"It will be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.
"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "Ecoutez, do you know what is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing, nothing at all for Christmas."
"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien, Madame, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a camion at the front, and that their home was gone.
At the Grand Bazaar Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur, who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the baggage room for us. "Hey, mon vieux!" he addressed the baggage man, "step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of dolls—dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal interest.
"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.
"Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir," he murmured. I protested, but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for the little girls—out there."
Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and watching us. He waved his hat.
"Bon voyage!" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying upon the intimidated and helpless public.