The National tribune., 1892-12-22

him tenderly and mother and son were once
more lost in the crowd.
Charles was not long in following them ia
the Rue Acacia. His money was all correct
in the morning 90 little soldiers. 20 sous
| apiece: in the evening, an empty tray and &c
4 whole francs. There was no need of staying
| later.
All that Christmas night the little soldier
slept close at his side and went with him to the
| boulevard next morning buried deep in his
| pocket. lest his father should see it and tell
him that he must sell it too. And so it went
on every day during the hard, cold December.
But now he, also, was gay, this little fakir,
and if his voice was still thin and shrill, it was
| no longer melancholy, as he called with the
best of them:
SOLDIERS! soldiers. 20 sous here for hand
| some Solders!"
Two months rolled by. The little fakir had
| never seen the little hunchback since that
meeting at the corner of the Rue Taitbout but
| that beautiful little warrior was always with
him.
Then suddenly, one evening, he heard his
"Gaston Lembelly the son Of the proprie-
tress, is very, very Ill"
Charles felt his heart plunge heavily, and
his eyes filed with tears. Some hours later he
heard his father tell his mother:
"Gaston Lembelly, the SON OF the proprie'
tress is dead!"
Charles ran into the little cubby-hole where
he slept of nights, pulled his sheet over his
head and lay there and cried, cried and cried.
without knowing why. He went to sleep in
tears, and he wept still in his dreams.
Two days later, through the open door OF
Nine. Lembelly's dppdrtemeit, he saw the long
white streamers, the silver letters G. L. above
them, and under all the crowns and flowers.
between two flaming tapers-a little coffin, so
10 hat Lor nuh for q oh
of five years.
Charles Frou followed it when presently they
bore it to the street, followed it still when the
funeral cortege came from the church and
turned toward the Montmartre Cemetery.
The sky was low and gray; the snow fell at
times in big, frozen flakes-a rain of ice that
bitter wind drove with singing force into his
swollen eyes. Ugh-h! how cold he was!
Truly, it was not gay, living in weather like
this
But he followed on, always on, though when
they reached the cemetery he no more dared
enter the grounds where they were burying
the little one than he had dared enter the
church awhile ago; he was ashamed of being
there, of having told no one, as of a bad action,
and he kept as far as he could out of the guard
ian's reach, afraid, if they saw him, of being
hunted away.
Always, then, at a distance, he saw pass and
repass before him. men and women in mourn
ing and tears, also some little children, friends
of the little hunchback. Their eyes were red,
too.
Not until everyone had gone, and the DOOR
little one was all alone. abandoned there under
the cold. damp earth, did he venture to draw
nearer, looking back over his shoulder to see if
he were watched.
No; not soul was left.
Then, carefully, tenderly, from the depths
of his ragged pocket he drew out his gay little
cavalryman. He gazed at it second. set go
ing the spring bit. For the last time the
horse galloped. the saber cut and thrust and
put to fight the terrified enemy.
How beautiful, beautiful it was! Charles
Frou kissed it. kissed it again, and-softly laid
it among the crowns and flowers.