T By Robert W. Sneddon ILLUSTRATIONS BY MAUD SQUIRE HE patron of the café looked up from the pages of Le Journal, took the cigar from his mouth, and stared aghast. Marcel, his head waiter, had just made an astounding request. He had said in that quiet voice of his: 'M'sieu, will you permit me to go off for the afternoon? I will be back at six o'clock." It was amazing. It was unheard-of, incredible. He rubbed his blue chin with a fat hand in order to gain time to compose his thoughts. The old waiter stood patiently. It was plain something was in the wind, for he had on a new black tie and his shoes shone like a mirror. "But, yes, Marcel, you can go. Yes. Perhaps you feel a little out of sorts? The weather, hein?" "No," answered Marcel, his faded blue eyes smiling; "no, m'sieu, it is not that. No!" "Eh bien! I ask no more. Go, mon vieux." "Thank you, m'sieu," said Marcel gratefully, and a few moments later, when he had taken off his white apron and his alpaca coat, he walked boldly out of the café, carrying the blue umbrella which was his constant and, if report were true, his only companion. The patron watched him go, his brain still numb with surprise. "Imagine," he said at last to the cashier, "in the twenty years he has been here he has never asked a day off, and now— now-what the devil is happening? It is a revolution." "It is the spring, no doubt," giggled the stout cashier, patting her thick black hair coquettishly, the old droll. Well, well." "Nonsense," said the patron sharply. "He has seen too many springs come and go to worry about one more. A waiter has no time, if he is a good waiter, to think of the seasons. Winter! One sits inside. Spring and summer, we return to the terrasse. That means only so many more steps between the pavement tables and the bar. A waiter measures the sea sons by the soreness of his feet. Dieu! What a life! I am content to be what I am, to sit at my ease, to read my paper, to talk with my clients, to take a hand at cards, and in the evening to check my accounts." The cashier shrugged her shoulders. "You are right. What a life! I myself am very content; I read, I sew, I knit. I have my admirers with their compliments. But this Marcel! He waits, and that is all. No one has heard him speak of friends or relatives. A solitary! Now and then a letter comes here for him. And that is all." The patron grunted and took up his paper again. The cashier resumed her knitting. "Zut!" the patron broke out again, “I hope he is not going to leave me. I shall not get another Marcel in a hurry." "Leave you," purred the cashier, "mon dieu! Where would he go to? This is his home. Set your mind at ease, m'sieu." "It is curious, nevertheless," soliloquized the patron. "Very curious. At six o'clock we shall see." Meanwhile Marcel was walking slowly. He had forgotten his sore feet and that weakness at the knee-joint which assailed him after a long day of standing. For a few hours he was free from the incessant commands of the clients for drinks, for coffee, for the newspapers, the railroad time-tables, the writing materials, for the dominoes and the backgammon-board; free from keeping a wary eye on his subordinates, from seeing that beggars did not steal the lump sugar from the tables on the pavement and that the collectors of cigarette and cigar butts did not grow too daring with their pointed sticks. All that was forgotten in this wonderful new experience of seeing Paris again by day. He looked into the windows of the stores with childish interest, fingered a book or two at a stall, and halted before a flower-seller who had caught his ear with her cry of: "Fleurissez vous, messieurs et mesdames." He bought a little bunch of violets and let her slip them into his buttonhole. The flower-seller, a brown-faced girl with a woollen shawl about her, regarded him. kindly. There was about him a quiet air of dignity, and though his clothes were old they were neat and well brushed. Suddenly the old man felt the need of taking some one into his confidence. And who better for confidences than a stranger? "I am going to the railroad station," he said slowly. "Ah, you are going to meet madame, m’sieu?” A'faint, troubcorners of his Marcel shook his head. led smile crept into the clean-shaven mouth. "Your son or your daughter, perhaps?" the girl suggested, trying to help him out. "No, alas!" the old waiter sighed, "I have never married. I am nothing but an old bachelor. Look at my umbrella," he added whimsically. The flower-seller smiled frankly into his face. "Take care, m'sieu, it is leap year." "What would you do with an old waiter, mademoiselle, who can say nothing but 'Yessir, immediately."" His blue eyes were smiling down upon her as she made a mimic mouth of despair at his refusal. "No, I go to the station for another reason.' vre petit-and my man is fighting somewhere Marcel nodded gravely and continued: "Each day those others are sending gifts to their dear ones- They get letters- Oh, many letters come addressed care of the café. So I think to myself, perhaps among them there is one without parents-an orphan-but how to reach him? But to-day I hear a new levy is leaving for the front, and so I am going to the station. Perhaps, who knows-I may find one among those departing who will welcome the farewell of an old man without a son." As "It is a good thought, m'sieu. suredly you will find a godson," the girl said sympathetically. "You have a kind heart." "Mais non! It is nothing," faltered the old man, "a whim, nothing else, but I must hurry or I shall be late. Meanwhile, madame, for your little one," and he slipped a franc into the pocket of her checkered apron. "Oh, m'sieu! Thank you. I hope you are fortunate." She blushed slightly at her daring. "Perhaps you will tell me about it-some time-in passing." "Truly-yes, if it will interest you,” Marcel promised, and with an au revoir went on his way. "Poor man," sighed the flower-seller as she turned to attract another customer. Marcel hurried now. There was no everything attracted him. He must reach the station. Soon he found himself "Then I give it up. No! You are go- more time to linger by the way though ing to the country, perhaps?" Marcel looked away from her. "No, mademoiselle, nothing like that. in the crowd and was carried into the It is a foolish fancy." "It is springtime," she assured him; "it is the season of foolish fancies." "It is this way," he told her, his tongue