Trust the French to do things gracefully. Now, if this was a sordid Anglo-Saxon pawnshop I would be reconnoitring up and down, imagining every one knew my errand. Then I would sneak upstairs like a thief trying to dispose of stolen property. But a Mont de Piété—“here goes!”
In spite, however, of its benevolent designation I find this French pawnshop in no way disposed to generosity. Even the most hardened London pawnbroker could hardly be more niggard in appraisal of my silver cigarette case than this polite Mont de Pietist who offers me twenty francs on it. Twenty! it is worth eighty; but my French is too rudimentary for argument, and as twenty francs is not enough for my purpose I draw forth with a sigh my precious meerschaum and realise another five francs on that.
“What does it matter?” I think dolefully. “’Til the tide turns no more smoking. After all, oh mighty Nicotine, am I thy slave? Never! Here do I defy thee! Oh, little pipe, farewell! We’ll meet again, I trust, in the shade of the mazuma tree.”
It is now nearly half-past eleven, and already the Parisian mind is turning joyfully to thoughts of déjeûner. Portly men, to whom eating is a religion are spurring appetite with apéritif. Within the restaurants many have already lunched on a sea of Graves and gravy. “Be it ever so humble,” I decide. “There’s no cooking like ‘Home.’”
With which sentiment I pause before a little shop devoted to the sale of ladies’ furs, and joyfully regard the object of my journey. It is a large, sleek, glossy muff of the material known as electric rabbit, and its price is twenty-five francs. It just matches a long wrap of Anastasia’s, rather worn out but still nice looking.
“How lucky I ran across it yesterday!” I think, as I hurry joyfully home with the muff under my arm. “And to-morrow’s Christmas Day too. I don’t mind giving up tobacco one bit.”
So many others are hastening home with parcels under their arms! Such a happy Santa Claus spirit fills the air! Every one seems so glad-eyed and rosy. I almost feel sorry for the naked cherubs in the centre of the basin in the Luxembourg. Icicles encase them to the toes. Poor little Amours! so pretty in the spring sunshine, now so forlorn.
How quietly I let myself into the apartment, I am afraid she will hear my key scroop in the lock and run as usual to greet me. Softly I slip into the bedroom and pushing the parcel into the suitcase I lock it quickly. Safe!
“Little Thing!” I shout, but there is no reply.
I look into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into the cupboard—no sign of her. Yet often she will hide in order to jump out on me.