His
fingers, so skilled in polishing, are rather awkward all the same as
they turn the boots over and turn them again, as he smiles at them
and ponders--profoundly and afar--while the old woman lifts her arms
in the air and calls me to witness "What a very kind soldier!" he
is.
It is finished. The boots are cleaned and finished off in style;
they are like mirrors. Nothing is left to do.
He puts them on the edge of the table, very carefully, as if they
were saintly relics; then at last his hands let them go. But his
eyes do not at once leave them. He looks at them, and then lowering
his head, he looks at his own boots. I remember that while he made
this comparison the great lad--a hero by destiny, a Bohemian, a
monk--smiled once more with all his heart.
The old woman was showing signs of activity in the depths of her
chair; she had an idea. "I'll tell her! She shall thank you herself,
monsieur! Hey, Josephine!" she cried, turning towards a door.
But Paradis stopped her with an expansive gesture which I thought
magnificent. "No, it's not worth while, gran'ma; leave her where she
is. We're going. We won't trouble her, allez!"
Such decision sounded in his voice that it carried authority, and
the old woman obediently sank into inactivity and held her peace.
We went away to our bed under the wall-less roof, between the arms
of the plow that was waiting for us. And then Paradis began again to
yawn; but by the light of the candle in our crib, a full minute
later, I saw that the happy smile remained yet on his face.
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