All along the outer edge of the pavement stalls have been set up, tenanted by portly, red-faced women, who are padded against the cold till their black-braided jackets fit tight as a drum. There are booths of brilliant confectionery, of marvellous mechanical toys, of perfumery and patent medicines, of appliances for the kitchen and knick-knacks for the boudoir, of music, of magnifying glasses, of hair restorer, of boot polish.
And the street hawkers haranguing the crowd! There are vendors of holly and mistletoe; men carrying umbrellas all stuck over with imitation snails to ‘bring the good luck’; others with switches to spank one’s mother-in-law; others with grotesque spiders on wire to make the girls scream.
It is nearly midnight when we reach our apartment. The cafés are a glitter of light and a storm of revelry. The supper that is the prelude to further merriment is just beginning, and thousands of happy, careless people are drinking champagne, shouting, singing, laughing. But the rue Mazarin is very dark and quiet, and the girl is very tired.
Then when I am sure that she is asleep I steal to my suitcase and taking out the precious muff lay it at the foot of her bed. Bending over her, as she sleeps like a child, I kiss her. So I too fall asleep.
I am awakened by her scream of delight. She is sitting up, fondling the new muff.
“Oh, I am so please. You don’t know how I am please, darleen.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Only I thought it would go nicely with your other fur.”
Her face changes oddly. Then she rises and brings me the mysterious parcel.
“It’s your Christmas. I’m sorry I could not geeve you anysing bettaire. Oh, how I love my muff.”
If it had been plucked beaver she could not have been more pleased. I open my parcel eagerly, and a fragrant odour greets me. It is a silver-mounted tobacco jar, full of my favourite amber flake.