Page:The International - Volume 3.djvu/585

 door, amazed. Tonik clasped his little hands and slid down upon his knees. Even Hukac seemed to be impressed; his big fur cap was jerked from his head and placed upon his knees.

The latch clicked, and the door slowly and quietly opened wide. From the darkness outside there emerged a white form, which seemed to shine, and whose above silvery gray beard and hair was a mighty cap with a silver cross in front, and St. Nicholas crossed Hukac’s gloomy threshold.

There was a long pause before any words came from the saint. After a hasty glance at the wretchedness of the room his eyes had fixed upon the young mother, and their look was very loving.

It must have been a rich St. Nicholas that visited Loukov that year, judging from the number of gifts that Tonik got. There were candies, nuts and apples: sugar toys and whistles and trumpets. But the crowning gift of all was a pair of boots with brass tips. When St. Nicholas handed them to the boy, the little fellow saw something glistening under the old man’s eyebrows, something which afterward fell into his own tangled locks.

HE fruit shop of Madame Berchoux, in the neighborhood of Saint Germain-des-Pres, offered a most tempting sight to the eye. On one side of the marble shelves, lined up as if on parade, were moulds of butter golden as ripe wheat; opposite were delicious fruits brought from various climes. Bunches of bananas hung by the side of pineapples, while baskets of strawberries and cherries mixed harmoniously with the cases of oranges flanked by black and white grapes, apples, pears, etc., all in rows.

The vegetables were piled beneath the shelves, and the poultry, fish and game were displayed in the back of the shop, while in the rear of the whole turned the great spit of the cook shop. To look at these delicious things made one’s mouth water; unfortunately they were so dear.

That was exactly what Sergeant Toine, a pensioner, thought, as he gazed in turn upon the display and at the patron of the establishment. Madame Berchoux was a fine looking woman, with high coloring. Her apron was tucked up about her hips, and she was armed with an artistic basket filled with green leaves among which she daintily arranged the various fruits. This done, she raised her head and saw the old soldier standing before her; he immediately moved away.

The worthy man had lost a leg at Sfax, and had been rewarded with the cross of honor: God knows if he were contented.

He soon returned to the shop, his wooden leg beating time on the sidewalk. His movements puzzled the fruit woman, and in a prepossessing tone she asked: