THE TOY SOLDIER.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 49, 6 December 1890, Page 18

THE TOY SOLDIER.

A PATHETIC LITTLE STORY OF THE GAY BOULEYARDS OF PARIS. J n djfc FINE misty rain is falling—so fine as to be l/S® JLl' almost invisible. The whole sky is dark IjA/Ts TA and gray. The trees have lost their leaves. fnW The streets and pavements are covered with v AlKfli '' thick, black mud, slippery, half frozen by .I fl vSgfj/ i■ ’ tlie cold December air. But, it spite of the cold, penetrating rain, ' in spite of the fierce rorth wind, the boulevard is full of people hastening here and there. At the comer of the Rue Gailbout a little boy, scarcely ten years old, is standing. Hi> brown hair falls in stiff, thick meshes over his forehead, even to his eyebrows. His clothes are old, worn and not very clean. His cotton-velvet coat, once brown, is now gray with dirt. It is too large and too long, but then the little fellow can grow to that. His face is speckled with mud, thrown by the passing carriages, but very sweet in expression, with soft gentle blue eyes. His father is a street-pedler. The boy follows the same business, and his name is

For some days the father has been selling a new toy on the boulevards —a wooden soldier on horseback. Touch a spring, the horse gallops, the sword is raised to cut off imaginary heads, while the soldier, with bristling moustache, rolls his ferocious eyes. He has sold a great many on the grand boulevards, but has placed his son on the corner of the Rue Gailbout, with a little tray suspended from his neck, and on it are displayed these resplendent ferocious soldiers. Every morning his father gives him twenty soldiers : every evening when he climbs to the sixth story of a house on the Rue des Acacias, he has to account for the sale of his soldiers. The little fellow shivers in the cold, misty rain ; his cheeks, ears and nose ate purple with the cold ; his poor little chapped hands are thrust, even to the elbows, into the pockets ot his trousers. In a sweet but melancholy voice he cries, * Soldiers, beautiful soldiers, for 20 sous apiece.' The crowd indifferently passes by. Still he regularly repeats his plaintive cry as he heard his father do.

The father, old and unable to work, has taken to this business as a means ot support. He gravely displays his wooden soldiers and attracts the attention of the children by his bright talk. But the little one is sad : there are tears in his voice as he cries ‘ Soldiers beautiful soldiers ! at 20 sous apiece !’ It is not because he is cold, for he is used to the cold ; it is not that he is hungry or sick, for he is strong and robust, and his father feeds him well. Then why does he cry ? Why does he look with scared, startled eyes at all that approach his tray to buy his hne wooden soldieis, and when the toy disappears and the silver piece of 20 sous is lingering in his pocket, why does he follow with jealous, yearning eves the children that carry oil the beautiful playthings ? But one toy left ami nineteen francs are jingling in his pocket. .lust then a child approaches with his mother. He is very small, pale and fragile. A

great hump deforms his shoulder's. He is about the same age as the little street pedler. They know each other well although they have never exchanged a word. He is the son of a rich widow, who owns the house in the Rue des Acacias, where Charles lives, and they have often met. In passing he recognises the little pedler, and smilingly says : ‘ Oh. mamma, look at the beautiful soldier. Do buy it for me !’ There were great dark circles aronnd his hollow eyes and his thin, slender hand is as white as wax as he takes up the soldier and touches the spring, making the horse gallop and the soldier brandish bis sword. * Oh, mamma, do buy it for me,’ he cries. ‘ How much do you ask for your toy ’’ said the mother to the little pedler. ‘Twenty sous, madame.’ ‘ Here they are,’ and the little hunchback carried off the beautiful toy. There was nothing left upon the tray—it was empty. The poor little pedler tried not to cry, tried with all his might to choke back the sobs that shook his quivering throat. His head was bent until it almost touched the empty tray, his lips trembled as he cried : ‘ Oh, my soldiers !’ Gaston Lamballe, the hunchback, heard him and returned, drawing his mother with him. • Why do you cry ? Has anyone hurt you ? What is the matter ?’ he asked. No answer : only sobs ; the little pedler could not speak. The sick boy insisted : ‘ Why do you cry ?’ Then Charles wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Between his sobs he managed to say : ‘ I’m not crying. Nobody has done anything to me. No, no, I’m not crying—but—oh my soldiers ! my soldiers I’ ‘ Well, haven’t you been paid for your soldiers ?’ ‘ Yes, but I love them so much. It gives me so much pleasure to look at them, to see them on my tray, although I dare not touch them. My father has forbidden me ; and then when they are all gone I cry because I want one so much—want one for myself—all my own. ’ ‘ Have you asked your father for one ?’ ‘ Ob, yes, but he cannot give it to me ; he says they cost too much !’ The hunchback looked at the street vendor ■with gentle, yet astonished eyes, and said : ‘ Would it give you a great deal of pleasure to have one ?’ ‘ Oh, yes—yes !’ cried Charles.

• Then take this one,’ holding out the toy ; ‘ keep the 20 sous and take this one as a present from me.’ Charles could not believe bis ears. No, he dared not ; it was too great a happiness. Hesitatingly he half-way extended his hand, the fingers spread out, his eyes sparkling, his mouth in a broad snule. The little hunchback placed the toy in his hand, and gently said : • May I give it to him, mamma? He wants it so much.’ ‘ Certainly, my child,' said his mother ; then she and her son disappeared in the crowd. Charles returned to his attic in the Rue des Acacias. His account was al) right; he reported 20 francs ; but he had one soldier for himself, all his own. He concealed it in his pocket. Every evening he plays with it. Every morning he makes the horse gallop and the soldier brandish his sword before he goes upon the street. He is very gay now, although it is the cold, hard month of December. His voice still shrill and childish, is no longer sad and plaintive as he joyously cries : ‘ Soldieis ! beautiful soldiers ! for twenty sous apiece.’ Two months roll by ; the little pedler has never seen the hunchback since, but his present is his greatest delight. Suddenly his father came in one evening and said : ‘ Gaston Lamballe, the son of our proprietor, is very ill.’ Charles felt his heart swell with grief ; great tears came into his eyes. A few days after his father said : _ ‘Gaston Lamballe, the poor little hunchback, is dead.’ Charles shut himself up in the closet where he slept, and cried, he knew not why. He drew the sheet and coverings ■over his head and went to sleep crying, and he woke up crying in his dreams. Twc days afterwards a black curtain was stretched across the porte cochere of the house in Rue des Acacias. On it were two silver letters—‘G.L.’ In the grand salon, under wreaths and crowns and flowers between lighted wax candles, there was a little coffin, scarcely large enough for a child of five years. A great many friends followed this little coffin to the church. In the distance, fat behind the funeral procession, in his faded velvet clothes, even more soiled than nsual, his hand in his pockets, followed Charles. The sky was dark and sombre ; a mist of snow and hail was falling. Every now and then a gust of wind would blow this icy fain into one’s eyes. Charles dared not enter the church. He waited in the street, and joined the funeral cortege when it started for the cemetery of Montmatre. He held himself aloof while they buried the little son. He watched friends and relatives as they passed away. Then, when there was no one around the grave, when the little one was left under the cold, damp ground, he timidly approached and looked to see if he was observed. No ; he was alone. Then, with great tenderness, he took from the pocket of his trousers the wooden soldier. He looked at it for a moment ; he touched the spring and made the horse gallop and the soldier brandish his sword for the last time. Then he tenderly kissed the toy and placed it among the crowns and the flowers on the grave.