like your little girl!" she whispered, and he felt her warm tears upon his cheek. He held her close a moment.
"But how can you love poor old Alphonse?" he said presently.
"Oh! I love all the world—except Leo," said the child, suddenly remembering the dreaded form in the shadow.
"But if you love me, you must love him, too," said Alphonse. "Once he saved my life when another wild beast tried to kill me. That was a long, long time ago. I used to travel all over Europe with my performing lions in those days."
"Tell me about it," pleaded the child, settling herself comfortably on his knee, her little white-capped head on his shoulder.
"Ah, well! you see the three lions were to jump through a great hoop. Leo first, Sara second, Nero last. Now Nero had a terrible hatred of me and he hated ​the hoop. I called and cracked my whip. He growled and crouched. I called again. He laid his head flat upon his paws, lashed his tail and sprang, tearing my arm as I jumped aside. At that instant Leo sprang also—on the rebellious lion; and as they rolled over, fighting, I made my escape from the cage. I have a scar on my arm still."
Aimée had clung tightly to Alphonse as he told his story. When he ended, she drew a deep breath.
"And you did not die?"
"As you see."
"And Leo saved you?"
"I have always said so."
She looked over the old man's shoulder at Leo.
"I think I love him a little," she said.
"He is my one friend," replied Alphonse. "We love each other, and we shall never be parted. As we have lived, we shall die, together."
​Presently Aimée heard a voice somewhere calling to her, and giving her new friend a kiss she slipped off his knee and went away up the steps.
"The next time, I will bring you some pink bon-bons," she said on the second step.
"Or white ones—which?" she put this question seriously, turning around on the third.
"They are all delicious," said the old lion-tamer, smiling up at her from the gloom of the basement.
"For myself, I prefer chocolate," she added on the fourth step.
Her head had reached the top of the stairs now, and Alphonse could see the shining gold of her curls below the muslin cap.
He smiled still.
"Does Leo like chocolate?"—this, from the head of the stairs.
"No, he likes nothing but meat."
​"Par exemple!" cried the child in wonder.
She often came to see Alphonse after this. Sometimes it was to show the long blue stocking she was knitting, or to bring a large red apple or a small plum-cake.
But Alphonse wanted no present. It was her sweet face and her merry laugh and her soft little hands about his neck, of which he thought.
Winter was coming on, and the short days made the cellar-room darker than ever. It was cold and damp, too, and poor Leo shivered in his straw. Alphonse could do little work now, for his back was stiff and bent from rheumatism, so he earned very few francs. The tiny charcoal ﬁre was tinier than ever, and sometimes the two old comrades had no food to eat.
But M. Alphonse never told Aimée this.
When New Year's day came, she begged ​her father to ask her "dear old man in the cellar " to the family dinner-party.
At ﬁrst Alphonse declared that he could not come—could not possibly come. But the little girl coaxed him into relenting.
"If you stay away—I—I also will stay away," she said with a pout.
"But no, most dear—" he said anxiously.
"As true as you live. I will not eat a mouthful."
"But, my Angel—"
"And there will be such superb things to eat!" she concluded, shaking her head.
M. Alphonse ventured no more refusals.
"If it must be—" he said meekly.
So he went.
At first the cheerful room of the concierge confused him with its light and brightness, and the half-dozen guests all chattering at once. The old man blushed for his poor clothes and ragged beard, and would not speak or look up.
​But after the good dinner, where every one was kind to him, and Aimée sat by his side patting his hand, he felt more at his ease. A flash of the old fire came into his eyes. He even told one or two good stories which made the company laugh.
The good-natured concierge was pleased at his child's pleasure. Even Leo had a good meal sent down to him.
When Alphonse rose to go, they begged him to come again, and he made them a graceful bow, as he had used to do to an audience.
The winter went by. Warmer winds blew. Snow melted under the hot February sunshine.
One day Aimée came to her old man in the cellar with a bunch of violets and a bright face.
"Oh M. Alphonse—M. Alphonse! I am to make my First Communion! And at Easter! So soon! Art thou not glad?"
"Yes, dear little one. Thou wilt wear ​a white dress, and a white veil on this little golden head; and thou wilt be all white—like the angels, Aimée, my well loved! I must see thee when thou art ready for church on Easter-day."
"But thou wilt be in the church too!"
"No."
"But yes! Always everyone is in church on the dear Easter-day. Didst thou never make a first communion, M. Alphonse?"
"Long, long ago," he said softly. His thoughts went back to a sunny morning in his native village, to a little gray stone church where the long beams of light slanting through the windows had fallen on rosy young faces and dazzling white garments. He was one of the children. He could smell the sweet country air full of flowers. He could hear the music.
Amiée laid her cheek against his. It was wet.
​"Thou must come with me," she whispered.
"Perhaps," he whispered back.
That Easter was as bright a day as ever broke upon the world.
Even the basement room caught a little of its cloudless light. Even the old lion stretched his stiffened limbs, turned his blind eyes towards the window, and snuffed the air which floated in as if scenting a new hope.
M. Alphonse was in a tremor. He had not been able to decide whether or not to go to the church. It was a long time since he had entered one. He wanted to go—he dreaded to go.
As he was sitting with his head bent, by his little table, a flash of white came into the room,—Aimée, a vision of purity, carrying a tall spire of Easter lilies in each hand.
"Thou wilt come with me?" she said. She put the lilies into a pitcher of water, ​and took the old man's hand, gazing up into his troubled face.
"Alas, little one! To be happy at Easter, one should be like thee!"
"Ah, but no, M. Alphonse, for I am very naughty sometimes. But if one is sorry, the Lord Christ comes and makes one good."
The tears came into her blue eyes.
Alphonse bent and kissed her suddenly.
"I will come," he said.
It all seemed like a dream as he walked through the crowded streets. It seemed like a dream to be in church again—to hear the great organ roll—to see the magnificent flowers—to hear the sacred words spoken.
He could see Aimée sitting among the other little girls,—a fluttering mass of snowy veils and frocks. His eyes never left her.
When all was over, she came to him outside and pulled him down to her.
​"M. Alphonse," she whispered, "you look so—so glad. Did the Lord Christ come to you?"
The old man smiled and laid a hand on his breast.
"The Lord Christ is here," he said.
Aimée's father came up and touched his arm. "Can you find your way home alone, do you think, my friend?"
"My way? Oh yes—I am very near home," replied Alphonse. He looked up at the radiant sky, smiling.
The concierge felt a little anxious. The old man seemed as if scarcely conscious of what was going on about him.
"My little girl and I are going to the grandmother's"; said the concierge. "You are sure you can go home alone?"
Alphonse smiled the same tender, faraway smile.
"I am going home now, he said, and he turned away.
Early next morning the concierge went ​himself to the basement room. He felt anxious about the old man, and wanted to see how he had borne the fatigues of the day before.
All was very still. The scent of the Easter lilies filled the darkness like incense.
"M. Alphonse?" questioned the concierge.
There was no answer.
"M. Alphonse?" He stepped to the low bed and touched the quiet form that rested there.
Then he started back.
The old lion-tamer lay sleeping the sleep no sound disturbs, and by his side, stretched at full length, lay the old lion.
They had died, as they had lived together.