extorting enormous pour boire.  I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi.  One came, the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a likely looking customer.  He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its lucrative consequences.  He drove up to the curb.

“Where to?” he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red alcoholic face set in insolent lines.

“La Gare du Nord.”

He reflected an instant.  “Bon,” he decided.  I got in, resolving to take possession before breaking all the news to him.

“First I must stop at the Grand Bazaar to call for a box,” I said in a most matter-of-fact way.

“Ah ca! non!  It can’t be done!” he exclaimed in a fury.  “How do you expect me to earn my living if I have to go out of my way and wait a century outside a store?”

“I will pay you for your time.”

Still he refused to move.  “Descendez, descendez!” he cried in an ugly voice.  I knew the next one would be just as bad, and besides I had no time to lose.  The hour of the train was approaching.  Basely I resorted to bribery:  “Look here, Monsieur, I am American and I will pay you well.  Did you ever know an American to fail to make it worth your while?” He considered, and looked me over appraisingly.

“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 devaste?  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.”