loosening: "I am waiter in the café at the corner of the rue de Rennes, for twenty years, and before that at the Café de la Paix. Since the day of war every one who comes there dins in my ears with their talk of sons or nephews at the front. And I who have never had a son—or a nephew -and I am too old to go myself. It is very hard, mademoiselle, to listen to feel something-beat here, you understand, within my breast- It is very hard." She nodded, her lips twitching. "I have a little son, two years-pau arched hall. What confusion there was! The recruits in their new uniforms of blue-blue of the horizon-what a delicate name! very awkward and self-conscious, surrounded by their relatives, their mothers, their wives, their sweethearts, who hung upon them in breathless wonder as they tried to speak lightly of what they would do in the trenches. They stood in little groups. Here one had his arms about his dear one and was whispering in her ear. Here a father was talking earnestly to his boy, holding the parcel he was about to give him. A sudden jealous envy filled the old man's heart as he stood by the consigne watching and waiting. His quest seemed almost hopeless. There was none with "Imagine," he said at last to the cashier, "in the twenty years he has been here he has never asked a day off." -Page 597 out some one to see him off. All at once he started. Leaning against a pillar was a young soldier smoking a cigarette and wearing an air of bravado. He was alone. Marcel watched him eagerly. Perhaps he awaited some one who was late. He was a young man with a sullen face, a slender yet well-built fellow of twenty, his hands in his pockets, his feet crossed. He was regarding his comrades with a curious air. When they looked at him he drew himself up, tossed his head, and blew a cloud of smoke; but Marcel noted that when he fancied himself unobserved he passed his hand over his mouth nervously and let his head sink dejectedly upon his breast. The old waiter hesitated a little longer, then cautiously strolled over. The young man regarded him suspiciously with narrowed eyes and turned away his head. "Pardon, mon brave," said Marcel finally. "You are expecting some one, perhaps?" The young man turned his head sharply. "No!" he mumbled defiantly-"no!" "Ah, there is no one to see you off?" "No, no, grandfather," snapped the young man and turned his back upon him. Evidently Marcel did not lose heart. a person of a certain shyness. "Then perhaps you will permit me to offer you a little something before parting. A bottle of wine, eh?" The young man stared him in the face for a moment, then laughed coarsely. "What do you want with me? It is some game, eh?" "No, no," Marcel protested. "Then what?" interest. They went out through the door, side by side, jostled here and there in the rush.. "Good-by, my boy, good luck and good courage," said the old man, and shook the young soldier's hand. "Good-by, grandfather," muttered the young man. "I must go now," and he hurried through the gate. The old man stood watching the recruits file through. All around him was a stillness. Some sobbed, others held their handkerchiefs tight to their lips. The gates clanged to. The little tin trumpet sounded, the flag waved, and the train moved out. For a breathless instant no one moved, and then there was a rush to the gates and a waving of handkerchiefs. Marcel put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief and started with a shock. His purse was gone. A shrewd-faced man standing by noticed his distress as he searched again and again in his pockets. "You have lost something?" he asked. "My purse, m'sieu." "There were several jailbirds among those just gone. Perhaps I can help you. I am a detective. Were you in contact The young man's face was full of sus- with any of them, m'sieu?" picious ferocity. "I see you are alone. So am I. What more natural than that we should share a bottle for luck." The young man hesitated, then, after a prolonged scrutiny of Marcel, muttered ungraciously: "Eh bien! I accept, but no tricks." But Marcel in triumph was leading the way to the refreshment bar. The bottle was opened. Gravely he poured out two glasses and handed one to his guest. "Safe return, my boy," he said. "Thank you, m'sieu," said the young man in a gentler voice. "To your health. It is good wine." "I am a waiter," Marcel explained with a glow of pleasure, "and I know a good year when I taste it." A bugle sounded. A harsh voice outside cried: "En voiture, mes enfants, en voiture." "I must go aboard the train," said the young man. "That is my sergeant." Marcel pulled out his purse and paid the bill. His guest eyed it with greedy Marcel hesitated. He saw again the sullen face of the young man who had stood apart. He knew who had taken his purse. Should he speak? Perhaps the young man would expiate his crimes— and his purse a trifle-it was little he could do for a defender of his country, so helpless himself. "Do you suspect any of them," questioned the detective impatiently. "I can telegraph. Come, m'sieu, I am in a hurry. "No, m'sieu. I suspect no one." Marcel lied calmly. "I must have dropped it. Do not trouble. It was only twenty francs and an old letter." And he hurried away to escape further questioning. At six o'clock Marcel returned to the café, donned his apron and his alpaca jacket, and resumed his old life without explanation to his patron of his experience. He did not go near the flower-seller. What could he have told her? Through the months that followed he One day a soldier came into the café and asked for Monsieur Marcel Barrau. "It is me, m'sieu," said the old waiter wonderingly. "I have a letter for you from a comrade," the soldier said, and handed Marcel an old envelope tied about with a piece of string. Marcel stared at the envelope. The handwriting was that of an old friend, a letter received many months ago at the café. How, then, did it come into the hands of this soldier? Slowly he opened Marcel drew out a scrap of pasteboard on which an uneducated hand had painfully printed in straggling letters: "Pardon, bon grand père." "But," he stammered- "I do not know-I-" And he sought for words. "It is my comrade Bibi. When he was dying he made me swear I should bring this to you, m'sieu." Suddenly there flashed into the old man's mind the memory of a sullen face, of a harsh voice which said "Good-by, grandfather," of a stolen purse which had |